Rhymesters attend! nor scorn & friendly hint, Restrain your _cacoëths_ fierce to print. But hark, _my_ printer's devil's at the door, My leisure cannot yield one moment more: Nor matters it, advice can ne'er restrain Madman or poet from his bent:--'tis vain To strive to point out colours to the blind, Or set men seeking what they _will not find_.
O Love! divinest dream of youth, Thy day of ecstacy is o'er, My bosom, touch'd by time and truth, Thrills at thy dear deceits no more.
Nor thou, Ambition! e'er again, With splendour dazzling to betray, And aspirations fierce and vain, Shall tempt my steps--away! away!
Alas! by stern Experience cleft, When life's romance is turn'd to sport; If man hath consolation left On this side death--'tis good old port.
And thou, Advice! who glum and chill, Do'st the _third bottle_ still gainsay; Smile, and partake it, if you will, But if you wont--away! away!
Lives there who, with unhallow'd hand, would tear, One leaf from that immortal wreath which shades The Hero's living brow, or decks his urn? Breathes there who does not triumph in the thought That "Nelson's language is his mother tongue," And that St. Vincent's country is his own? Oh! these bright guerdons of renown are won By means most palpable to sense and sight; By days of peril and by nights of toil; By Valour's long probation, closed at last In Victory's arms--consummated and seal'd In deathless Glory and immortal Fame.
Musing I stand upon _his_ lowly grave, Who, though he fought no battle--though he pour'd No hostile thunders on his country's foes, Achieved for Britain triumphs, less array'd "In pomp and circumstance," nor visible To vulgar gaze--the triumphs of the _Mind_. He nursed the elements of courage--he Supplied the aliment that feeds and guides The daring spirit to its high emprise-- A nation's moral energies, by him Directed, found a nobler end and aim. He gave that high discriminating tone That marks the Brave from mercenary tools-- Features that separate a British Crew From hireling bravoes, and from pirate hordes. And yet no marble marks the spot where lies The dust of DIBDIN;--no inscription speaks A Nation's gratitude--a Bard's desert.
The youthful Sailor on his midnight watch, Fixing his gaze upon the tranquil moon, Felt his heart soften as the thoughts of home Rush'd on his faithful memory;--then it was In language meet, and in appropriate strains-- Strains which thy lyre had taught him--he pour'd forth The feelings of his soul, and all was calm.