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Dear native land! thy fortunes frown,

And ruffians would enslave thee: Thou land of honour and renown, Who would not die to save thee?

'Tis you, 'tis I, that meets the ball;
And me it better pleases
In battle with the brave to fall,
Than die of cold diseases;
Than drivel on in elbow chair,
With saws and tales unheeded,
A tottering thing of aches and care,
Nor longer loved nor needed.

But thou-dark is thy flowing hair,
Thine eye with fire is streaming ;*
And o'er thy cheek, thy looks, thine air,
Health sits in triumph beaming:
Thou, brother soldier, fill the wine,

Fill high the wine to beauty;

Love, friendship, honour, all are thine,

Thy country and thy duty.

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IMARK'D his madly-rolling eye,

I caught its furious blood-red flame, I saw their panic squadrons fly

Where'er th' impetuous warrior came,
With gleaming sword and waving plume,
Like some wild meteor of the gloom.

Fiercer and fiercer wax'd the fight,
And ruddier grew the field of gore;
In vain I strain'd my aching sight,

I mark'd his waving plume no more :
In long unequal fight he bled,
And mingled with the hostile dead.

And shall he thus unhonour'd lie,

Nor know a grateful monarch's care? No-raise the mausoleum high,

Place his sad sacred relics there,

And, on recording marble, tell

How my brave warrior fought and fell.


YE mariners of England,

That guard our native seas,
Whose flag has braved, a thousand years,
The battle and the breeze,
Your glorious standard raise again
To match another foe,

And sweep thro' the deep,

While the stormy tempests blow ;While the battle rages loud and long, And the stormy tempests blow!

The spirits of your fathers

Shall start from every wave;

For the deck it was their field of fame,
And ocean was their grave!

Where Blake (the boast of freedom) fell


Your manly hearts shall glow,

ye sweep through the deep

When the stormy tempests blow ;While the battle rages loud and long,

And the stormy tempests blow!


Britannia needs no bulwark,

No towers along the steep;

Her march is o'er the mountain-waves,

Her home is on the deep:
With thunders from her native oak
She quells the floods below,
As they roar on the shore,

When the stormy tempests blow ;—
When the battle rages loud and long,
And the stormy tempests blow!

The meteor flag of England
Must yet terrific burn,

Till Danger's troubled night depart,
And the star of Peace return!
Then, then, ye ocean-warriors!
Our song and feast shall flow

To the fame of your name

When the tempests cease to blow ;--
When the fiery fight is heard no more,
And the tempests cease to blow!*


✦ This fine alteration of a popular ballad may be pointed out as the most poetical specimen of a naval song that our language affords.


MORTALS, learn your lives to measure,
Not by length of time, but pleasure;
Now the hours invite, comply;
While you idly pause, they fly:
Blest, a nimble pace they keep,
But in torment, then they creep.

Mortals, learn your lives to measure
Not by length of time, but pleasure;
Soon your spring must have a fall;
Losing youth, is losing all:

Then you'll ask, but none will give,
And may linger, but not live.


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