’Twas at the close of that dark morn
On which our Hero, conquering, died,
That every seaman’s heart was torn
By strife of sorrow and of pride;--
Of pride, that one short day would show
Deeds of eternal splendour done,
Full twenty hostile ensigns low,
And twenty glorious victories won--
Of grief, of deepest, tenderest grief,
That He, on every sea and shore,
Their brave, beloved, unconquer’d Chief,
Should wave his victor-flag no more.
Sad was the eve of that dire day:
But direr, sadder was the night;
When human rage had ceased the fray,
And elements maintain’d the fight.
All shaken in the conflict past
The navies fear’d the tempest loud--
The gale, that shook the groaning mast--
The wave, that climb’d the tatter’d shroud.
By passing gleams of sullen light,
The worn and weary seamen view’d
The hard-earn’d prizes of the fight
Sink, found’ring, in the midnight flood:
And oft, as drowning screams they heard,
And oft, as sank the ships around,
Some British vessel lost they fear’d,
And mourn’d some British brethren drown’d.
And oft they cried, (as memory roll’d
On Him, so late their hope and guide
But now a bloody corse and cold,)
‘Was it for _this_, that NELSON died?’
For three short days, and three long nights,
They wrestled with the tempest’s force;
And sank the trophies of their fights,--
And thought upon that bloody corse!--
But when the fairer morn arose
Bright o’er the yet-tumultuous main,
They saw no wreck but that of foes,
No ruin but of France and Spain:
And, victors now of winds and seas,
Beheld the British vessels brave
Breasting the ocean at their ease,
Like sea-birds on their native wave:
And now they cried, (because they found
Old England’s fleet in all its pride,
While Spain’s and France’s hopes were drown’d,)
‘It _was_ for _this_ that NELSON died!’
He died, with many an hundred bold
And honest hearts as ever beat!--
But where’s the British heart so cold
That would not die in such a feat?
Yes! by their memories! by all
The honours which their tomb surround!
Theirs was the noblest, happiest fall
Which ever mortal courage crown’d.
Then bear them to their glorious grave
With no weak tears, no woman’s sighs;
Theirs was the death-bed of the brave,
And manly be their obsequies!
Haul not your colours from on high,
Nor down the flags of victory lower:--
Give every streamer to the sky,
Let all your conq’ring cannon roar;
That every kindling soul may learn
How to resign its patriot breath;
And from a grateful country, earn
The triumphs of a trophied death.