A WEARY lot is thine, fair maid,
A weary lot is thine!
To pull the thorn thy brow to braid,
press the rue for wine.
A lightsome eye, a soldiers mien,
A feather of the blue,
A doublet of the Lincoln
No more of me ye knew,
No more of me ye knew.
This morn is merry June, I trow,r evermore.
The rose is budding fain;
But she shall bloom in winter snow
we two meet again.
He turnd his charger as he spake
Upon the river shore,
He gave the bridle-reins a
Said Adieu for evermore,
And adieu fo
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
wandering on a foreign strand?
If such there breathe, go, mark him well;
For him no Minstrel raptures
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
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
And in her glory reappears.
But oh, my Countrys wintry state
What second spring shall renovate?
powerful call shall bid arise
The buried warlike and the wise;
The mind that thought for Britains weal,
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
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,
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
And brought the freemans arm to aid the freemans laws
Hadst thou but lived, though strippd of power,
A watchman on the lonely tower,
trump had roused the land,
When fraud or danger were at hand;
By thee, as by the beacon-light,
pilots had kept course aright;
As some proud column, though alone,
Thy strength had proppd the tottering
Now is the stately column broke,
The beacon-light is quenchd in smoke,
The trumpets silver voice
The warder silent on the hill!
O think, how to his latest day,
When Death, just hovering, claimd his prey,
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
One unpolluted church remains,
Whose peaceful bells neer sent around
The bloody tocsins