Though such a chief a deathless wreath may crown,
Though he may win a sterile, hard renown,
His name shall ne’er a sudden glow impart,
Nor make the tear of admiration start;
Ne’er in his plaudits shall warm blessings join!
None cry, “The triumph of that man is mine!”
But, when his greatness crumbles in the dust,
Coldly exclaim, “Lo! Providence is just!”
Far different is the patriot warrior’s lot!
He may in Time’s long journey be forgot;
Though many generations shall decay,
Ere England’s love to Nelson wears away!
But if at length successive years should cast
The mist of distance upon ages past,
And fathers what themselves have witness’d tell,
Of those who yet shall serve their country well—
Memory and Knowledge shall dispel the gloom,
And shed strong light on every honour’d tomb—
To lift the spirit when our courage fail,
When worth departed, future ages hail!
And ye, compeers, who in the classic page,
Do homage to the hero and the sage,
Whose hearts at base and cruel actions bleed,
But rise triumphant at a noble deed—
Forbear from Duty’s anxious side to stray,
But follow bravely when she leads the way;
Follow with head and heart, as Nelson fought;
Be vigilant like him in act and thought;
Then, as the lark mounts upwards in the skies,
Early in life’s fair morning will you rise,
Expand bold pinions nearest to the sun,
And claim the meed of glory fairly won.
TO THE HETMAN, PLATOFF.
O ancient warrior! as we hail thee,
And behold thy cordial smile,
We hope that greetings ne’er may fail thee,
Such as those of Britain’s isle.
They are, although so seeming rude,
Given only where we think them due;
Most courteous, e’en when they intrude,
Too vehement, but always true!
Applauses which no art can fashion,
Which speak the feelings and no more;
Which give respect the glow of passion,
When worth and valour we adore;
Blest is the hero in receiving!
And pride may scoff at, or despise,
What if but once sincere believing,
Is grateful to the good and wise.
On the Death of Master Frederic Thomson.
In the first dawn of youth I much admire
The lively boy of ruddy countenance,
Strong-built, and bold, and hardy, with black hair,
And dark brown eye, contrasting its blue-white,
Somewhat abruptly; save in the bright hour
Of inward passion, or of sudden joy;
When, as a monarch, gracious and renown’d,
Amid a crowd of subjects, diverse all,
Thrills with one deep, soft feeling every heart;
Or, as the sun throws his pervading beams
At once on bleak harsh mountains and the sky;