elegiac ode.
115
Recals those times when stories say,
That Britons never lost the day:
Yet on La Plata's shore
Wild Triumph lifts her echoing shouts no more!
But Silence with portentous form,
Points to the relics of the storm,
Where Victory hangs her wreathed head
In sadness o'er the glorious dead,
And exultation's feverous glow
Freezes in every generous breast,
Since he, the bravest and the best,
Pride of his country's youth! is laid thus early low.
That Britons never lost the day:
Yet on La Plata's shore
Wild Triumph lifts her echoing shouts no more!
But Silence with portentous form,
Points to the relics of the storm,
Where Victory hangs her wreathed head
In sadness o'er the glorious dead,
And exultation's feverous glow
Freezes in every generous breast,
Since he, the bravest and the best,
Pride of his country's youth! is laid thus early low.
'Tis o'er! for now the funeral knell
Comes on the gale with sullen swell!
The martial drum, so wont to cheer
The hero in his bright career,
With deaden'd stroke saddens the ear!
Comes on the gale with sullen swell!
The martial drum, so wont to cheer
The hero in his bright career,
With deaden'd stroke saddens the ear!
