Yes! he who struck a matchless lyre
O'er Flodden's field and Katrine's wave,
With trembling hand now leads the choir
That mourns his Leyden's early grave.
Song at an Anniversary Dinner in celebration of the Battle of Assaye.
As Britannia, elate was triumphantly viewing
The deeds of her sons in the bright page of Fame,
And Memory's magic each joy was renewing,
As she paus'd on the glories of Wellington's name;
To far distant scenes her proud fancy had stray'd.
Where her hero so often victorious had been.
When sudden a Maid, in splendour array'd.
Like a vision of rapture illumined the scene:
'Twas the Genius of Asia, fair land of the Sun—
"To me," She exclaim'd, "you your Wellington owe:
"'Neath my fostering clime his proud race he begun,
"And matur'd was his fame by its cherishing glow:
"In the morn of his life all resplendent he rose,
"Like the sun which illumines my region's clear sky:
"Dispers'd are his foes, and victory throws
"Unperishing rays o'er the field of Assaye.
"But think not, Britannia! thy children alone
"Have my kingdoms subdued, and my subjects laid low;
"By my own turban'd sons the proud deed has been done,
"I myself," said the Maid, "have inflicted the blow.
"To anarchy's horrors my realms were a prey,
"When first on my shores thou thy banners unfurl'd;
"I welcom'd thy sway—'twas the morn of a day
"Bringing freedom, and knowledge, to light a dark world.
