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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
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!
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.
None but solemn, tender tones,
Tremble from thy plaintive wires : Hark! the wounded WARRIOR groans !
Hush thy warbling !—he expires.
Hush !-while Sorrow wakes and weeps ;
O'er his relics cold and pale, Night her silent vigil keeps,
In a mournful moonlight veil.
Harp of MEMNON! from afar,
Ere the lark salute the sky, Watch the rising of the star.
That proclaims the morning nigh.
Soon the Sun's ascending rays,
In a flood of hallow'd fire,
And thy magic soul inspire.
Then thy tones triumphant pour,
Let them pierce the Hero's grave; Life's tumultuous battle o'er,
O how sweetly sleep the brave !
From the dust their laurels bloom,
High they shoot and flourish free; Glory's temple is the tomb !
Death is immortality!
The head that oft this Pillow press'd,
MY FRIEND was young, the world was new;