It was, indeed, a glorious day,—
And every homage of the heart
Were just, that rescued realms can pay,
Had Nelson lived to share his part.
Had Nelson lived to hear our praise,
I too had hymn’d the victor’s song;
I too had lit the joyous blaze,
And wildly join’d the exulting throng.
But He is blind to pageant gay,
And he is deaf to joyous strain;
And I will raise no pleasant lay,
And swell no pomp for Nelson slain.
But I will commune with my mind,
To celebrate its darling Chief
What worthiest tribute it may find
Of soften’d pride, of temper’d grief.
Ye good and great, ’tis yours to raise
The storied vase, the column tall,
Through every future age to praise
His life, and consecrate his fall:
Mine it will be, (oh! would my tongue
Were gifted with immortal verse!)
To strew, with many a sorrowing song,
Parnassian cypress o’er his hearse.
II.
The fight was long;—and deep in blood
Britain’s triumphant warriors stood:
High o’er the wave, untorn, unstain’d,
The ensigns of her glory reign’d:
Around, the wreck’d and vanquish’d pride
Of hostile navies strew’d the tide;
Or scatter’d, as the tempest bore,
Their ruins on the affrighted shore.
The haughty hopes of France and Spain,
Had dream’d of conquest’s laurel crown—
O! vision, arrogant and vain!—
Nelson has swept them from the main,
And dash’d their airy trophies down:
Their fancied wreaths his brow adorn,
Won by his valour, in his triumph worn.
But, hark! amidst the joyous shout,
For Spain’s defeat, and France’s rout:
But, hark! amidst the glad acclaim
Of England’s honour, Nelson’s fame,
What deep and sullen sounds arise?
Are these, alas! victorious cries?
Bode they a widow’d nation’s woe;
The triumph vain, and Nelson low?—