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She's at our bayonets,-touches every gun,—

Now speed thee, England! and the work is done.—
Now where is France ?--Yon mountain heap of dead,
Yon scatter'd band, will tell you how they sped;
The dying groan, the penetrating yell,

May tell how quick she sunk, how soon she fell;
Her sons are gone, her choicest blood is spilt,
Her brightest spear is shiver'd to the hilt.


Nor ceased they here; but from the mountain height
Tempestuous Britain rolls to meet the fight,
Pours the full tide of battle o'er the plain,
And whelms beneath the waves its adverse train
The vanquish'd squadrons dread an added loss;
They skulk behind the rampart and the fosse ;-
Why lingers Wellesley? Does he fear their force?
Dreads he their foot, or trembles at their horse?
Alas! by hands unseen he deals the blow,
By hands unseen he prostrates ev'ry foe.

One night-(and France still shudders at that night,
Pregnant with death, with horror, and affright;)
One night-on plans of victory intent,

A spy into the hostile camp he sent ;
It was a wretch, decrepit, shrivel'd, wild,—
A haggard visage that had never smiled;
The miscreant's jaws were never seen to close,
The miscreant's eyes had never known repose:-
Swift to the Gallic camp she sped her way,
And Britain's soldiers, ere the dawn of day,


Heard through the hostile tents her footstep's tread ;

For Famine-raging Famine claim'd her dead!
With frantic haste they fled the fatal post,
Long boldly held-now miserably lost;
Dismay, confusion through the rout appear,
Victorious Britain hangs upon their rear.
No, sweet Humanity! I dare not tell
How infants bled, how mothers, husbands fell;
I dare not paint the agonizing look,-

The mother gave, when Gaul her infant took,—
Took, and while yet the cherub's smile was fresh,
Pierced its fair limbs and tore its baby-flesh;-
I dare not paint the wife's transporting woe,
When sunk her husband by Massena's blow.--
Hear, thou dread warrior! hear, thou man of blood!
Hear, thou, with female, infant gore imbrued!

When, sinking in the horrors of the tomb,

The avenging angel shall pronounce thy doom

When war's loud yell grows faint, the drum's dead roll
Strikes languid, and more languid on the soul-
When Britain's cannons may unheeded roar,

And Wellesley's name has power to fright no more,—
Yon widow's shrieks shall pierce thee till thou rave,
And form a dread artillery in the grave!
Heard ye that burst of joy? From Beira's coast
To Algarve's southern boundaries it crost;
It pass'd from undulating Tagus' source,
And burst where Gaudiana holds his course.

Farewell! proud France! (they cried) thy power is broke; Farewell for ever to thy iron yoke!

But blest for ever be old Ocean's queen,

Still on his bosom may she reign serene.

When on these plains our future offspring gaze,
To them our grateful heart shall sound thy praise.
To Britain's generous aid these plains we owe,
For us she drew the sword, and bent the bow.
We sunk, we crouch'd beneath a tyrant's hand—
Victorious Britain loosed the usurper's band.
We bow'd to France, obey'd each stern decree,-
Majestic Britain rose-and all was free.


It requires no apology for introducing here a poem already well known to the public-the Ode on the Burial of Sir John Moore. some years past it has excited considerable interest in the literary circles; and it was mentioned by a highly respectable authority, as having been long a matter of surprise among them, that its author had not revealed his name, or published any other similar production. Subsequently to this account, it has obtained a very general popularity from the splendid eulogium pronounced upon it by the late Lord Byron. Little as the author himself seemed to

value the shadowy prize of poetic reputation, or of any mere worldly distinction, it appears but an act of literary justice to establish his claim to the production of a poem so justly and so honourably appreciated, by giving it a place amongst his more valuable remains. The noble poet's enthusiastic admiration of this nameless and unpatronized effusion of genius, is authenticated in a late work, entitled, "Medwin's Conversations of Byron." The impress of such a name upon the poetic merits of an ode deemed not unworthy of his lordship's own transcendent powers, is too valuable not to be recorded here.

The passage alluded to occurs in vol. ii. p. 154, (second edit.) of the above-mentioned publication, and is as follows:

"The conversation turned after dinner on "the lyrical poetry of the day; and a ques"tion arose as to which was the most perfect "ode that had been produced.-Shelley con"tended for Coleridge's on Switzerland, beginning Ye Clouds,' &c.; others named



some of Moore's Irish Melodies, and Camp"bell's Hohenlinden; and had Lord Byron "not been present, his own Invocation in Man

"fred, or the Ode to Napoleon, or on Prome"theus, might have been cited.


"Like Gray,' said he, Campbell smells "too much of the oil: he is never satisfied "with what he does; his finest things have "been spoiled by over-polish. Like paintings, poems may be too highly finished. The great "art is effect, no matter how produced.





"I will shew you an ode you have never seen, that I consider little inferior to the best which the present prolific age has

brought forth.' With this, he left the table, "almost before the cloth was removed, and "returned with a magazine, from which he "read the following lines on Sir John Moore's "burial.

"The feeling with which he recited these "admirable stanzas I shall never forget. After



he had come to an end, he repeated the

third, and said it was perfect, particularly "the lines


But he lay like a warrior taking his rest,

With his martial cloak around him.'

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I should have taken the whole,' said Shelley, for a rough sketch of Campbell's.'

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