O thou, Calliope, the heroes tell, Who, bright with honour and with glory, fell; 50 While Retrospection’s sweetly pensive tear, Moistens the bays that blossom round their bier. For them no friend can soothe the quiv’ring breath, And give the last sad offices of death; For them no prayers of pitying love are giv’n-- No priest consoling points the road to heav’n; Their whit’ning bones no stately urn shall hide,-- No flatt’ring bust--no monument of pride; ’Mids’t piles of slaughter’d thousands lost, they lie, By all forsaken, unregarded die. 60 Yet each seem’d gladly to resign his breath, And hail th’ approach of honourable death: And still in death, o’er each undaunted face, Nought but the pride of heroism you’d trace;-- Each dying warrior, welt’ring on the strand, Still strain’d each nerve to grasp his broken brand.
As Gordon, great in arms, whose glorious name Was ever foremost of the sons of Fame, (With that bright warmth of love and friendly fire, Which only godlike Wellesley can inspire;) 70 Besought his chief, who mingled with the strife, Of danger heedless, to regard his life, A ball, fast hissing on the airy tide, Stretched the brave soldier by his leader’s side. And glorious Canning, ere the shades of death Had numb’d his arm, or stopt his fleeting breath, Rais’d up his eyes to heav’n, and faintly cried, “Ah, bless my chief”--and in that blessing died! The brave Delancey left his native land, 79 Young Hymen’s chaplet, and Love’s plighted hand-- He left them all!--for Honour’s notes afar Proclaim’d the signal of reviving war: Destruction hover’d where his falchion prest, And Fate’s dark lightnings glitter’d round his crest. But Death, with envy, saw his feats that day, Another Death, he thought, had bore his pow’r away; He rais’d his arm--he hurl’d the fatal dart, And bad it moisten in the warrior’s heart; Urg’d by the spectre’s hand, the weapon prest, 89 Pierc’d the knight’s garb, and sunk within his breast,-- Adown his bosom stream’d the ebbing blood, And life came rushing on the purple flood.
Two British heroes, of a meaner name, That day shone proudly in the field of Fame; Immortal Thonne, and bold Herculean Shawe, Before whose arms, with fear and wond’ring awe, Proud Gallia shrunk; while gasping on the strand, Nine chieftains fell by Thonne’s destructive hand. D’Avigné fam’d throughout the Gallic race, For warlike honours, and for martial grace, 100 Perceiv’d the victor glorying from afar, And spurr’d his courser to the promis’d war: So the fierce tyger stalks the Lybian plain, Exulting o’er the savage nations slain, While o’er each hill, and dark impervious wood, They strive t’ escape the ravisher of blood: Forth from the forest, gaunt with vengeful ire, With stiffen’d mane, and eyes of living fire, Rushes the lion with indignant glow, And pours his fury on the raging foe. 110