Rush on his thought; he sweeps before the wind,

Treads the lov'd shore he sigh'd to leave behind;

Meets at each step a friend's familiar face,

And flies at last to Helen's long embrace;
Wipes from her check the rapture-speaking tear,
And clasps, with many a sigh, his children dear!
While, long neglected, but at length caress'd,
His faithful dog salutes the smiling guest,
Points to the master's eyes (where'er they roam)

His wistful face, and whines a welcome home.

Friend of the brave! in peril's darkest hour, Intrepid virtue looks to thee for power; To thee the heart its trembling homage yields, On stormy floods, and carnage-cover'd fields,

When front to front the banner'd hosts combine,

Halt ere they close, and form the dreadful line.

When all is still on Death's devoted soil,

The march-worn soldier mingles for the toil;
As rings his glitt'ring tube, he lifts on high
The dauntless brow, and spirit-speaking eye,
Hails in his heart the triumph yet to come,

And hears thy stormy music in the drum!

And such thy strength-inspiring aid that bore The hardy Byron to his native shore-a

In horrid climes, where Chiloe's tempests sweep Tumultuous murmurs o'er the troubled deep,

'Twas his to mourn Misfortune's rudest shock, Scourg'd by the winds, and cradled on the rock,

To wake each joyless morn, and search again

The famish'd haunts of solitary men;