The laurel twined with cypress hung,
Still shall it live while Britons breathe.

What though, when thou wert lowly laid,
Instead of all the pomp of woe,
The volley o'er thy bloody bed
Was thunder'd by an envious foe:--

Inspired by it in after time,
A race of heroes will appear,
The glory of Britannia's clime,
To emulate thy bright career.

And there will be, of martial fire,
Those who all danger will endure;
Their first, best aim, but to aspire
To die thy death--the death of Moore.

To return. On the evening of the second day, we were off Falmouth, and
then got a slant of wind that enabled us to lie our course.

Next morning, at daybreak, saw a frigate in the northeast quarter, making
signals;--soon after we bore up. Bay of Biscay--tremendous swell--Cape
Finisterre--blockading squadron off Cadiz--in--shore squadron--and so on,
all trifle and no plums.

At length the Kraaken, in which I had now served for some time, was
ordered home, and sick of knocking about in a fleet, I got appointed to a
fine eighteen--gun sloop, the Torch, in which we sailed on such a day for
the North Sea--wind foul--weather thick and squally; but towards evening