My imps, though hardy, bold, and wild As best befits the mountain child, Feel the sad influence of the hour, And wail the daisy's vanish'd flower; And anxious ask,-Will spring return, Yes, prattlers, yes. The daisy's flower Again shall paint your summer bower; Again the hawthorn shall supply The garlands you delight to tie ; The lambs upon the lea shall bound, To mute and to material things Even on the meanest flower that blows; Deep graved in every British heart, O never let those names depart! Say to your sons,-Lo, here his grave, Who victor died on Gadite wave; To him, as to the burning levin, Short, bright, resistless course was given. Where'er his country's foes were found, Was heard the fated thunder's sound, Till burst the bolt on yonder shore, Roll'd, blazed, destroy'd,-and was no more. Nor mourn ye less his perish'd worth, 1 Who, born to guide such high emprize, Had'st thou but lived, though stripp'd of By thee, as by the beacon-light, 1 power, As some proud column, though alone, Thy strength had propp'd the tottering throne: Now is the stately column broke, The beacon-light is quench'd in smoke, The trumpet's silver sound is still, The warder silent on the hill! Oh think, how to his latest day, When Death, just hovering, claim'd his prey, With Palinure's unalter'd mood, Firm at his dangerous post he stood; Each call for needful rest repell'd, With dying hand the rudder held, Till, in his fall, with fateful sway, Nor yet suppress the generous sigh, When best employ'd, and wanted most; Mourn genius high, and lore profound, And wit that loved to play, not wound; And all the reasoning powers divine, To penetrate, resolve, combine; And feelings keen, and fancy's glow, They sleep with him who sleeps below : And, if thou mourn'st they could not save From error him who owns this grave, Be every harsher thought suppress'd, And sacred be the last long rest. Here, where the end of earthly things Lays heroes, patriots, bards, and kings; Where stiff the hand, and still the tongue, Of those who fought, and spoke, and sung; Here, where the fretted aisles prolong The distant notes of holy song, As if some angel spoke agen, "All peace on earth, good-will to men;" If ever from an English heart, O, here let prejudice depart, When Europe crouched to France's yoke, |