Classic Poem

ON THE PROSPECT OF INVASION .

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!

The loveliest spot of earth
Be sacred to the brave;
The womb of her that gave them birth,
Their country's womb, their grave.

——But the wild waves shall sweep
Britannia's foes away,
And the blue monsters of the deep
Be surfeited with prey!—

No!—they have 'scaped the waves,
'Scaped the sea-monsters' maws;
They come!—but O shall Gallic slaves
Give English freemen laws?

By Alfred's spirit, no!
—Ring, ring the loud alarms!
Ye drums awake, ye clarions blow,
Ye heralds shout “to arms!”

To arms our heroes fly;
And leading on their lines,
The British banner in the sky,
The star of conquest, shines.

The lowering battle forms
It's terrible array:
Like clashing clouds in mountain-storms,
That thunder on their way;

The rushing armies meet;
And while they pour their breath,
The strong earth shudders at their feet,
The day grows dim with death.

——Ghosts of the mighty dead!
Your childrens' hearts inspire;
And while they on your ashes tread,
Rekindle all your fire.

The dead to life return;
Our fathers' Spirits rise!
—My brethren! in YOUR breasts they burn,
They sparkle in YOUR eyes.

Now launch upon the foe
The lightning of your rage;
Strike, strike the assailing giants low,
The Titans of the age.

They yield,—they break,—they fly;
The victory is won:
Pursue!——they faint,—they fall,—they die;
O stay!——the work is done.

Spirit of Vengeance rest:
Sweet Mercy cries, “forbear!”
She clasps the vanquish'd to her breast;
Thou wilt not pierce them there?

——Thus vanish Britain's foes
From her consuming eye!
But rich be the reward of those
Who conquer——those who die!

O'ershadowing laureis deck
The living hero's brows;
But lovelier wreaths entwine his neck,
—His children and his spouse!

Exulting o'er his lot,
The dangers he has braved:
He clasps the dear ones, hails the cot,
Which his own valour saved.

——Daughters of Albion! weep;
On this triumphant plain,
Your fathers, husbands, brethren sleep,
For you and freedom slain.

O gently close the eye,
That loved to look on you;
O seal the lip, whose earliest sigh,
Whose latest breath was true:

With knots of sweetest flowers
Their winding sheet perfume;
And wash their wounds with true-love showers,
And dress them for the tomb:

For beautiful in death,
The warrior's corse appears,
Embalm'd by fond Affection's breath,
And bathed in woman's tears.

Give me the death of those,
Who for their country die;
And O be mine like their repose,
When cold and low they lie!

Their loveliest native earth
Enshrines the fallen brave:
The womb of her that gave them birth,
That womb shall be their grave.