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 hollow mournful rolls,
And the mermaid’s song condoles,
Singing glory to the souls
Of the brave!
THE GRAVE SPOILERS.
BY HERCULES ELLIS.
They dragged our
heroes from the graves,
In which their honoured dust was lying;
They dragged them forth—base, coward slaves
And hung their bones on gibbets flying.
Ireton, our dauntless Ironside,
And Bradshaw, faithful judge, and fearless,
And Cromwell, Britain’s chosen guide,
In fight in faith, and council, peerless.
The bravest of our glorious brave!
The tyrant’s terror in his grave.
In felon chains,
they hung the dead—
The noble dead, in glory lying:
Before whose living face they fled,
Like chaff before the tempest flying.
They fled before them, foot and horse,
In craven flight their safety seeking;
And now they gloat around each corse,
In coward scoff their hatred wreaking.
Oh! God, that men could own, as kings,
Such paltry, dastard, soulless things.
Their dust is
scattered o’er the land
They loved, and freed, and crowned with glory;
Their great names bear the felon’s brand;
’Mongst murderers is placed their story.
But idly their grave-spoilers thought,
Disgrace, which fled in life before them,
By craven judges could be brought,
To spread in death, its shadow o’er them.
For chain, nor judge, nor dastard king,
Can make disgrace around them cling.
Their dry bones
rattle in the wind,
That sweeps the land they died in freeing;
But the brave heroes rest enshrined,
In cenotaphs of God’s decreeing:
Embalmed in every noble breast,
Inscribed on each brave heart their story,
All honoured shall the heroes rest,
Their country’s boast—their race’s glory.
On every tongue shall be their name;
In every land shall live their fame.
But fouler than
the noisome dust,
That reeks your rotting bones encasing,
Shall be your fame, ye sons of lust,
And sloth, and every vice debasing!
Insulters of the glorious dead,
While honour in our land is dwelling,
Above your tombs shall Britons tread,
And cry, while scorn each breast is swelling—
“HERE LIE THE DASTARD, CAITIFF SLAVES,
WHO DRAGGED OUR HEROES FROM THEIR GRAVES.”