| |
| HARP of Memnon! sweetly strung | |
| To the music of the spheres; | |
| While the hero’s dirge is sung, | |
| Breathe enchantment to our ears. | |
| |
| As the sun’s descending beams, | 5 |
| Glancing o’er thy feeling wire, | |
| Kindle every chord that gleams, | |
| Like a ray of heavenly fire: | |
| |
| Let thy numbers, soft and slow, | |
| O’er the plain with carnage spread, | 10 |
| Soothe the dying while they flow | |
| To the memory of the dead. | |
| |
| Bright as Beauty, newly born, | |
| Blushing at her maiden charms; | |
| Fresh from Ocean rose the Morn, | 15 |
| When the trumpet blew to arms. | |
| |
| Terrible soon grew the light | |
| On the Egyptian battle-plain, | |
| As the darkness of that night | |
| When the eldest born was slain. | 20 |
| |
| Lashed to madness by the wind, | |
| As the Red Sea surges roar, | |
| Leave a gloomy gulf behind, | |
| And devour the shrinking shore; | |
| |
| Thus, with overwhelming pride, | 25 |
| Gallia’s brightest, boldest boast, | |
| In a deep and dreadful tide, | |
| Rolled upon the British host. | |
| |
| Dauntless these their station held, | |
| Though with unextinguished ire | 30 |
| Gallia’s legions thrice repelled, | |
| Thrice returned through blood and fire. | |
| |
| Thus, above the storms of time, | |
| Towering to the sacred spheres, | |
| Stand the Pyramids sublime,— | 35 |
| Rocks amid the flood of years. | |
| |
| Now the veteran Chief drew nigh, | |
| Conquest towering on his crest, | |
| Valor beaming from his eye, | |
| Pity bleeding in his breast. | 40 |
| |
| Britain saw him thus advance | |
| In her guardian-angel’s form; | |
| But he lowered on hostile France, | |
| Like the demon of the storm. | |
| |
| On the whirlwind of the war | 45 |
| High he rode in vengeance dire; | |
| To his friends a leading star, | |
| To his foes consuming fire. | |
| |
| Then the mighty poured their breath, | |
| Slaughter feasted on the brave! | 50 |
| ’T was the carnival of death: | |
| ’T was the vintage of the grave. | |
| |
| Charged with Abercrombie’s doom, | |
| Lightning winged a cruel ball: | |
| ’T was the herald of the tomb, | 55 |
| 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. | 60 |
| |
| But the horrors of that fight | |
| Were the weeping Muse to tell, | |
| O, ’t would cleave the womb of night, | |
| And awake the dead that fell! | |
| |
| Gashed with honorable scars, | 65 |
| Low in Glory’s lap they lie; | |
| Though they fell, they fell like stars, | |
| Streaming splendor through the sky. * * * * * | |
| |
