NELSONI MORS.

Yet once again, my Harp, yet once again

One ditty more, and on the mountain ash

I will again suspend thee. I have felt

The warm tear frequent on my cheek, since last,

At eventide, when all the winds were hush'd,

I woke to thee the melancholy song.

Since then with Thoughtfulness, a maid severe,

I've journey'd, and have learn'd to shape the freaks

Of frolic fancy to the line of truth;

Not unrepining, for my froward heart

Stills turns to thee, mine Harp, and to the flow

Of spring-gales past — the woods and storied haunts

Of my not songless boyhood.— Yet once more,

Not fearless, I will wake thy tremulous tones,

My long-neglected Harp. He must not sink;

The good, the brave — he must not, shall not sink

Without the meed of some melodious tear.

Though from the Muse's chalice I may pour

No precious dews of Aganippe's well,

Or Castaly,— though from the morning cloud

I fetch no hues to scatter on his hearse:

Yet will I wreathe a garland for his brows,

Of simple flowers, such as the hedge-rows scent

Of Britain, my loved country; and with tears

Most eloquent, yet silent, I will bathe

Thy honour'd corse, my Nelson, tears as warm

And honest as the ebbing blood that flow'd

Fast from thy honest heart. Thou, Pity, too,

If ever I have loved, with faltering step,

To follow thee in the cold and starless night,

To the top-crag of some rain-beaten cliff;

And, as I heard the deep gun bursting loud

Amid the pauses of the storm, have pour'd

Wild strains, and mournful, to the hurrying winds,

The dying soul's viaticum; if oft

Amid the carnage of the field I've sate

With thee upon the moonlight throne, and sung

To cheer the fainting soldier's dying soul,

With mercy and forgiveness — visitant

Of Heaven — sit thou upon my harp,

And give it feeling, which were else too cold

For argument so great, for theme so high.

How dimly on that morn the sun arose,

‘ Kerchief'd in mists, and tearful, when —