The Defeat

From hill to hill the bugles sound The soul-arousing strain, The war-bred coursers paw the ground, And, foaming, champ the rein: Their steel-clad riders bound on high, A bold defensive host, With valour fir'd, away they fly, Like light'ning, to the coast. And now they view the wide-spread lines Of the invading foe, Now skill with British brav'ry joins, To strike one final blow: Now on they rush with giant stroke-- Ten thousand victims bleed-- They trample on the iron yoke Which France for us decreed. Now view the trembling vanquish'd crew Kneel o'er their prostrate arms; Implore respite of vengeance due For all these dire alarms: Now, while Humanity's warm glow, Half weeps the guilty slain, Let conquest gladden every brow, And god-like Mercy reign. Thus Fancy paints that awful day- Yes, dreadful, should it come! But Britain's sons, in stern array, Shall brave its darkest gloom. Who fights his native rights to save, His worth shall have its claim; The bard will consecrate his grave, And give his name to fame.