IV.

Again! again! again!

And the havock did not slack,

Till a feeble cheer the Dane

To our cheering sent us back;

Their shots along the deep slowly boom :-Then ceased-and all is wail,

As they strike the shatter'd sail;

Or, in conflagration pale,

Light the gloom.

V.

Out spoke the victor then,

As he hail'd them o'er the wave;

'Ye are brothers! ye are men!

'And we conquer but to save :

'So peace instead of death let us bring;

'But yield, proud foe, thy fleet,

'With the crews, at England's feet,

'And make submission meet

'To our King.'

VI.

Then Denmark blest our chief,

That he gave her wounds repose;

And the sounds of joy and grief

From her people wildly rose,

As death withdrew his shades from the day.

While the sun look'd smiling bright

O'er a wide and woeful sight,

Where the fires of fun'ral light

Died away.

VII.

Now joy, old England, raise!

For the tidings of thy might,

By the festal cities' blaze,

While the wine cup shines in light;

And yet amidst that joy and uproar,

Let us think of them that sleep,

VIII.

Brave hearts! to Britain's pride

Once so faithful and so true,

On the deck of fame that died ;

With the gallant good Riou:a

Soft sigh the winds of Heav'n o'er their grave!

While the billow mournful rolls

And the mermaid's song condoles,

Singing glory to the souls

Of the brave!

a Captain Riou, justly entitled the gallant and the good, by

Lord Nelson, when he wrote home his dispatches.

YE MARINERS OF ENGLAND,

A NAVAL ODE.

I.

YE Mariners of England!

That guard our native seas;

Whose flag has braved, a thousand years,

The battle and the breeze!

Your glorious standard launch again

To match another foe!

And sweep through the deep,

While the stormy tempests blow;

While the battle rages loud and long,

And the stormy tempests blow.

For the deck it was their field of fame,

And Ocean was their grave:

Where Blake and mighty Nelson fell,

Your manly hearts shall glow,

As ye sweep through the deep,

While the stormy tempests blow;

While the battle rages loud and long,

And the stormy tempests blow.

III.

Britannia needs no bulwark,

No towers along the steep;

Her march is o'er the mountain-waves,

Her home is on the deep.

With thunders from her native oak,

She quells the floods below,