Copenhagen
Of Nelson and the north,
Sing the day,
When, their haughty powers to vex,
He engaged the Danish decks;
And with twenty floating wrecks
Crowned the fray.
All bright, in April’s sun,
Shone the day,
When a British fleet came down
Through the islands of the Crown,
And by Copenhagen town
Took their stay.
In arms the Danish shore
Proudly shone;
By each gun the lighted brand
In a bold, determined hand,
And the Prince of all the land
Led them on.
For Denmark here had drawn
All her might:
From her battleships so vast
She had hewn away the mast,
And at anchor, to the last
Bade them fight.
Another noble fleet
Of their line
Rode out; but these were nought
To the batteries which they brought
Like Leviathans afloat
In the brine.
It was ten of Thursday morn
By the chime,
As they drifted on their path
There was silence deep as death,
And the boldest held his breath
For a time—
Ere a first and fatal round
Shook the flood.
Every Dane looked out that day,
Like the red wolt on his prey;
And he swore his flag to sway
O’er our blood.
Not such a mind possessed
England’s tar;
’Twas the love of noble game
Set his oaken heart on flame—
For to him ’twas all the same,
Sport and war.
All hands and eyes on watch
As they keep;
By their motion light as wings,
By each step that haughty springs,
You might know them for the kings
Of the deep.
’Twas the Edgar first that smote
Denmark’s line;
As her flag the foremost soared,
Murray stamped his foot on board,
And an hundred cannons roared
At the sign.
Three cheers of all the fleet
Sung Huzza!
Then from centre, rear, and van,
Every captain, every man,
With a lion’s heart began
To the fray.
Oh, dark grew soon the heavens—
For each gun
From its adamantine lips
Spread a death-shade round the ships,
Like a hurricane eclipse
Of the sun.
Three hours the raging fire
Did not slack;
But the fourth, their signals drear
Of distress and wreck appear,
And the Dane a feeble cheer
Sent us back.
The voice decayed; their shots
Slowly boom.
They ceased—and all is wail,
As they strike the shattered sail,
Or in conflagration pale
Light the gloom.
Oh, death—it was a sight
Filled our eyes!
But we rescued many a crew
From the waves of scarlet hue
Ere the Cross of England flew
O’er her prize.
Why cease not here the strife,
O ye brave?
Why bleeds old England’s band
By the fire of Danish land,
That smites the very hand
Stretched to save?
But the Britons sent to warn
Denmark’s town:
‘Proud foes, let vengeance sleep!
If another chain-shot sweep—
All your navy in the deep
Shall go down.
‘Then, peace instead of death
Let us bring!
If you’ll yield your conquered fleet,
With the crews, at England’s feet,
And make submission meet
To our King.’
The Dane returned, a truce
Glad to bring:
He would yield his conquered fleet,
With the crews, at England’s feet,
And make submission meet
To our King.
Then Death withdrew his pall
From the day;
And the sun looked smiling bright
On a wide and woful sight
Where the fires of funeral light
Died away.
Yet, all amidst her wrecks
And her gore,
Proud Denmark blest our chief
That he gave her wounds relief;
And the sounds of joy and grief
Filled her shore.
All round, outlandish cries
Loudly broke;
But a nobler note was rung
When the British, old and young,
To their bands of music sung
‘Hearts of Oak!’
Cheer! cheer! from park and tower,
London town!
When the King shall ride in state
From St. James’s royal gate,
And to all his peers relate
Our renown!
The bells shall ring! the day
Shall not close,
But a blaze of cities bright
Shall illuminate the night,
And the wine-cup shine in light
As it flows.
Yes—yet amid the joy
And uproar,
Let us think of them that sleep
Full many a fathom deep,
All beside thy rocky steep,
Elsinore!
Brave hearts, to Britain’s weal
Once so true!
Though death has quenched your flame,
Yet immortal be your name!
For ye died the death of fame
With Riou.
Soft sigh the winds of Heaven
O’er your grave!
While the billow mournful rolls
And the mermaid’s song condoles,
Singing—glory to the souls
Of the brave.