V. · Section 4

V.

As Gordon, great in arms, whose glorious name Was ever foremost of the sons of Fame, (With that bright warmth of love and friendly fire, Which only godlike Wellesley can inspire;) 70 Besought his chief, who mingled with the strife, Of danger heedless, to regard his life, A ball, fast hissing on the airy tide, Stretched the brave soldier by his leader’s side. And glorious Canning, ere the shades of death Had numb’d his arm, or stopt his fleeting breath, Rais’d up his eyes to heav’n, and faintly cried, “Ah, bless my chief”--and in that blessing died! The brave Delancey left his native land, 79 Young Hymen’s chaplet, and Love’s plighted hand-- He left them all!--for Honour’s notes afar Proclaim’d the signal of reviving war: Destruction hover’d where his falchion prest, And Fate’s dark lightnings glitter’d round his crest. But Death, with envy, saw his feats that day, Another Death, he thought, had bore his pow’r away; He rais’d his arm--he hurl’d the fatal dart, And bad it moisten in the warrior’s heart; Urg’d by the spectre’s hand, the weapon prest, 89 Pierc’d the knight’s garb, and sunk within his breast,-- Adown his bosom stream’d the ebbing blood, And life came rushing on the purple flood.