SONG LXXXII.

BY THOMAS CAMPBELL, ESQ.*

Ye mariners of England,

That guard our native seas, Whose flag has brav'd, a thousand years, The battle and the breeze :

Your glorious standard raise 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!

The spirits of your fathers

Shall start from ev'ry wave. For the deck it was their field of fame, And ocean was their grave ! Where Blake, the boast of freedom, fell, Your manly hearts shall glow, As ye sweep through the deep,

When the stormy tempests blow :While the battle rages loud and long, And the stormy tempests blow !

Britannia needs no bulwark,
No towers along the steep;

Her march is o'er the mountain-wayes,
Her home is on the deep :
With thunders from her native oak
She quells the floods below,
As they roar on the shore,
When the stormy tempests blow :-
When the battle rages loud and long,
And the stormy tempests blow !

The meteor-flag of England
Must yet terrific burn,
Till Danger's troubled night depart,
And the star of Peace return :
Then, then, ye ocean-warriors !
Our song and feast shall flow
To the fame of your name,
When the tempests cease to blow :-
When the fiery fight is heard no more,
And the tempests cease to blow !

SONG LXXXIII,

ON THE LOSS OF THE ROYAL GEORGE.

BY WILLIAM COWPER, ESQ.

TOLL for the brave!

The brave, that are no more!

All sunk beneath the wave,

Fast by their native shore.

Eight hundred of the brave,
Whose courage well was tried,

Had made the vessel heel,

And laid her on her side.

A land-breeze shook the shrouds,
And she was overset;
Down went the Royal George,
With all her crew complete.

Toll for the brave!

Brave Kempenfelt is gone;

His last sea-fight is fought;
His work of glory done.

It was not in the battle;

No tempest gave the shock;

She sprang no fatal leak;

She ran upon no rock.

His sword was in its sheath;
His fingers held the pen,
When Kempenfelt went down,
With twice four hundred men.

Weigh the vessel up,

Once dreaded by our foes! And mingle with our cup

The tear that England owes.

Her timbers yet are sound,

And she may float again,

Full charg'd with England's thunder, And plough the distant main.

But Kempenfelt is gone,

His victories are o'er;

And he, and his eight hundred,

Shall plough the wave no more.

SONG LXXXIV.

ON THE DEATH OF LORD NELSON.

(Adapted from the preceding.)

BY M. C. PARK.

TOLL for the brave!
The brave, that are no more!
Who fought a matchless fight,
Near Trafalgar's fam'd shore.
There noble Nelson fell :
His country's boast and pride !
Yet grief exults to tell-

In Glory's arms he died.

Toll for the brave!
For gallant Nelson's gone!
His last sea-fight is fought,
His work of conquest done.
One deadly-fated ball
His dauntless bosom tore;
Yet glorious did he fall,
Amid the battle's roar.

Toll for the brave!
Once dreaded by their foes;
And drop on Nelson's grave
The tear that England owes :
That tear will grace his urn
Beyond what pomp can give;
For long as Britons mourn,
Shall Nelson's memory live !

SONG LXXXV.

BY JAMES MONTGOMERY, ESQ.*

O FOR the death of those

Who for their country die,

Sink on her bosom to repose,

And triumph where they lie!

How beautiful in death

The warrior's corse appears,
Embalm'd by fond affection's breath,
And bathed in woman's tears!

Their loveliest native earth

Enshrines the fallen brave :
In the dear land that gave them birth
They find their tranquil grave.

* [From an Ode to the Volunteers of Great Britain,' by this truly pathetic, patriotic, and energetic poet: printed in his works.]