Battled with thee, who, steadfast, on her track, Not to be shaken off, untiring bent; And how awhile the fire from each grew slack, The shatter'd masts to splice, and riggings rent,--
And how, at dawn, the conflict was renew'd, Muzzle to muzzle, almost hand to hand, Till useless on the wave, and carnage-strew'd, The foe lay wreck'd on St Domingo's strand,--
And how huzza'd his brave triumphant crew! And how the hero burn'd within his eye, When Milne beheld upon the staff, where flew The Tricolor, the flag of Britain fly!!
And yet once more thy country calls!--beneath The towers and demi-lune of dark Algiers The Impregnable is anchor'd, in the teeth Of bomb-proof batteries, frowning, tiers on tiers.
Another day of triumph for the right,-- Of laurels fresh for Exmouth and for thee,-- When Afric's Demon, palsied at the sight Of Europe's Angel, bade the slave go free!
But when away War's fiery storms had burn'd, And Peace re-gladden'd Earth with skies of blue, Thy sword into the pruning-hook was turn'd, And Cæsar into Cincinnatus grew.
The poor's protector, the unbiass'd judge, 'Twas thine with warm unwearied zeal to lend Time to each duty's call, without a grudge; The Christian, and the Patriot, and the Friend.
Farewell! 'tis dust to dust within the grave; But while one heart beats high to Scotland's fame, Best of the good, and bravest of the brave, The name of Milne shall be an honour'd name.
I. Take back into thy bosom, Earth, This joyous, May-eyed morrow, The gentlest child that ever Mirth Gave to be rear'd by Sorrow. 'Tis hard--while rays half green, half gold, Through vernal bowers are burning, And streams their diamond-mirrors hold To Summer's face returning-- To say, We're thankful that His sleep Shall never more be lighter, In whose sweet-tongued companionship Stream, bower, and beam grew brighter!
II. But all the more intensely true His soul gave out each feature Of elemental Love--each hue And grace of golden Nature, The deeper still beneath it all Lurk'd the keen jags of Anguish; The more the laurels clasp'd his brow, Their poison made it languish. Seem'd it that like the Nightingale Of his own mournful singing[32], The tenderer would his song prevail While most the thorn was stinging.