As the sun's descending beams, Let thy numbers, soft and slow, Sooth the dying, while they flow Bright as VENUS, newly born, Blushing at her maiden charms ; Fresh from ocean rose the Morn, When the trumpet blew to arms, O that Time had staid his flight, When the eldest born were slain ! Lash'd to madness by the wind, Thus, with overwhelming pride, In a deep and dreadful tide, Dauntless these their station held, Thrice return'd through blood and fire. Thus, above the storms of time, Now the veteran CHIEF drew nigh, Valour beaming from his eye, BRITAIN saw him thus advance, In her Guardian-Angel's form; But he lower'd on hostile FRANCE, Like the Demon of the Storm. On the whirlwind of the war High he rode in vengeance dire ; To his friends a leading star, To his foes consuming fire. Then the mighty pour'd their breath, 'Twas the Carnival of Death! 'Twas the Vintage of the Grave! Charged with ABERCROMBIE's doom, Felt-and raised his arm on high; And the force of FRANCE o'erthrew. But the horrors of that fight, Were the weeping MUSE to tell; O'twould cleave the womb of night, And awake the dead that fell! Gash'd with honourable scars, Low in Glory's lap they lie : Though they fell, they fell like stars, Streaming splendour through the sky. Yet shall Memory mourn that day, Of her soldier far away, The poor widow hears the tale. In imagination wild, She shall wander o'er this plain Rave, and bid her orphan child Seek his sire among the slain. Gently, from the western deep, Harp of MEMNON! sweetly strung Let thy numbers soft and slow None but solemn, tender tones, Hush-while Sorrow wakes and weeps ; O'er his relics cold and pale, Night her silent vigil keeps, In a mournful, moonlight veil. Harp of MEMNON! from afar, That proclaims the morning nigh. 174 BATTLE OF ALEXANDRIA. Soon the Sun's ascending rays, Then thy tones triumphant pour, O how sweetly sleep the brave! From the dust their laurels bloom, Death is immortality! |