Or, as the day returns again,
Might midnight choak its ray!
Britannia's troops in vain
Oppos'd the rebel-host,
And fled inglorious o'er the plain,
Their courage wither'd, and their standards lost.
Muse, paint the doleful scene
With sighs and tears between;
For sighs and tears shall rise
From every British heart, and gush from all our eyes:
Swift on the British van
The yelling furies ran,
Like the wild ocean that has rent
Its shores, and roars along the Continent;'
Or the wing'd lightning's livid glare
Darting along the immeasur'd fields of air.
Confounded at the shock,
The yielding squadrons broke:
And now, for hell inspir'd the throng,
The gloomy murderers rush'd along;
And fierce the steely blade
Its horrid circles play'd,
Till hideous cries,
Batter'd limbs,
Bloody streams,
And universal rout deform'd the ground,
Laid waste the British strength, and the wide. Champaign drowned.
"Come on, come on," mad Elcho cries,
And for his murders thanks the skies,
(While the Italian from afar,
Too soft a soul to mix in war,
Enjoying all the guilt, beheld
His bloody harpies tear the field,)
"Ply, ply the thirsty steel,
"Round the full vengeance wheel;
"Each heretic must yield his breath,
"That for the Hanoverian brood
"Or lifts a sword,
"Or speaks a word;
"Come, gorge your souls with death,
"And drown your steps in blood :
"Think, think what blissful periods roll behind, "Let London's mighty plunder fill your mind, "When boundless wealth shall be with boundless empire join'd."
Gardiner, with mind elate
Above the rage of fate,
His country's bulwark stood
'Midst broken lines of death, and rising waves of blood. His soul disdains retreat,
Though urg'd by foul defeat ;
Now to his scattering friends he calls,
To wheel again and charge the foe;
Now hurls the wide destroying balls,
Now deals the vengeful blow.
Forsaken and alone,
And torn with gashing wounds,
He hears the treasonous shout, he hears the loyal groan;
But nought the purpose of his soul confounds:
And still with new delight
He tempts the midnight fight,
Propp'd on his sacred cause, and courage of his own.
The embattled ranks of foot he spies
Without a leading chief,
And, like a shooting ray, he flies
To lend his brave relief.
Here the broad weapon's forceful sway,
Swung with tempestuous hand,
Plough'd through his flesh its furious way,
And stretch'd him on the strand.
Weltering in gore with fiery fiends beset,
The dying Gardiner lies;
No gentle hand to wipe the mortal sweat,
And close his swimming eyes.
The unrelenting crew
The hero disarray'd;
But struck at his majestic view,
Their souls were half dismay'd:
And, had not hell instamp'd his hate,
Their stony eye-balls o'er his fate
Had stream'd with human woe; for, heavenly mild, He o'er their fiend-like forms the Christian pardon smil'd.
But not a tear must bathe, or garment shield
His mangled limbs from sight,
Down-trodden in the fight:
While his fair mansion, that o'er tops the field, The naked murder sees, and trembles from its height. Still the departing flame of life
Play'd quivering in a doubtful strife;
Till, such his faithful servant's care,
(May heaven's distinguish'd goodness crown
The goodness to his master shewn!)
The wheels slow moving, from the scenes of war,
To Tranent bore the expiring chief,
In sullen sounds remurmuring to his grief.
Urania, mark the melancholy road,
And with thy tears efface the scattering blood;
Nor stop, till on the late reposing bed
(Oh! rather 'tis the funeral bier!)
You see the hero's pallid body spread,
And his last anguish hear.
Half-choak'd with clotted gore,
He draws the hollow moan;
Flitting his pulse, and fix'd his eyes,
All pale and motionless he lies,
And seems to breathe no more.
Oh! that's the life-dissolving groan:
Farewel, dear man! for in that pang, thy mind
Soars to its God, and leaves the clog behind.
Gardiner is dead!-The bloody trump of fame
Proclaim'd the mighty death;
In every look the posting rumour came,
And flew on every breath.
The widow'd partner of his life
The doleful tidings hears,
And, silent in stupendous grief,
Her eyes refuse their tears:
Oppress'd beneath the immeasurable weight,
Her spirit faints away,
As, sympathetic with the hero's fate,
It meant to quit its clay.
The pledges of his love
Their filial duty prove,
And each with tender hands uprears,
With hands all cover'd o'er in tears,
Their mother's sinking head;
And groan resounds to groan,
For oh! the best of husbands gone,
The best of Fathers dead!
But Gardiner's death is more than private woe;
Wide and more wide the increasing sorrows run,
O'er British lands unlimited they go,
And fly across the seas, and travel with the sun.
Religion, that from heaven had bow'd
To watch the scale of fight,
When holy Gardiner fell,
Who lov'd, and who adorn'd her cause so well,
Retir'd behind behind a crimson cloud,
Nor could sustain the sight.
Britannia, where she sate
Upon the sea beat shore
To eye the battle's fate,
Her silver mantle tore :
Then thus, her blushing honours wann'd,
Her sceptre quivering in her hand,
Her laurels wither'd, and her head declin'd,
Ten thousand terrors boding in her mind,
She to the deep in bitter wailings griev'd,
While her fall'n helm the trickling drops receiv'd:
"What havoc of my martial force
"Has this sad morn beheld,
"Torn, gash'd, and heap'd without remorse
"Upon the naked field?
"But Gardiner's death afflicts me most, "Than whom a chief I could not boast "More faithful, vigilant and brave; "And should across his grave "An hetacomb of Highland-Brutes be slain, "They could not recompense his injur'd ghost, "Nor fully quench my rage, and wipe away my stain.”
But see, in splendid state
Cherubic convoys come,
And waft the hero from his fate
To his celestial home.
Now, now he sails along,
Encircled with their throng,
The throng, that clap their mantling wings,
And to loud triumphs strike their strings,
Through liquid seas of day
Ploughing the azure way,
Till to the starry towers the squadrons rise.
The starry towers, thick sown with pearl and gold,
Their adamantine leaves unfold,
And shew the entrance to the empyreal skies :
Through them our hero mark'd his road,
And through the wheeling ranks of heaven
An unobstructed path was given,
Till he attain'd the eternal throne of God;
A throne array'd in uncreated beams,
And from its footstool rolling blissful streams.
Well hast thou done, the Almighty Father spoke ;
Well hast thou done, the exalted Jesus cry'd;
Well hast thou done, all heaven the Euge took,
The saints and angels in their songs reply'd.
And now a robe of spotless white,
But where the Saviour's flowing vein
Had blush'd it with a sanguine stain,
Invests him round: In various light
(For such was the divine command,)
Refulgent on his brows a crown was plac'd ;
And a triumphal palm his better hand
With golden blossoms grac❜d.
Nigh to the seat of bliss
His mansion was assign'd;
Sorrow and sin forsook his breast,
His weary soul was now at rest,
And life, and love, and ecstasies
Unbound his secret powers, and overflow'd his mind.
Nor has thy life, heroic man, been spilt
Without a wrath proportion'd to the guilt:
Enkindled by the cries that rose
From thy dear sacred blood, with those
That shriek'd for vengeance from the brave Munroes,
Who fell a martyr'd sacrifice
To cool inhuman butcheries,
Heaven sends its angel righteously severe,
And from the foe exacts the last arrear.
For when the barbarous bands,
Thick as the swarms that blackened Egypt's strands,
|