Let thy numbers, soft and slow,
O'er the plain with carnage spread,

Sooth the dying, while they flow
To the memory of the dead.

Bright as VENUS, newly born,
Blushing at her maiden charms;
Fresh from ocean rose the Morn,
When the trumpet blew to arms.

O that time had staid his flight,
Ere that Morning left the main !

Fatal as the EGYPTIAN night,

When the eldest born were slain !

Lash'd to madness by the wind,

As the Red Sea surges roar,

Leave a gloomy gulph behind,

And devour the shrinking shore ;

Thus, with overwhelming pride,

GALLIA'S brightest, boldest boast,

In a deep and dreadful tide,

Roll'd upon the BRITISH host.

Dauntless these their station held,

Though, with unextinguish'd ire,

GALLIA's legions, thrice repell'd,

Thrice return'd through blood and fire.

Thus, above the storms of time,

Towering to the sacred spheres,

Stand the Pyramids sublime,—
Rocks amid the flood of years!

Now the veteran CHIEF drew nigh,
Conquest towering on his crest,

Valour beaming from his eye,

Pity bleeding in his breast.

BRITAIN saw him thus advance

In her Guardian-Angel's form; But he lower'd on hostile FRANCE,

Like the Demon of the Storm.

On the whirlwind of the war

High he rode in vengeance dire;

To his friends a leading star,

To his foes consuming fire.

Then the mighty pour'd their breath, Slaughter feasted on the brave;

'Twas the Carnival of Death!

'Twas the Vintage of the Grave!

Charged with ABERCROMBIE's doom, Lightning wing'd a cruel ball: 'Twas the Herald of the Tomb,

And the HERO felt the call.

Felt-and raised his arm on high;

Victory well the signal knew,

Darted from his awful eye,

And the force of FRANCE o'erthrew.

But the horrors of that fight,

Were the weeping MUSE to tell; O'twould cleave the womb of night, And awake the dead that fell!

Gash'd with honourable scars,

Low in Glory's lap they lie;

Though they fell, they fell like stars, Streaming splendour through the sky.

Yet shall Memory mourn that day,
When with expectation pale

Of her soldier far away,

The poor widow hears the tale,

In imagination wild,

She shall wander o'er this plain; Rave, and bid her orphan child Seek his sire among the slain.

Gently, from the western deep,
O ye evening breezes rise!
O'er the Lyre of MEMNON Sweep,
Wake its spirit with your sighs.

Harp of MEMNON! sweetly strung
To the music of the spheres ;
While the HERO'S dirge is sung,

reathe enchantment to our ears.

Let thy numbers soft and slow

O'er the plain with carnage spread,

Sooth the dying, while they flow

To the memory of the dead.