The works of Mrs. Hemans With a memoir of her life, by her sister. In seven volumes |
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| II. |
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| IV. |
 | V. |
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ENGLAND'S DEAD. |
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| VI. |
| VII. |
 | The works of Mrs. Hemans |  |
ENGLAND'S DEAD.
Son of the ocean isle!
Where sleep your mighty dead?
Show me what high and stately pile
Is rear'd o'er Glory's bed.
Where sleep your mighty dead?
Show me what high and stately pile
Is rear'd o'er Glory's bed.
Go, stranger! track the deep,
Free, free the white sail spread!
Wave may not foam, nor wild wind sweep,
Where rest not England's dead.
Free, free the white sail spread!
Wave may not foam, nor wild wind sweep,
Where rest not England's dead.
On Egypt's burning plains,
By the pyramid o'ersway'd,
With fearful power the noonday reigns,
And the palm-trees yield no shade.
By the pyramid o'ersway'd,
With fearful power the noonday reigns,
And the palm-trees yield no shade.
But let the angry sun
From heaven look fiercely red,
Unfelt by those whose task is done!—
There slumber England's dead.
From heaven look fiercely red,
128
There slumber England's dead.
The hurricane hath might
Along the Indian shore,
And far by Ganges' banks at night,
Is heard the tiger's roar.
Along the Indian shore,
And far by Ganges' banks at night,
Is heard the tiger's roar.
But let the sound roll on!
It hath no tone of dread,
For those that from their toils are gone;—
There slumber England's dead.
It hath no tone of dread,
For those that from their toils are gone;—
There slumber England's dead.
Loud rush the torrent-floods
The western wilds among,
And free, in green Columbia's woods,
The hunter's bow is strung.
The western wilds among,
And free, in green Columbia's woods,
The hunter's bow is strung.
But let the floods rush on!
Let the arrow's flight be sped!
Why should they reck whose task is done?—
There slumber England's dead!
Let the arrow's flight be sped!
Why should they reck whose task is done?—
There slumber England's dead!
The mountain-storms rise high
In the snowy Pyrenees,
And toss the pine-boughs through the sky,
Like rose-leaves on the breeze.
In the snowy Pyrenees,
And toss the pine-boughs through the sky,
Like rose-leaves on the breeze.
But let the storm rage on!
Let the fresh wreaths be shed!
For the Roncesvalles' field is won,—
There slumber England's dead.
Let the fresh wreaths be shed!
For the Roncesvalles' field is won,—
There slumber England's dead.
129
On the frozen deep's repose
'Tis a dark and dreadful hour,
When round the ship the ice-fields close,
And the northern night-clouds lower.
'Tis a dark and dreadful hour,
When round the ship the ice-fields close,
And the northern night-clouds lower.
But let the ice drift on!
Let the cold-blue desert spread!
Their course with mast and flag is done,—
Even there sleep England's dead.
Let the cold-blue desert spread!
Their course with mast and flag is done,—
Even there sleep England's dead.
The warlike of the isles,
The men of field and wave!
Are not the rocks their funeral piles,
The seas and shores their grave?
The men of field and wave!
Are not the rocks their funeral piles,
The seas and shores their grave?
Go, stranger! track the deep,
Free, free the white sail spread!
Wave may not foam, nor wild wind sweep,
Where rest not England's dead.
Free, free the white sail spread!
Wave may not foam, nor wild wind sweep,
Where rest not England's dead.
| The works of Mrs. Hemans | |