He long survives, who lives an hour
In ocean, self-upheld :
And so long he, with unspent power
His destiny repell❜d :
And ever, as the minutes flew,
Entreated help, or cried-"Adieu !"
At length, his transient respite past,
His comrades, who before
Had heard his voice in every blast,
Could catch the sound no more.
For then, by toil subdued, he drank
The stifling wave, and then he sank.
No poet wept him; but the page
Of narrative sincere,
That tells his name, his worth, his age,
Is wet with Anson's tear.
And tears by bards or heroes shed,
Alike immortalize the dead.
I therefore purpose not, or dream,
Descanting on his fate,
To give the melancholy theme
A more enduring date.
But misery still delights to trace
Its semblance in another's case.
No voice divine the storm allay'd,
No light propitious shone ;
When, snatch'd from all effectual aid,
We perish'd, each alone :
But I beneath a rougher sea,
And whelm'd in deeper gulfs than he.
ON THE LOSS OF THE ROYAL GEORGE,
WRITTEN WHEN THE NEWS ARRIVED, 1782.
Toll for the brave!
The brave that are no more!
All sunk beneath the wave,
Fast by their native shore!
Eight hundred of the brave,
Whose courage well was tried,
Had made the vessel heel,
And laid her on her side.
A land breeze shook the shrouds,
And she was overset ;
Down went the Royal George,
With all her crew complete.
Toll for the brave!
Brave Kempenfelt is gone;
His last sea-fight is fought;
His work of glory done.
It was not in the battle;
No tempest gave the shock:
She sprang no fatal leak ›
She ran upon no rock.
His sword was in its sheath,
His fingers held the pen,
When Kempenfelt went down,
With twice four hundred men.
Weigh the vessel up
Once dreaded by our foes!
And mingle with our cup,
The tear that England owes
Her timbers yet are sound,
And she may float again,
Full-charged with England's thunder,
And plough the distant main.
But Kempenfelt is gone,
His victories are o'er;
And he and his eight hundred,
Shall plough the wave no more.
SONNET TO MRS. UNWIN. 1793.
Mary! I want a lyre with other strings ;
Such aid from heaven as some have feign'd they drew :
An eloquence scarce given to mortals, new,
And undebased by praise of meaner things,
That, ere through age or woe I shed my wings
I may record thy worth, with honor due,
In verse as musical as thou art true,-
Verse that immortalizes whom it sings.
But thou hast little need; there is a book
By seraphs writ, with beams of heavenly light,
On which the eyes of God not rarely look;
A chronicle of actions, just and bright;
There all thy deeds, my faithful Mary, shine,
And since thou own'st that praise, I spare thee mine.
ADDRESSED TO LADY HESKETH. 1786.
This cap that so stately appears,
With ribbon-bound tassel on high,
Which seems by the crest that it rears,
Ambitious of brushing the sky:
This cap to my cousin I owe;
She gave it, and gave me beside,
Wreathed into an elegant bow,
The ribbon with which it is tied.
This wheel-footed studying chair,
Contrived both for toil and repose,
Wide elbow'd and wadded with hair,
In which I both scribble and dose,
Bright studded, to dazzle the eyes,
And rival in lustre of that
In which, or astronomy lies,
Fair Cassiopeia sat.
These carpets so soft to the foot,
Caledonia's traffic and pride!
Oh spare them, ye knights of the boot,
Escaped from a cross-country ride!
This table and mirror within,
Secure from collision and dust,
At which I oft shave cheek and chin,
And periwig nicely adjust.
This moveable structure of shelves,
For its beauty admired and its use,
And charged with octavos and twelves,
The gayest I had to produce;
Where, flaming in scarlet and gold,
My poems enchanted I view,
And hope in due time to behold
My Iliad and Odyssey too.
This china that decks the alcove,
Which here people call a buffet,
But what the gods call it above,
Has ne'er been revealed to us yet.
These curtains that keep the room warm
Or cool, as the season demands;
Those stoves, that for pattern and form,
Seem the labor of Mulciber's hands.
All these are not half what I owe
To One, from our earliest youth
To me ever ready to show
Benignity, friendship, and truth;
For Time, the destroyer declared
And foe of our perishing kind,
If even her face he has spared
Much less could he alter her mind.
Thus compass'd about with the goods
And chattels of leisure and ease,
I indulge my poetical moods
In many such fancies as these:
And fancies I fear they will seem-
Poets' goods are not often so fine;
The poets will swear that I dream,
When I sing of the splendor of mine
A Poet's cat, sedate and grave As poet well could wish to have, Was much add:cted to inquire For nooks to, which she might retire, And where secure as mouse in chink, She might repose or sit and think. I know not where she caught the trick, Nature perhaps herself had cast her In such a mould philosophique,
Or else she learn'd it of her master. Sometimes ascending, debonnair, An apple tree, or lofty pear, Lodged with convenience in the fork, She watch'd the gard'ner at his work; Sometimes her ease and solace sought In an old empty watering pot. There, wanting nothing save a fan, To seem some nymph in her sedan, Apparell'd in exactest sort,
And ready to be borne to court.
But love of change, it seems, has place
Not only in our wiser race;
Cats also feel, as well as we,
That passion's force, and so did she.
Her climbing, she began to find,
Exposed her too much to the wind,
And the old utensil of tin,
Was cold and comfortless within;
She therefore wish'd instead of those
Some place of more serene repose,
Where neither cold might come, nor air,
Too rudely wanton with her hair,
And sought it in the likeliest mode,
Within her master's snug abode.
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