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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.


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 laurels 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.

On this triumphant plain,
Your fathers, husbands, brethren sleep,

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 mother Earth
Enshrines the fallen brave,
In her sweet lap who gave them birth
They find their tranquil grave.


RETURNING from their evening walk,

On yonder ancient stile,
In sweet, romantic, tender talk,

Two lovers paused awhile :

EDMUND, the monarch of the dale,

All-conscious of his powers ; ELLA, the lily of the vale,

The rose of AUBURN's bowers !

In airy Love's delightful bands

He held her heart in vain ; The Nymph denied her willing hands

To HYMEN's awful chain.

“ Ah! why,” said he, our bliss delay!

“ Mine Ella! why so cold ? “ Those who but love from day to day,

“ From day to day grow old.

“ The bounding arrow cleaves the sky,

- Nor leaves a trace behind; “ And single lives like arrows fly,

- They vanish thro' the wind.

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“ In wedlock's sweet endearing lot

“ Let us improve the scene, “ That some may be, when we are not,

“ To tell—that we have been."

“ 'Tis now,” replied the village Belle,

“ Saint Mark's mysterious eve;
And all that old traditions tell
“I tremblingly believe :-

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