No comfort has thy wretched suppliant known,

Misfortune still with unrelenting sway

Has claim'd me for her own.

But 0-in pity to my grief, restore

This only source of bliss; I ask-I ask no

more

Vain hope-th' irrevocable doom is past,
Even now she looks-she sighs her last-
Vainly I strive to stay her fleeting breath,
And with rebellious heart protest against her
death.

Perhaps kind Heaven in mercy dealt the blow,

Some saving truth thy roving soul to teach;

To wean thy heart from grovelling views

below,

And point out bliss beyond misfortune's reach;

To show that all the flattering schemes of joy,

Which towering hope so fondly builds in air,

One fatal moment can destroy,

And plunge th' exulting maniac in despair. Then, O! with pious fortitude sustain Thy present loss-haply, thy future gain; Nor let thy Emma die in vain ; Time shall administer its wonted balm, And hush this storm of grief to no unpleasing calm.

Thus the poor bird, by some disastrous fate Caught and imprison'd in a lonely cage, Torn from its native fields, and dearer mate, Flutters a while and spends its little rage: But, finding all its efforts weak and vain,

No more it pants and rages for the plain; Moping a while, in sullen mood

Droops the sweet mourner-but, ere long, Prunes its light wings, and pecks its food, And meditates the song :

Serenely sorrowing, breathes its piteous case, And with its plaintive warblings saddens all the place.

Forgive me, Heaven-yet-yet the tears will flow,

To think how soon my scene of bliss is past!

My budding joys just promising to blow,

All nipt and wither'd by one envious blast!

My hours, that laughing wont to fleet away, Move heavily along;

Where's now the sprightly jest, the jocund song?

Time creeps unconscious of delight:

How shall I cheat the tedious day?

And Othe joyless night!

Where shall I rest my weary head? How shall I find repose on a sad widow'd bed?

Sickness and sorrow hovering round my bed, Who now with anxious haste shall bring relief,

With lenient hand support my drooping head, Assuage my pains and mitigate my grief? Should worldly business call away,

Who now shall in my absence fondly

mourn,

Count every minute of the loit'ring day,
Impatient for my quick return?
Should aught my bosom discompose,
Who now with sweet complacent air
Shall smooth the rugged brow of care,

And soften all my woes?
Too faithful memory-Cease, O cease-
How shall I e'er regain my peace?

(0 to forget her!)-but how vain each art, Whilst every virtue lives imprinted on my heart.

And thou, my little cherub, left behind,

To hear a father's plaints, to share his

woes,

When reason's dawn informs thy infant mind,

And thy sweet lisping tongue shall ask the

cause,

How oft with sorrow shall mine eyes run o'er,
When twining round my knees I trace
Thy mother's smile upon thy face?
How oft to my full heart shalt thou restore
Sad memory of my joys-ah! now no more!
By blessings once enjoy'd now
more dis-

tress'd,
More beggar by the riches once possess'd.
My little darling!- -dearer to me grown

By all the tears thou'st caused—(O strange to hear!)

Bought with a life yet dearer than thy own, Thy cradle purchased with thy mother's

bier!

Who now shall seek, with fond delight,
Thy infant steps to guide aright!
She who with doating eyes would gaze
On all thy little artless ways,

By all thy soft endearments blest, And clasp thee oft with transport to her breast,

Alas! is gone-yet shalt thou prove A father's dearest tend'rest love; And O, sweet senseless smiler (envied state), As yet unconscious of thy hapless fate,

When years thy judgment shall mature, And reason shows those ills it cannot cure,

Wilt thou, a father's grief to assuage,
For virtue prove the phoenix of the earth
(Like her, thy mother died to give thee birth),
And be the comfort of my age?

When sick and languishing I lie,
Wilt thou my Emma's wonted care supply?

1038.-THE SAILOR'S FAREWELL.
The topsails shiver in the wind,
The ship she casts to sea;
But yet my soul, my heart, my mind,
Are, Mary, moor'd by thee:
For though thy sailor's bound afar,
Still love shall be his leading star.

Should landmen flatter when we're sailed,
O doubt their artful tales;

No gallant sailor ever fail'd,

If Cupid fill'd his sails:

Thou art the compass of my soul,

Which steers my heart from pole to pole.

Sirens in ev'ry port we meet,

More fell than rocks and waves; But sailors of the British fleet

Are lovers, and not slaves:

No foes our courage shall subdue,
Although we've left our hearts with you.

These are our cares; but if you're kind,
We'll scorn the dashing main,

The rocks, the billows, and the wind,
The powers of France and Spain.
Now Britain's glory rests with you,
Our sails are full-sweet girls, adieu!
Edward Thompson.-Born 1738, Died 1786.

1039-.SONG.

Behold upon the swelling wave,
With streaming pendants gay,
Our gallant ship invites the brav
While glory leads the way;
And a cruising we will go.

Whene'er Monsieur comes in view,
From India richly fraught,

To gain the prize we're firm and true,
And fire as quick as thought.

With hearts of oak we ply each gun,
Nor fear the least dismay;
We either take, or sink, or burn,
Or make them run away.

The lovely maids of Britain's isle
We sailors ne'er despise ;
Our courage rises with each smile,
For them we take each prize.

The wind sets fair, the vessel's trim,
Then let us boldly go;

Old Neptune guides us while we swim,
To check the haughty foe.

United let each Briton join,
Courageously advance,
We'll baffle every vain design,
And check the pride of France.
Edward Thompson.-Born 1738, Died 1786.

Child of the potent spell and nimble eye,
Young Fancy, oft in rainbow vest array'd,
Points to new scenes that in succession pass
Across the wondrous mirror that she bears,
And bids thy unsated soul and wand'ring eye
A wider range o'er all her prospects take;
Lo, at her call, New Zealand's wastes arise!
Casting their shadows far along the main,
Whose brows, cloud-capp'd in joyless majesty,
No human foot hath trod since time began;
Here death-like silence ever-brooding dwells,
Save when the watching sailor startled hears,
Far from his native land at darksome night,
The shrill-toned petrel, or the penguin's
voice,

That skim their trackless flight on lonely wing,

Through the bleak regions of a nameless main :

Here danger stalks, and drinks with glutted

ear

The wearied sailor's moan, and fruitless sigh,
Who, as he slowly cuts his daring way,
Affrighted drops his axe, and stops awhile,
To hear the jarring echoes lengthen'd din,
That fling from pathless cliffs their sullen
sound:

Oft here the fiend his grisly visage shows,
His limbs, of giant form, in vesture clad
Of drear collected ice and stiffen'd snow,
The same he wore a thousand years ago,
That thwarts the sunbeam, and endures the
day.

'Tis thus, by Fancy shown, thou kenn'st entranced

Long tangled woods, and ever stagnant lakes,

By baneful Tigris banks, where, oft they say,
As late in sullen march for prey he prowls,
The tawny lion sees his shadow'd form,
At silent midnight by the moon's pale gleam,
On the broad surface of the dark deep wave;
Here, parch'd at mid-day, oft the passenger
Invokes with lingering hope the tardy breeze,
And oft with silent anguish thinks in vain
On Europe's milder air and silver springs.

Thou, unappall'd, canst view astounding fear

With ghastly visions wild, and train unbless'd

Of ashy fiends, at dead of murky night,
Who catch the fleeting soul, and slowly pace,
With visage dimly seen, and beckoning hand,
Of shadowy forms, that, ever on the wing,
Flit by the tedious couch of wan despair.
Methinks I hear him, with impatient tongue,
The lagging minutes chide, whilst sad he
sits

And notes their secret lapse with shaking head.

See, see, with tearless glance they mark his fall,

And close his beamless eye, who, trembling. meets

A late repentance, and an early grave.

With thine and elfin Fancy's dreams well pleased,

Safe in the lowly vale of letter'd ease,
From all the dull buffoonery of life,
Thy sacred influence grateful may I own;
Nor till old age shall lead me to my tomb,
Quit thee and all thy charms with many a
tear.

On Omole, or cold Soracte's top,
Singing defiance to the threat'ning storm,
Thus the lone bird, in winter's rudest hour,
Hid in some cavern, shrouds its ruffled
plumes,

And through the long, long night, regardless hears

The wild wind's keenest blast and dashing rain.

Henry Headley.-Born 1766, Died 1788.

1042.-SONNET TO VALCLUSA.

What though, Valclusa, the fond bard be fled,

That woo'd his fair in thy sequester'd bowers, Long loved her living, long bemoan'd her dead,

And hung her visionary shrine with flowers! What though no more he teach thy shades to

mourn

The hapless chances that to love belong,
As erst when drooping o'er her turf forlorn,
He charm'd wild Echo with his plaintive

song.

1044.-ODE TO MANKIND.

Is there, or do the schoolmen dream-
Is there on earth a power supreme,
The delegate of heaven,
To whom an uncontroll'd command,
In every realm or sea and land,

By special grace is given?

Then say, what signs this god proclaim?
Dwells he amidst the diamond's flame,
A throne his hallow'd shrine ?
The borrow'd pomp, the arm'd array,
Want, fear, and impotence, betray
Strange proofs of power divine!
If service due from human kind,
To men in slothful ease reclined,

Can form a sov'reign's claim:

Hail, monarchs! ye, whom heaven ordains,
Our toils unshared, to share our gains,
Ye idiots, blind and lame!

Superior virtue, wisdom, might,
Create and mark the ruler's right,
So reason must conclude:
Then thine it is, to whom belong
The wise, the virtuous, and the strong,
Thrice sacred multitude!

In thee, vast All! are these contain❜d,
For thee are those, thy parts ordain'd,
So nature's systems roll:

The sceptre 's thine, if such there be;
If none there is, then thou art free,
Great monarch! mighty whole!
Let the proud tyrant rest his cause
On faith, prescription, force, or laws,
An host's or senate's voice!
His voice affirms thy stronger due,
Who for the many made the few,
And gave the species choice.
Unsanctified by thy command,
Unown'd by thee, the sceptred hand

The trembling slave may bind ;
But loose from nature's moral ties,
The oath by force imposed belies
The unassenting mind.

Thy will's thy rule, thy good its end;
You punish only to defend

What parent nature gave:
And he who dares her gifts invade,
By nature's oldest law is made

Thy victim or thy slave.

Thus reason founds the just degree
On universal liberty,

Not private rights resign'd:
Through various nature's wide extent,
No private beings e'er were meant
To hurt the general kind.

Thee justice guides, thee right maintains,
Th' oppressor's wrongs, the pilf'rer's gains,
Thy injured weal impair.

Thy warmest passions soon subside,
Nor partial envy, hate, nor pride,
Thy temper'd counsels share.

Each instance of thy vengeful rage,
Collected from each clime and age,
Though malice swell the sum,
Would seem a spotless scanty scroll,
Compared with Marius' bloody roll,
Or Sylla's hippodrome.

But thine has been imputed blame,
The unworthy few assume thy name,
The rabble weak and loud;
Or those who on thy ruins feast,
The lord, the lawyer, and the priest;
A more ignoble crowd.

Avails it thee, if one devours,
Or lesser spoilers share his powers,
While both thy claim oppose?
Monsters who wore thy sullied crown,
Tyrants who pull'd those monsters down,
Alike to thee were foes.

Far other shone fair Freedom's band,
Far other was th' immortal stand,

When Hampden fought for thee:
They snatch'd from rapine's gripe thy spoils,
The fruits and prize of glorious toils,
Of arts and industry.

On thee yet foams the preacher's rage,
On thee fierce frowns th' historian's page,
A false apostate train:

Tears stream adown the martyr's tomb;
Unpitied in their harder doom,

Thy thousands strow the plain.

These had no charms to please the sense, No graceful port, no eloquence,

To win the Muse's throng:
Unknown, unsung, unmark'd they lie
But Cæsar's fate o'ercasts the sky,
And Nature mourns his wrong.

Thy foes, a frontless band, invade;
Thy friends afford a timid aid,

And yield up half the right.

E'en Locke beams forth a mingled ray,
Afraid to pour the flood of day
On man's too feeble sight.

Hence are the motley systems framed,
Of right transferr'd, of power reclaim'd;
Distinctions weak and vain.

Wise nature mocks the wrangling herd;
For unreclaim'd, and untransferr'd,

Her powers and rights remain.

While law the royal agent moves,
The instrument thy choice approves,

We bow through him to you.

But change, or cease the inspiring choice, The sov'reign sinks a private voice,

Alike in one, or few!

Shall then the wretch, whose dastard heart Shrinks at a tyrant's nobler part,

And only dares betray,
With reptile wiles, alas! prevail,
Where force, and rage, and priestcraft fail,
To pilfer power away?

O shall the bought, and buying tribe,
The slaves who take, and deal the bribe,
A people's claims enjoy ?
So Indian murd'rers hope to gain
The powers and virtues of the slain,

Of wretches they destroy.

"Avert it, Heaven! you love the brave,
You hate the treach'rous, willing slave,
The self-devoted head;

Nor shall an hireling's voice convey
That sacred prize to lawless sway,
For which a nation bled."

Vain prayer, the coward's weak resource! Directing reason, active force,

Propitious heaven bestows.

But ne'er shall flame the tund'ring sky, To aid the trembling herd that fly

Before their weaker foes.

In names there dwell no magic charms,
The British virtues, British arms

Unloosed our fathers' band:

Say, Greece and Rome! if these should fail, What names, what ancestors avail,

To save a sinking land?

Far, far from us such ills shall be, Mankind shall boast one nation free,

One monarch truly great :

Whose title speaks a people's choice, Whose sovereign will a people's voice, Whose strength a prosp'rous state.

Earl Nugent.-Born 1709, Died 1788.

1045.-WOO'D, AND MARRIED, AND A'.

The bride cam' out o' the byre,

And, O, as she dighted her cheeks! Sirs, I'm to be married the night,

And have neither blankets nor sheets;

Have neither blankets nor sheets,

Nor scarce a coverlet too;

The bride that has a' thing to borrow,
Has e'en right muckle ado.

Woo'd, and married, and a',

Married, and woo'd, and a'!
And was she nae very weel off,

That was woo'd, and married, and a'?

Out spake the bride's father,

As he cam' in frae the pleugh : O, haud your tongue, my dochter, And ye'se get gear enough; The stirk stands i' the tether,

And our braw bawsint yade, Will carry ye hame your cornWhat wad ye be at, ye jade?

Out spake the bride's mither,

What deil needs a' this pride? I had nae a plack in my pouch That night I was a bride; My gown was linsy-woolsy,

And ne'er a sark ava; And ye hae ribbons and buskins, Mae than ane or twa. *

Out spake the bride's brither,
As he cam' in wi' the kye:
Poor Willie wad ne'er hae ta'en ye,
Had he kent ye as weel as I;
For ye're baith proud and saucy,
And no for a poor man's wife;
Gin I canna get a better,

I'se ne'er tak ane i' my life.

Alex. Ross.—Born 1698, Died 1784.