He’s pining for his native seas,
And for his native shore:
All but his honour he would give,
To be at home once more.
He does not know his children’s face,
His wife might pass him by,
He is so altered—did they meet,
With an unconscious eye:
He has been many years at sea,
He’s worn with wind and wave:
He asks a little breathing space,
Between it and his grave:
He feels his breath come heavily,
His keen eye faint and dim;
It was a weary sacrifice,
That England asked of him.
He never saw his home again—
The deep voice of the gun,
The lowering of his battle-flag,
Told when his life was done.
His sailors walked the deck, and wept;
Around them howled the gale;
And far away two orphans knelt,
A widow’s cheek grew pale.
Amid the many names that light
Our history’s blazoned line,
I know not one, brave Collingwood,
That touches me like thine.
There is a brief but most affecting memoir of Lord Collingwood, in Fisher’s National Portrait Gallery. Feeling every hour his health failing him, he repeatedly petitioned to be recalled—his services were too valuable, and he died in his "high command." I know nothing more touching than the affectionate regrets he expresses in his letters to his children, that they are growing up in ignorance of their father.
LONDON: FISHER, SON, AND CO., PRINTERS.
