Sad was the eve of that dire day:
But direr, sadder was the night;
When human rage had ceased the fray,
And elements maintain’d the fight.
All shaken in the conflict past
The navies fear’d the tempest loud—
The gale, that shook the groaning mast—
The wave, that climb’d the tatter’d shroud.
By passing gleams of sullen light,
The worn and weary seamen view’d
The hard-earn’d prizes of the fight
Sink, found’ring, in the midnight flood:
And oft, as drowning screams they heard,
And oft, as sank the ships around,
Some British vessel lost they fear’d,
And mourn’d some British brethren drown’d.
And oft they cried, (as memory roll’d
On Him, so late their hope and guide
But now a bloody corse and cold,)
‘Was it for this, that Nelson died?’
For three short days, and three long nights,
They wrestled with the tempest’s force;
And sank the trophies of their fights,—
And thought upon that bloody corse!—
But when the fairer morn arose
Bright o’er the yet-tumultuous main,
They saw no wreck but that of foes,
No ruin but of France and Spain:
And, victors now of winds and seas,
Beheld the British vessels brave
Breasting the ocean at their ease,
Like sea-birds on their native wave:
And now they cried, (because they found
Old England’s fleet in all its pride,
While Spain’s and France’s hopes were drown’d,)
‘It was for this that Nelson died!’
He died, with many an hundred bold
And honest hearts as ever beat!—
But where’s the British heart so cold
That would not die in such a feat?