An angry brook, it sweeps the glade, And, foaming brown with doubled speed, No longer Autumn's glowing red No more, beneath the evening beam, And far beneath their summer hill, My imps, though hardy, bold, and wild, As best befits the mountain child, Feel the sad influence of the hour, And wail the daisy's vanished flower; Their summer gambols tell, and mourn, And anxious ask,-Will spring return, And birds and lambs again be gay, And blossoms clothe the hawthorn spray? Yes, prattlers, yes. The daisy's flower Again shall paint your summer bower ; Again the hawthorn shall supply To mute and to material things New life revolving summer brings ; The genial call dead Nature hears, And in her glory re-appears. But Oh! my country's wintry state What second spring shall renovate? What powerful call shall bid arise The buried warlike, and the wise? The mind, that thought for Britain's weal, The hand, that grasped the victor steel? The vernal sun new life bestows Even on the meanest flower that blows; But vainly, vainly, may he shine, Where Glory weeps o'er NELSON's shrine; That shrouds, O PITT, thy hallowed tomb! Deep graved in every British heart, Short, bright, resistless course was given; Till burst the bolt on yonder shore, Nor mourn ye less his perished worth, Who bade the conqueror go forth, And launched that thunderbolt of war a On Egypt, Hafnia, Trafalgar; 2 * Copenhagen. Who, born to guide such high emprize, And brought the freeman's arm to aid the freeman's laws. Had'st thou but lived, though stripp'd of power, A watchman on the lonely tower, Thy thrilling trump had roused the land, When fraud or danger were at hand ; |