As deepest floods, in silent caverns sleep.

But who are they to whose exalted name,
He turns for friendship in his fall's deep shame?
What flattered enemy may gladly prove,
A fallen Hater yet may know her love?
Britannia! in this latest deep distress,
Napoleon's fate thou now mayest surely bless,
Attest thy greatness to a fallen foe,
And make thy fame sublime o'er all below.

Lo! on yon dreary isle, yon desolate rock,
That quails beneath old ocean's ceaseless shock--
Where flaming suns and sudden ruins combine,
Fo waste and wreck the human form divine--
Where man cut off from all most dear to man,
Makes hopeless exile, happy if he can:--
Then say; Britannia! that thy nobleness
Deigns thy asylum to thy foe's distress?
Say, this the Glory which thou lov'st to boast,
O'er meaner dwellers of each neighboring coast?

Contracted nation! thy contracted home,
A sterile rock round which the billows foam!
How well consorts it with thy dwarfish soul,
That owns no noble feeling's high control.

What glorious record holds the past of thee,
What single page from foul disgrace is free;
Bend, weeping Mary, Scotland's lovely Queen,