ON THE LOSS OF THE ་་ ROYAL GEORGE" WRITTEN WHEN THE NEWS ARRIVED, SEPTEMBER, 1782, TO THE MARCH IN "SCIPIO" Toll for the brave! The brave that are no more! Fast by their native shore! Eight hundred of the brave, A land-breeze shook the shrouds, Down went the Royal George, Toll for the brave! Brave Kempenfelt is gone; It was not in the battle; His sword was in its sheath; Weigh the vessel up, Once dreaded by our foes! The tear that England owes. Her timbers yet are sound, 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 THE CAST-AWAY (March 20, 1799) Obscurest night involved the sky, No braver chief could Albion boast He loved them both, but both in vain, Not long beneath the whelming brine, Nor soon he felt his strength decline, But waged with death a lasting strife, He shouted: nor his friends had failed But so the furious blast prevailed, That, pitiless perforce,. They left their outcast mate behind, Some succor yet they could afford; The cask, the coop, the floated cord, But he (they knew) nor ship nor shore, Nor, cruel as it seemed, could he He long survives, who lives an hour And so long he, with unspent power, And ever, as the minutes flew, At length, his transient respite past, Had heard his voice in every blast, No poet wept him; but the page 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, To give the melancholy theme But misery still delights to trace No voice divine the storm allayed, When, snatched from all effectual aid, But I beneath a rougher sea, And whelmed in deeper gulfs than he. William Blake 1757-1827 TO THE MUSES (From Poetical Sketches, 1783) Whether on Ida's shady brow, Or in the chambers of the East, Whether in Heaven ye wander fair, Where the melodious winds have birth; Whether on crystal rocks ye rove How have you left the ancient love TO THE EVENING STAR Thou fair-haired angel of the evening, The curtains of the sky, scatter thy dew On every flower that closes its sweet eyes In timely sleep. Let thy west wind sleep on The lake; speak silence with thy glimmering eyes, And wash the dusk with silver. Soon, full soon Dost thou withdraw; then the wolf rages wide, And then the lion glares through the dun forest. The fleeces of our flocks are covered with Thy sacred dew: protect them with thine influence. INTRODUCTION (From Songs of Innocence, 1787) Piping down the valleys wild, 'Pipe a song about a Lamb!' |