Or mark'st the Matron's bursting tears XXI. Period of honour as of woes, Mark'd on thy roll of blood what names For laurels from the hand of Death- own! XXII. Forgive, brave Dead, the imperfect lay! Who may your names, your numbers, say? What high-strung harp, what lofty line, To each the dear-earn'd praise assign, Till time shall cease to run; Who fought with Wellington! XXIII. Farewell, sad Field! whose blighted face And Blenheim's name be new; CONCLUSION. Stern tide of human Time! that know'st not rest, But, sweeping from the cradle to the tomb, Bear'st ever downward on thy dusky breast Successive generations to their doom; While thy capacious stream has equal room For the gay bark where Pleasure's streamers sport, And for the prison-ship of guilt and gloom, The fisher-skiff, and barge that bears a court, Still wafting onward all to one dark silent port ; Sterr. tide of Time! through what mysterious change Such fearful strife as that where we have striven, Until the awful term when Thou shalt cease to flow. Well hast thou stood, my Country !—the brave fight Well art thou now repaid-though slowly rose, And wash'd in foemen's gore unjust reproach away. Now, Island Empress, wave thy crest on high, Yet 'mid the confidence of just renown, The discipline so dreaded and admired, In many a field of bloody conquest known; -Such may by fame be lured, by gold be hired'Tis constancy in the good cause alone, Best justifies the meed thy valiant sons have won. |