AND on the wave, Columbia’s hardy band, | |
| Who’ve shed such glory round our native land; | |
| Who’ve borne her banner through the storms of war, | |
| Undimm’d, unsullied, to each foreign shore; | |
| Before the lustre of whose starry light | 5 |
| Britannia’s lion fled approach of fight; | |
| That band now mourns o’er many a spirit brave, | |
| By fell disease hurl’d to an early grave. | |
| Their duty call’d them from the charms of home, | |
| Against the ruffians on the wave to roam: | 10 |
| At length returning towards their native sky, | |
| Hope in each heart, and pleasure in each eye, | |
| The yellow demon seal’d their timeless doom; | |
| They reach’d their country—but to find a tomb! | |
| |
| But, Allen, thou! O! at thy honour’d name, | 15 |
| The muse, indignant, mounts on wings of flame! | |
| So young, so brave—so vainly brave! to fall | |
| By the foul fiends who war alike on all! | |
| Who youth, nor age, nor sex, nor beauty save, | |
| Mock at their plaints, and plunge them in the wave! | 20 |
| The helpless babe and shrieking mother feel | |
| Alike the keenness of the murderous steel! | |
| Or, when they spare, ’tis with intent so base, | |
| Their death were better than the deep disgrace. | |
| |
| Spirit of vengeance! wherefore dost thou sleep? | 25 |
| Arise! and scourge these hell-hounds from the deep! | |
| From the far grave where murder’d Allen lies, | |
| Revenge! revenge! his shade incessant cries. | |
| |
| The breeze was fair that bore him on his way; | |
| “And hope was o’er him with her angel lay:” | 30 |
| The moon was up; and o’er the heaving main | |
| Beam’d sweetly down from heaven’s unclouded plain; | |
| And while his bark swift cleaved the sparkling tide, | |
| His thoughts were wandering by the Hudson’s side; | |
| His distant home in memory’s softest hue, | 35 |
| His mother—sisters—rise to fancy’s view; | |
| His heart beats high; “Thou’lt meet them soon again!” | |
| ’Twas thus hope sung; but, ah! how false the strain! | |
| |
| He hears of outrage done by ruffian hordes, | |
| Whose savage hearts are harder than their swords. | 40 |
| At suffering’s cry he ne’er was known to wave; | |
| His hand was ready, and his soul was brave! | |
| He meets the foe; he conquers!—O, the rest!— | |
| The fatal bullet lodges in his breast; | |
| He falls! as crimson life gush’d out, he cried, | 45 |
| “Tell them I bravely fought, and bravely died.” | |
| |
| Mother of Allen! weep not for your son! | |
| His race was glorious, but too soon ’twas run! | |
| Yet weep not! Vengeance sleeps, she is not dead; | |
| She yet will thunder on his murderer’s head. | 50 |
| Sisters of Allen! dry your tearful eyes; | |
| The hero’s soul hath flown to yonder skies; | |
| And long his name, in memory’s holiest shrine, | |
| Will wear the wreath which matchless virtues twine! | |
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