IV.
And WE, who in the eastern skies
Beheld thy Sun of glory rise,
Still follow, with exulting eyes,
His proud Meridian height.
Late,—on thy grateful country’s breast,
Late, may that Sun descend to rest,
Beaming through all the glowing West
The memory of his light.
WAR SONG.
1803.
Wave, wave, the banners of the fight;
Be every breast in armour dight,
And every soul on fire!
To trembling Europe’s frighted eyes,
Red let the sun of battle rise;
And bloody be the morning skies
That bring the day of ire!
Whose impious voice, from his dark cave
Wakes the destroyer of the brave?
What hand prepares their tomb?
’Tis He, Ambition’s perjured sprite,
’Tis He, that waves the flags of fight,
’Tis He, in clouds of deadliest night,
Who weaves the warrior’s doom.
Weep, weep, ye gentle dames of France,
Ye, whose devoted sons advance
To Britain’s fatal shore:
O! kiss their lips before ye part,
O! press them to your bursting heart—
Save in a dream’s convulsive start—
Ye ne’er shall clasp them more.
Arouse, arouse, ye British dames,
With words of fire, the patriot flames
That burn for glorious deed.
For him that lives, the raptur’d eye
Of love shall dance! for those who die,
Their ladies’ tears, their country’s sigh,
Shall be the sacred meed!