Deem our nation brutes no longer, Slaves of gold! whose sordid dealings Ere you proudly question ours. W. Couper. CLXXXVI. LOSS OF THE ROYAL George. TOLL for the brave! the brave that are no more! All sunk beneath the wave, fast by their native shore! Toll for the brave! Brave Kempenfelt is gone; Weigh the vessel up, once dreaded by our foes, And mingle with our cup the tear that England owes ! Her timbers yet are sound, and she may float again, Full charged with England's thunder, and plow the distant main. But Kempenfelt is gone, his victories are o'er; And he and his eight hundred shall plow the waves no more. Where rumor of oppression and deceit, Might never reach me more. My ear is pained, My soul is sick, with every day's report Of wrong and outrage, with which earth is filled. There is no flesh in man's obdurate heart; It does not feel for man: the natural bond Of brotherhood is severed as the flax He finds his fellow guilty of a skin Not colored like his own; and having power I had much rather be myself the slave, Slaves cannot breathe in England; if their lungs Receive our air, that moment they are free; Of all your empire; that, where Britain's power I loathe ye in my bosom, I scorn ye with my eye, And I'll taunt ye with my latest breath, I ne'er will ask ye quarter, And I ne'er will be your slave; Till I sink beneath the wave! G. W. Patten XIX. THE THREE BEATS. ROLL-roll!-How gladly swell the distant notes From where, on high, yon starry pennon floats! With plumes low-stooping, on their winding way, say?" "We beat the gathering drum; "Tis this which gives to mirth a lighter tone, To the young soldier's cheek a deeper glow, When stretched upon his grassy couch, alone, It steals upon his ear, this martial call Prompts him to dreams of gorgeous war, with all Its pageantry and show!" "What is it that ye beat?" "We sound the charge! On with the courser fleet!— Where 'mid the columns, red war's eagles fly, We swear to do or die! "Tis this which feeds the fires of Fame with breath, Which steels the soldier's heart to deeds of death; And when his hand, Fatigued with slaughter, pauses o'er the slain, 'Tis this which prompts him madly once again To seize the bloody brand!" |