A WEARY lot is thine, fair maid, A weary lot is thine! To pull the thorn thy brow to braid, And
press the rue for wine. A lightsome eye, a soldiers mien, A feather of the blue, A doublet of the Lincoln
green No more of me ye knew, My Love! No more of me ye knew.
This morn is merry June, I trow, The rose is budding fain; But she shall bloom in winter snow Ere
we two meet again. He turnd his charger as he spake Upon the river shore, He gave the bridle-reins a
shake, Said Adieu for evermore, My Love! And adieu fo r evermore.Patriotism
BREATHES there the man with soul so dead, Who never to himself hath said, This is my
own, my native land! Whose heart hath neer within him burnd As home his footsteps he hath turnd From
wandering on a foreign strand? If such there breathe, go, mark him well; For him no Minstrel raptures
swell; High though his titles, proud his name, Boundless his wealth as wish can claim; Despite those titles,
power, and pelf, The wretch, concentred all in self, Living, shall forfeit fair renown, And, doubly dying, shall
go down To the vile dust from whence he sprung, Unwept, unhonourd, and unsung.
TO mute and to material things New life revolving summer brings; The genial call dead Nature
hears, And in her glory reappears. But oh, my Countrys wintry state What second spring shall renovate? What
powerful call shall bid arise The buried warlike and the wise; The mind that thought for Britains weal, The
hand that graspd the victor steel?
The vernal sun new life bestows Even on the meanest flower that blows; But vainly, vainly
may he shine Where glory weeps oer Nelsons shrine; And vainly pierce the solemn gloom That shrouds,
O P, thy hallowd tomb!
Deep graved in every British heart, O never let those names depart! Say to your sons,Lo,
here his grave, Who victor died on Gadite wave! To him, as to the burning levin, Short, bright, resistless
course was given. Whereer his countrys foes were found Was heard the fated thunders sound, Till burst
the bolt on yonder shore, Rolld, blazed, destroydand was no more.
Nor mourn ye less his perishd worth, Who bade the conqueror go forth, And launchd that
thunderbolt of war On Egypt, Hafnia, Trafalgar; Who, born to guide such high emprise, For Britains weal
was early wise; Alas! to whom the Almighty gave, For Britains sins, an early grave! His worth, who
in his mightiest hour A bauble held the pride of power, Spurnd at the sordid lust of pelf, And served his
Albion for herself; Who, when the frantic crowd amain Straind at subjections bursting rein, Oer their wild
mood full conquest gaind, The pride he would not crush, restraind, Showd their fierce zeal a worthier
cause, And brought the freemans arm to aid the freemans laws
Hadst thou but lived, though strippd of power, A watchman on the lonely tower, Thy thrilling
trump had roused the land, When fraud or danger were at hand; By thee, as by the beacon-light, Our
pilots had kept course aright; As some proud column, though alone, Thy strength had proppd the tottering
throne. Now is the stately column broke, The beacon-light is quenchd in smoke, The trumpets silver voice
is still, The warder silent on the hill!
O think, how to his latest day, When Death, just hovering, claimd his prey, With Palinures
unalterd mood Firm at his dangerous post he stood; Each call for needful rest repelld, With dying hand
the rudder held, Till in his fall with fateful sway The steerage of the realm gave way. Thenwhile on Britains
thousand plains One unpolluted church remains, Whose peaceful bells neer sent around The bloody tocsins
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