C.D. Warner, et al., comp.
The Library of the World’s Best Literature. An Anthology in Thirty Volumes. 1917.
The Battle of Copenhagen
By Thomas Campbell (1777–1844)
O
Sing the day!
When, their haughty powers to vex,
He engaged the Danish decks,
And with twenty floating wrecks
Crowned the fray!
Shone the day!
When a British fleet came down
Through the islands of the crown,
And by Copenhagen town
Took their stay.
Proudly shone;
By each gun the lighted brand,
In a bold determined hand,
And the Prince of all the land
Led them on!
All her might!
From her battle-ships so vast
She had hewn away the mast,
And at anchor to the last
Bade them fight!
Of their line
Rode out, but these were naught
To the batteries, which they brought,
Like Leviathans afloat,
In the brine.
By the chime;
As they drifted on their path
There was silence deep as death,
And the boldest held his breath
For a time—
Shook the flood;
Every Dane looked out that day,
Like the red wolf on his prey,
And he swore his flag to sway
O’er our blood.
England’s tar;
’Twas the love of noble game
Set his oaken heart on flame,
For to him ’twas all the same—
Sport and war.
As they keep;
By their motion light as wings,
By each step that haughty springs,
You might know them for the kings
Of the deep!
Denmark’s line;
As her flag the foremost soared,
Murray stamped his foot on board,
And an hundred cannons roared
At the sign!
Sung huzza!
Then, from centre, rear, and van,
Every captain, every man,
With a lion’s heart began
To the fray.
For each gun
From its adamantine lips
Spread a death-shade round the ships,
Like a hurricane eclipse
Of the sun.
Did not slack;
But the fourth, their signals drear
Of distress and wreck appear,
And the Dane a feeble cheer
Sent us back.
Slowly boom.
They ceased—and all is wail,
As they strike the shattered sail,
Or in conflagration pale
Light the gloom.
Filled our eyes!
But we rescued many a crew
From the waves of scarlet hue,
Ere the cross of England flew
O’er her prize.
O ye brave?
Why bleeds old England’s band,
By the fire of Danish land,
That smites the very hand
Stretched to save?
Denmark’s town;
Proud foes, let vengeance sleep;
If another chain-shot sweep,
All your navy in the deep
Shall go down!
Let us bring!
If you’ll yield your conquered fleet,
With the crews, at England’s feet,
And make submission meet
To our king!
From the day;
And the sun looked smiling bright
On a wide and woful sight,
Where the fires of funeral light
Died away.
And her gore,
Proud Denmark blest our chief
That he gave her wounds relief;
And the sounds of joy and grief
Filled her shore.
Loudly broke;
But a nobler note was rung,
When the British, old and young,
To their bands of music sung
‘Hearts of Oak!’
London town!
When the King shall ride in state
From St. James’s royal gate,
And to all his peers relate
Our renown!
Shall not close,
But a blaze of cities bright
Shall illuminate the night,
And the wine-cup shine in light
As it flows!
And uproar,
Let us think of them that sleep
Full many a fathom deep
All beside thy rocky steep,
Elsinore!
Once so true!
Though death has quenched your flame,
Yet immortal be your name!
For ye died the death of fame
With Riou!
O’er your grave!
While the billow mournful rolls,
And the mermaid’s song condoles,
Singing—“Glory to the souls
Of the brave!”