SONG. THE DEFEAT. ____ FROM hill to hill the bugles sound The soul-arousing strain; The war-bred coursers paw the
ground, And foaming champ the rein; Their steel-clad riders bound
on high, A bold defensive host, With valour fir’d, away they
fly, Like light’ning, to the coast. And now they view the
wide-spread lines Of the invading foe; Now skill with British brav’ry
joins, To strike one final blow; Now on they rush with giant
stroke-- Ten thousand victims bleed-- They trample on the iron yoke, Which France for us decreed. Now view the trembling
vanquish’d crew, Kneel o'er their prostrate arms, Implore respite of vengeance,
due For all these dire alarms. Now, while humanity’s warm
glow, Half-weeps the guilty slain, Let conquest gladen ev’ry brow, And god-like mercy reign. Thus fancy paints that awful
day.-- Yes, dreadful should it come! But Britain’s sons in stern
array, Shall brave its darkest gloom. Who fights, his native rights
to save, His worth shall have its claim, The bard will consecrate his
grave, And give his name to fame. |