O generous Ali! while thy fate inspires
Indignant pity, with a patriot's fires,
I mourn for Egypt, and with equal zeal,
For her, for thee, and ruin'd science feel:
Admire the confidence my heart deplores
And blame the weakness it almost adores!

Pride of thy race! before my mental eyes,
I see thee, like another Alfred rise;
See honour splendent on thy ample brow,
While Thought and Genius fill the orbs below;
Those beaming orbs! where lofty sweetness shone,
And where the soul sate smiling on her throne:
Depriv'd too soon of that benignant ray,
Which impious Dahab shudder'd to survey.
Pale, bleeding, conquer'd, dying, and forlorn,
I see thee view the wretch with silent scorn!
See thy cheek flush at the false tears he shed,
And proudly turn away the languid head,
With mingled anger, sorrow, and disdain,
That he should dare to tempt thy love again!

Oh! yet within the tent I see thee lie,
The victor, like a coward, crouching by;
O'erawed, rebuked, and humbled in the hour,
The plenitude of his success and power!
A pain the guilty never make us know,
In all the miseries they cause below;
A pain which they in every triumph feel,
A humbling sense no glory yet could heal,
The want of conscious worth, the poignant thought,
That inwardly sets all pretence at naught!
That curbs all self-applause—tears all disguise—
When the subdued, the ruin'd can despise;
And, in the arms of death, can yet be free,
To say, "Let me be any thing but thee!"

Ambition! while thy zeal the good inflame,
And make a noble nature sigh for fame,
We deem thee of a more than royal line,
For self-devotion tendeth to divine!
But when, like Dahab's demon, selfish, vain,
It loosens Gratitude's mysterious chain;
When broken Faith aloud, but vainly calls;
When the warm friend, the king, the brother falls;
Instead of honours, and a conqueror's fame,
Hatred shall haunt, and curses brand thy name!

While others, from the Greek and Roman page,
Declare the prudent councils of the sage;
Or, in recital of achievements bold,
Retrace the motives and the deeds of old,
I, in the accents of my native clime,
And, at the moment, shaking hands with Time,
I, whom our recent loss forbids to roam,
Shall plant my mourning standard nearer home!
At the sad shrine where gallant Nelson sleeps,
Where Britain bends her lofty head and weeps,
Deeply lamenting that she cannot prove,
The fond excess of dearly purchas'd love.

Is there a callous mind, that does not feel
An anxious interest in the public weal!
Is there a heart that pities not the brave!
To whom luxuriant laurels hide the grave!
A grief unwing'd, yet unconsol'd by pride!
A tongue that said not, when our hero died,
While bitter tears that glorious loss deplore,
The man who lov'd his country is no more?
No! in each eye the glowing trophies fade;
Each sign of triumph seems a vain parade!
The aching sigh to conquering shouts succeeds,
And Victory assumes a widow's weeds.

Some wily chieftain, building up a name,
May fight for immortality and fame;
Time may embalm his valour, or his art,
And History shew the coldness of a heart,
Which, emulous of grandeur and a throne,
Acts for itself, "its own low self" alone;
And, in the inner chambers of the mind,
Broods over plans to subjugate mankind:
There fondly bends each nation to his sway,
That he may rule, and all beside obey.
Haply the mighty fabric may arise,
Vast in its bulk, and aiming at the skies,
Till Wisdom, viewing the enormous pile,
Admires the madness of a man the while,
Who labours with incessant toil and skill;
To feed Ambition, discontented still;
And for that serpent in his bosom curl'd,
Erects a temple fit to hold the world!

Though such a chief a deathless wreath may crown,
Though he may win a sterile, hard renown,
His name shall ne'er a sudden glow impart,
Nor make the tear of admiration start;
Ne'er in his plaudits shall warm blessings join!
None cry, "The triumph of that man is mine!"
But, when his greatness crumbles in the dust,
Coldly exclaim, "Lo! Providence is just!"
Far different is the patriot warrior's lot!
He may in Time's long journey be forgot;
Though many generations shall decay,
Ere England's love to Nelson wears away!
But if at length successive years should cast
The mist of distance upon ages past,
And fathers what themselves have witness'd tell,
Of those who yet shall serve their country well—
Memory and Knowledge shall dispel the gloom,
And shed strong light on every honour'd tomb—
To lift the spirit when our courage fail,
When worth departed, future ages hail!

And ye, compeers, who in the classic page,
Do homage to the hero and the sage,
Whose hearts at base and cruel actions bleed,
But rise triumphant at a noble deed—
Forbear from Duty's anxious side to stray,
But follow bravely when she leads the way;
Follow with head and heart, as Nelson fought;
Be vigilant like him in act and thought;
Then, as the lark mounts upwards in the skies,
Early in life's fair morning will you rise,
Expand bold pinions nearest to the sun,
And claim the meed of glory fairly won.

O ancient warrior! as we hail thee,

And behold thy cordial smile,

We hope that greetings ne'er may fail thee,

Such as those of Britain's isle.

They are, although so seeming rude,

Given only where we think them due;

Most courteous, e'en when they intrude,

Too vehement, but always true!

Applauses which no art can fashion,

Which speak the feelings and no more;

Which give respect the glow of passion,

When worth and valour we adore;

Blest is the hero in receiving!

And pride may scoff at, or despise,

What if but once sincere believing,

Is grateful to the good and wise.

In the first dawn of youth I much admire
The lively boy of ruddy countenance,
Strong-built, and bold, and hardy, with black hair,
And dark brown eye, contrasting its blue-white,
Somewhat abruptly; save in the bright hour
Of inward passion, or of sudden joy;
When, as a monarch, gracious and renown'd,
Amid a crowd of subjects, diverse all,
Thrills with one deep, soft feeling every heart;
Or, as the sun throws his pervading beams
At once on bleak harsh mountains