[April 2, 1801.]

  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.

  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.

  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 captain cried; when each gun
    From its adamantine lips
    Spread a death-shade round the ships,
    Like the hurricane eclipse
  Of the sun.

  Again! again! again! 
    And the havoc 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 shattered sail,
    Or in conflagration pale,
  Light the gloom.

  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.”

  Then Denmark blessed 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 woful sight,
    Where the fires of funeral light
  Died away.

  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!

  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!

THOMAS CAMPBELL.

* * * * *

BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE.

[Corunna, Spain, January 16, 1809.]

  Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note,
    As his corse to the rampart we hurried;
  Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot
    O’er the grave where our hero we buried.