The meteor flag of England Shall yet terrific burn, Till danger's troubled night depart When the storm has ceased to blow; BATTLE OF THE BALTIC. Of Nelson and the North All the might of Denmark's crown, And her arms along the deep proudly shone; By each gun the lighted brand In a bold determin'd hand, And the Prince of all the land Like leviathans afloat Lay their bulwarks on the brine, On the lofty British line: It was ten of April morn by the chime: As they drifted on their path, There was silence deep as death, And the boldest held his breath For a time. But the might of England flushed And her van the fleeter rushed O'er the deadly space between 'Hearts of oak,' our captains cried, when each gun From its adamantine lips Spread a death-shade round the ships, Like the hurricane eclipse Of the sun. Again! again! again! And the havoc did not slack, Till a feeble cheer the Dane To our cheering sent us back ;— Their shots along the deep slowly boom :- As they strike the shattered sail, Or in conflagration pale Light the gloom. Out spoke the victor then, As he hailed them o'er the wave; 'Ye are brothers! ye are men! And we conquer but to save ; So peace instead of death let us bring: But yield, proud foe, thy fleet With the crews at England's feet, And make submission meet To our King.' Then Denmark blest our chief, That he gave her wounds repose; From her people wildly rose, As death withdrew his shades from the day; While the sun looked smiling bright O'er a wide and woeful sight, Where the fires of funeral light Died away. Now joy, old England, raise For the tidings of thy might, By the festal cities' blaze, While the wine cup shines in light; And yet amidst that joy and uproar, By thy wild and stormy steep, Brave hearts! to Britain's pride On the deck of fame that died, -With the gallant good Riou, Soft sigh the winds of heaven o'er their grave! And the mermaid's song condoles, Of the brave! THE ONEYDA'S DEATH-SONG. [From Gertrude of Wyoming, Part III.] Hushed were his Gertrude's lips, but still their bland With love that could not die; and still his hand Ah heart! where once each fond affection dwelt, Of them that stood encircling his despair, He heard some friendly words;-but knew not what they were. For now, to mourn their judge and child, arrives Then mournfully the parting bugle bid Its farewell, o'er the grave of worth and truth; His face on earth;-him watched in gloomy ruth He watch'd, beneath its folds, each burst that came 'And I could weep ;'-th' Oneyda chief 'But that I may not stain with grief The death-song of my father's son, For by my wrongs and by my wrath To-morrow Areouski's breath (That fires you heav'n with storms of death) Shall light us to the foe; And we shall share, my Christian boy, The foeman's blood, the avenger's joy! 'But thee, my flower, whose breath was given By milder genii o'er the deep, The spirits of the white man's heaven Forbid not thee to weep; Nor will the Christian host, Nor will thy father's spirit grieve To see thee, on the battle's eve, She was the rainbow to thy sight! 'To-morrow let us do or die! But when the bolt of death is hurled, Shall Outalissi roam the world? Seek we thy once-loved home?— Its echoes and its empty tread Would sound like voices from the dead. 'Or shall we cross yon mountains blue, A thousand warriors drew the shaft? The desert serpent dwells alone, Where grass o'ergrows each mouldering bone, And stones themselves to ruin grown, Like me, are death-like old : Then seek we not their camp-for there 'But hark, the trump!—to-morrow thou Because I may not stain with grief The death-song of an Indian chief.' |