Slave of the mine! thy yellow light
Gleams baleful as the tomb-fire drear—
A gentle vision comes by night
My lonely widow'd heart to cheer;
Her eyes are dim with many a tear.
That once wer& guiding stars to mine:
Her fond heart throbs with many a fear—
I cannot bear to see thee shine.
For thee, for thee, vile yellow slave,
I left a heart that lov'd me true I
I cross'd the tedious ocean-wave,
To roam in climes unkind and new.
The cold wind of the stranger blew
Chill on my wither'd heart:—the grave
Dark and untimely met my view—
And all for thee, vile yellow slave!
Ha! com'st thou now so late to mock
A wanderer's banish'd heart forlorn,
Now that his frame the lightning shock
Of sun-rays tipt with death has borne?
From love, from friendship, country, torn,
To memory's fond regrets the prey,
Vile slave, thy yellow dross I scorn—
Go, mix thee with thy kindred clay!
The Battle of Assaye.
Written in 1803.
Shout, Britons, for the battle of Assaye!
For that was a day
When we stood in our array.
Like the lion's might at bay.
And our battle-word was "Conquer or die."
