Again the thunder its harsh menace swells, And light-wing'd echoes hail the humbled cells! Weep, weep, ye clouds! with heav'n-bespangled tears; And, ah! if pity rules your sacred spheres, Invoke the thunder to withstay its rage, Disarm its fury, and its wrath assuage.
But now, Aurora, from the Ocean's verge, Trims her gray lamp, to light the mournful dirge. She comes, to light the ruinated heap: But lights, to wake the pensive soul to weep!
Swift through the land while Fame transported flies, And shouts triumphant shake th' illumined skies; Britannia, bending o'er her dauntless prows, With laurels thickening round her blazon'd brows, In joy dejected, sees her triumph cross'd, Exults in Victory won, but mourns the Victor lost. Immortal NELSON! still with fond amaze Thy glorious deed each British eye surveys, Beholds thee still, on conquer'd floods afar: Fate's flaming shaft! the thunderbolt of war! Hurl'd from thy hands, Britannia's vengeance roars, And bloody billows stain the hostile shores: Thy sacred ire Confed'rate Kingdoms braves, And 'whelms their Navies in Sepulchral waves! --Graced with each attribute which Heaven supplies To Godlike Chiefs: humane, intrepid, wise: His Nation's Bulwark, and all Nature's pride, The Hero lived, and as he lived--he died: Transcendant destiny! how bless'd the brave, Whose fall his Country's tears attend, shower'd on his trophied grave!
Sweet are the hours when roseate spring With health and joy salutes the day. When zephyr, borne on wanton wing, Soft whispering, wakes the blushing May. Sweet are the hours, yet not so sweet As when my blue-eyed Maid I meet, And hear her soul-entrancing tale, Sequester'd in the shadowy vale.
The mellow horn's long-echoing notes Startle the morn, commingling strong; At eve, the harp's wild music floats. And ravish'd Silence drinks the song. Yet sweeter is the song of love, When EMMA'S voice enchants the grove, While listening sylphs repeat the tale, Sequester'd in the silent vale.
A parson once--and poorer he Than ever parson ought to be; Yet not so proud as _some_ from College, Who fancy they alone have knowledge; Who only learn to dress and drink, And, strange to say, still seem to think That no real talent's to be found Except within their classic ground; Yet prove that Cam's nor Oxon's plains Can't furnish empty skulls with brains. But for my tale--Our churchman came, And, in religion's honour'd name, Sought Cam's delightful classic borders, To be prefer'd to Holy Orders. Chance led him to the Trav'llers' Inn, Where living's cheap, and often whim Enlivens many a weary soul, And helps, in the o'erflowing bowl, In spite of fogs, and threatening weather, To drown both grief and gloom together:-- (Oh, Wit! thou'rt like a little blue, Soft cloud, in summer breaking through A frowning one, and lighting it Till darkness fadeth bit by bit; And Whim to thee is near allied, And follows closely at thy side; So oft, oh, Wit! I'm told that she By some folks is mista'en for thee; Yet I may say unto my eyes, Just whereabouts the difference lies; One's diamond quite, and, to my taste, The other is but _Dovey's Paste.)_-- He there a ready welcome found From one who travell'd England round: "Sir, your obedient--quite alone? I'm truly happy you are come: Pray, sir, be seated;--business dull;-- Or else this room had now been full; Orders and cash are strangers here, And every thing looks dev'lish queer; Bad times these, sir, sad lack of wealth; Must hope for better;--Sir, your health!" Then added, with inquiring face, "_Come to take Orders in this place_?"