* * * * *

       BATTLE OF THE BALTIC.

       I.

       Of Nelson and the North,
       Sing the glorious day’s renown,
       When to battle fierce came forth
       All the might of Denmark’s crown,
       And her arms along the deep proudly shone;
       By each gun the lighted brand,
       In a bold, determined hand,
       And the Prince of all the land
       Led them on.

       II.

       Like leviathans afloat,
       Lay their bulwarks on the brine;
       While the sign of battle flew
       On the lofty British line: 
       It was ten of April morn by the chime: 
       As they drifted on their path,
       There was silence deep as death;
       And the boldest held his breath
       For a time.

       III.

       But the might of England flushed
       To anticipate the scene;
       And her van the fleeter rushed
       O’er the deadly space between. 
       “Hearts of oak!” our captains cried; when each gun
       From its adamantine lips
       Spread a death-shade round the ships. 
       Like the hurricane eclipse
       Of the sun.

       IV.

       Again! again! again! 
       And the havoc did not slack,
       Till a feebler cheer the Dane
       To our cheering sent us back;—­
       Their shots along the deep slowly boom;—­
       Then cease—­and all is wail,
       As they strike the shattered sail;
       Or, in conflagration pale,
       Light the gloom.

       V.

       Out spoke the victor then,
       As he hailed 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 looked smiling bright
       O’er a wide and woeful sight,
       Where the fires of funeral light
       Died away.

       VII.

       Now joy, Old England, raise! 
       For the tidings of thy might,
       By the festal cities’ blaze,
       Whilst the wine-cup shines in light;
       And yet amidst that joy and uproar,
       Let us think of them that sleep,
       Full many a fathom deep,
       By thy wild and stormy steep,
       Elsinore!

       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;—­
Soft sigh the winds of heaven o’er their grave! 
While the billow mournful rolls,
And the mermaid’s song condoles;
Singing glory to the souls
Of the brave!