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The Battle of Blenheim.

was a fummer evening,

It done;

And he before his cottage door
Was fitting in the fun,
And by him sported on the green
His little grandchild Wilhelmine.

She faw her brother Peterkin

Roll fomething large and round, That he befide the rivulet

In playing there had found;
He came to afk what he had found,
That was fo large, and smooth, and round,

Old Kafpar took it from the boy,
Who ftood expectant by ;

And then the old man fhook his head,
And with a nat❜ral figh,

'Tis fome poor fellow's skull, faid he,
Who fell in the great victory.

I find them in the garden, for
There's many here about,

And often, when I go to plough,

The ploughfhare turns them out;
For many thousand men, faid he,
Were flain in the great victory.

Now tell us what 'twas all about,
Young Peterkin he cries,
And little Wilhelmine looks up
With wonder-waiting eyes;
Now tell us all about the war,
And what they kill'd each other for.

It was the Englifh, Kafpar cry'd,
That put the French to rout;

But what they kill'd each other for,
I could not well make out.
But ev'ry body said, quoth he,
That 'twas a famous victory.

My father liv'd at Blenheim then,
Yon little ftream hard by,
They burnt his dwelling to the ground,
And he was forc'd to fly:

So with his wife and child he fled,
Nor had he where to reft his head.

With fire and fword the country round-
Was wafted far and wide.
And many a childing mother then,
And new-born infant died.

But things like that, you know, must be
At every famous victory.

They say it was a shocking fight
After the field was won,
For many thousand bodies here
Lay rotting in the fun;

But things like that, you know, muft be
After a famous victory.

Great praife the Duke of Marlbro' won,
And our good Prince Eugene.-
Why, 'twas a very wicked thing!
Said little Wilhelmine.

Nay-nay-my little girl, quoth he,
It was a famous victory.

And every body prais'd the Duke
Who fuch a fight did win.

But what good came of it at last ?—
Quoth little Peterkin.

Why, that I cannot tell, faid he,

But 'twas a famous victory.

Henry the 4th's Invocation to Sleep.

WOW many thousands of my poorest subjects
Are at this hour afleep!-O fleep, O gentle fleep,
Nature's foft nurfe, how have I frighted thee,
That thou no more wilt weigh my eyelids down,
And steep my fenfes in forgetfulness?

Why rather, fleep, ly'st thou in smoky cribs,
Upon uneafy pallets ftretching thee,

And hufh'd with buzzing night-flies to thy flumber;
Than in the perfum'd chambers of the great,
Under the canopies of coftly ftate,

And lull'd with founds of fweeteft melody?
Ọ thou dull god, why ly'st thou with the vile,
In loathfome beds: and leav'ft the kingly couch,
A watch-cafe, or a common larum bell?".
Wilt thou upon the high and giddy masts
Seal up the fhip-boy's eyes, and rock his brains
In cradle of the rude imperious furge;
And in the vifitation of the winds,

Who take the ruffian billows by the top,

Curling their monftrous heads, and hanging them
With deaf'ning clamours in the flippery clouds,
That, with the hurly, death itself awakes?
Canft thou, O partial fleep! give thy repofe
To the wet fea-boy in an hour fo rude!
And, in the calmeft and most ftillest night,
With all appliances and means to boot,

the

Deny it to a king? Then, happy low, is down!lown Uneafy lies the head that wears a crown.

SHAKESPEAR.

Extempore on seeing Hoole's Tragedy of Cyrus.

M

ASTER Hoole,

Thou'rt not a fool:

But, do not tire us
More with Cyrus,

S.

[graphic]

THE

The Wounded Soldier.

HE fun was juft retir'd, the dews of eve
Their glow-worm luftre fcatter'd o'er the vale;

The lonely nightingale began to grieve,

Telling, with many a paufe, her tend'reft tale.

No clamours loud difturb'd the penfive hour,

And the young Moon, yet fearful of the night, Rear'd her pale crefcent o'er the burnifh'd tow'r, That caught the parting orb's ftill ling'ring light.

'Twas then, where peafant footsteps mark'd the way, A wounded Soldier feebly mov'd along, Nor aught regarded he the foft'ning ray,

Nor the melodious bird's expreffive fong.....

On crutches borne, his mangled limbs he drew,
Unfightly remnants of the battle's rage;
While Pity, in his youthful form, might view
A helpless prematurity of age.

Then, as with strange contortions, lab'ring flow,
He gain'd the fummit of his native hill,
And faw the well-known prospect spread below,
The farm, the cot, the hamlet, and the mill :
In spite of Fortitude, one ftruggling figh

Shook the firm texture of his tortur'd heart:
And from his hollow and dejected eye

One trembling tear hung ready to depart. "How chang'd," he cry'd, "is the fair scene to me, "Since last across this narrow path I went!

"The foaring lark felt not fuperior glee,

"Nor any human breast more true content. "When the fresh hay was o'er the meadow thrown, "Amidst the bufy throng I ftill appear'd; "My prowefs too at harvest time was fhewn, "While Lucy's carol ev'ry labour cheer'd. "The burning rays I fcarcely feem'd to feel, "If the dear maiden near me chanc'd to rove; "Or if the deign'd to share my frugal meal, "It was a rich repaft, a feast of love.

"And when at evening, with a ruftic's pride,

"I dar'd the sturdieft wrestlers on the green; "What joy was mine! to hear her at my fide, "Extol my vigour, and my manly mien. "Ah! now no more the sprightly lass shall run "To bid me welcome from the fultry plain; "But her averted eye my fight shall fhun,

"And all our cherish'd fondeft hopes be vain.

"Alas! my Parents, muft ye too endure

gave birth!

me

"That I fhould gloom for ere your homely mirth, "Exist upon the pittance ye procure, "And make ye curfe the hour that "O hapless day! when, at a neighb'ring wake, "The gaudy ferjeant caught my wond'ring eye; "And as his tongue of war and honour fpake, "I felt a wish to conquer or to dieg

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