Cease, every joy, to glimmer on my mind, But leave-oh leave the light of Hope behind.
The patriot's blood is the seed of Freedom's tree
And muse on Nature with a poet's eye.
'Tis distance lends enchantment to the view, and robes the mountain in its azure hue
Another's sword has laid him low, <br/>Another's and another's;<br/>And every hand that dealt the blow,<br/>Ah me! it was his brother's!
While memory watches o'er the sad review<br/>Of joys that faded like the morning dew.
Our bugles sang truce - for the night-cloud had lowered, / And the sentinel stars set their watch in the sky.
The proud, the cold untroubled heart of stone, / That never mused on sorrow but its own.
The combat deepens. On, ye brave, / Who rush to glory, or the grave! / Wave, Munich! all thy banners wave, / And charge with all thy chivalry!
To live in hearts we leave behind is not to die.
Tis the sunset of life gives me mystical lore, And coming events cast their shadows before.
Who hath not owned, with rapture-smitten frame, The power of grace, the magic of a name?
There was silence deep as death, And the boldest held his breath, For a time.
O star-eyed Science! hast thou wandered there, To waft us home the message of despair?
Britannia needs no bulwarks, No towers along the steep; Her march is o'er the mountain waves, Her home is on the deep.
But sad as angels for the good man's sin, Weep to record, and blush to give it in.
The meteor flag of England Shall yet terrific burn, Till danger's troubled night depart, And the star of peace return.
There shall he love when genial morn appears, Like pensive Beauty smiling in her tears.
O Love! in such a wilderness as this.
Ye are brothers, ye are men, and we conquer but to save.
Oh, how hard it is to find The one just suited to our mind!
Melt and dispel, ye spectre-doubts, that roll Cimmerian darkness o'er the parting soul!
Our bugles sang truce, for the night-cloud had lower'd, And the sentinel stars set their watch in the sky; And thousands had sunk on the ground overpower'd, The weary to sleep, and the wounded to die.
To bear is to conquer our fate.
Ye mariners of England, That guard our native seas; Whose flag has braved, a thousand years, The battle and the breeze!