The Dane returned, a truce
Glad to bring:
He would yield his conquered fleet,
With the crews, at England's feet,
And make submission meet
To our King.
Then death withdrew his pall
From the day;
And the sun looked smiling bright
On a wide and woeful sight
Where the fires of funeral light
Died away.
Yet, all amidst her wrecks
And her gore,
Proud Denmark blest our chief
That he gave her wounds relief,
And the sounds of joy and grief
Filled her shore.
All round, outlandish cries
Loudly broke;
But a nobler note was rung
When the British, old and young,
To their bands of music sung
"Hearts of Oak."
Cheer! cheer! from park and tower,
London town!
When the King shall ride in state
From St. James's royal gate,
And to all his peers relate
Our renown.
The bells shall ring! the day
Shall not close,
But a glaze of cities bright
Shall illuminate the night,
And the wine-cup shine in light
As it flows.
Yes—yet amid the joy
And uproar,
Let us think of them that sleep
Full many a fathom deep
All beside thy rocky steep,
Elsinore!
Brave hearts, to Britain's weal
Once so true!
Though death has quenched your flame,
Yet immortal be your name!
For ye died the death of fame
With Riou.
Soft sigh the winds of Heaven
O'er your grave!
While the billow mournful rolls
And the mermaid's song condoles,
Singing—glory to the souls
Of the brave.