JOHN.

But what are these dangers to those I have passed, When the dark billows roared to the roar of the

blast;

When we worked at the pumps, worn with labor and weak,

And with dread still beheld the increase of the leak? Sometimes as we rose on the wave could our sight, From the rocks of the shore, catch the lighthouse's light:

In vain to the beach to assist us they press;

We fire faster and faster our guns of distress;

Still, with rage unabating, the wind and waves

roar:

How the giddy wreck reels, as the billows burst o'er! Leap, leap! for she yawns, for she sinks in the

wave!

Call on God to preserve; for God only can save.

SAMUEL.

There's an end of all troubles, however, at last ; And when I in the wagon of wounded was cast, When my wounds with the chilly night-wind smarted sore,

And I thought of the friends I should never see

more,

No hand to relieve, scarce a morsel of bread,

Sick at heart I have envied the peace of the

dead.

Left to rot in a jail till by treaty set free,

Old England's white cliffs with what joy did I see! I had gained enough glory, some wounds, but no

good;

And was turned on the public, to shift how I could. When I think what I've suffered, and where I am

now,

I curse him who snared me away from the plough.

JOHN.

When I was discharged, I went home to my wife,
There in comfort to spend all the rest of my life.
My wife was industrious; we earned what we spent,
And, though little we had, were with little content;
And, whenever I listened and heard the wind roar,
I blest God for my little snug cabin on shore.
At midnight they seized me, they dragged me away,
They wounded me sore when I would not obey;
And, because for my country I'd ventured my life,
I was dragged like a thief from my home and my

wife.

Then the fair wind of Fortune chopt round in my face,

And want at length drove me to guilt and disgrace. But all's for the best: on the world's wide sea cast, I am havened in peace in this corner at last.

SAMUEL.

Come, Dick! we have done; and for judgment we

call.

RICHARD.

And, in faith, I can give you no judgment at all, But that, as you're now settled, and safe from foul weather,

You drink up your grog, and be merry together.

OXFORD, 1794.

IV.

FREDERIC.

TIME, Night.-SCENE, the Woods.

WHERE shall I turn me? whither shall I bend
My weary way? thus worn with toil, and faint,
How through the thorny mazes of this wood
Attain my distant dwelling? That deep cry
That echoes through the forest seems to sound
My parting knell: it is the midnight howl
Of hungry monsters prowling for their prey.
Again! Oh, save me, save me, gracious Heaven!
I am not fit to die.

Thou coward wretch!

Why palpitates thy heart? why shake thy limbs.
Beneath thy palsied burden? Is there aught
So lovely in existence? Wouldst thou drain
Even to its dregs the bitter draught of life?
Stamped with the brand of Vice and Infamy,
Why should the felon Frederic shrink from death?

Death! Where the magic in that empty name That chills my inmost heart? Why at the thought Starts the cold dew of fear on every limb? There are no terrors to surround the Grave, When the calm Mind, collected in itself, Surveys that narrow house: the ghastly train That haunt the midnight of delirious Guilt Then vanish; in that home of endless rest All sorrows cease. Would I might slumber there!

Why, then, this panting of the fearful heart?
This miser love of life, that dreads to lose
Its cherished torment? Shall a man diseased
Yield up his members to the surgeon's knife,
Doubtful of succor, but to rid his frame
Of fleshly anguish; and the coward wretch,
Whose ulcerated soul can know no help,
Shrink from the best Physician's certain aid?
Oh! it were better far to lie me down

Here on this cold, damp earth, till some wild beast
Seize on his willing victim.

If to die

Were all, 'twere sweet indeed to rest my head
On the cold clod, and sleep the sleep of Death;
But if the archangel's trump, at the last hour,
Startle the ear of Death, and wake the soul
To frenzy? Dreams of infancy! fit tales
For garrulous beldames to affrighten babes!
What if I warred upon the world; the world
Had wronged me first. I had endured the ills

Of hard injustice; all this goodly earth
Was but to me one wide waste wilderness ;
I had no share in Nature's patrimony;
Blasted were all my morning hopes of youth;
Dark Disappointment followed on my ways;
Care was my bosom inmate; Penury

Gnawed at my heart. Eternal One! thou know'st
How that poor heart, even in the bitter hour
Of lewdest revelry, has inly yearned

For peace.

My Father! I will call on thee, Pour to thy mercy-seat my earnest prayer, And wait thy righteous will, resigned of soul. O thought of comfort! how the afflicted heart, Tired with the tempest of its passions, rests On you with holy hope! The hollow howl Of yonder harmless tenant of the woods Comes with no terror to the sobered sense. If I have sinned against mankind, on them Be that past sin: they made me what I was. In these extremest climes, Want can no more Urge me to deeds of darkness; and, at length, Here I may rest. What though my hut be poor, The rains descend not through its humble roof. Would I were there again! The night is cold; And what if, in my wanderings, I should rouse The savage from his thicket?

Hark! the gun ! And, lo! the fire of safety! I shall reach My little hut again; again by toil