SONGS
OF
T R A F A L G A R.
1805.
I.
Though I do love my country’s weal
As well as any soul that breathes;
Though more than filial pride I feel
To see her crown’d, with conqu’ring wreaths;
Yet from my heart do I deplore
Her recent triumphs on the main—
Those laurels dripping red with gore—
That victory bought with Nelson slain.
Oh! dearest conquest, heaviest loss,
That England’s hope and heart have known
Since first, in fight, her blood-red cross
O’er the great deep triumphant shone.—
And she should wail that conquest dear,
And she that heavy loss should mourn;
Hallow with sighs her Hero’s bier,
And gem with tears her Hero’s urn.
Shame on the wild and callous rout
That lights for joy its countless fires,
That hails the day with madd’ning shout,
While He, who won the day, expires!