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On them gleam'd the moon's wan lustre,
When the shade of Hosier brave
His pale bands was seen to muster,
Rising from their watʼry grave:
O'er the glimm'ring wave he hied him,
Where the Burford • rear'd her sail,
With three thousand ghosts beside him,
And in groans did Vernon hail.

"Heed, O heed, our fatal story,

I am Hosier's injured ghost, You, who now have purchased glory At this place where I was lost; Though in Porto-Bello's ruin

You now triumph free from fears, When you think on our undoing,

You will mix your joy with tears.

"See these mournful spectres, sweeping
Ghastly o'er this hated wave,

Whose wan cheeks are stain'd with weeping;
These were English captains brave:
Mark those numbers pale and horrid,
Those were once my sailors bold,
Lo! each hangs his drooping forehead,
While his dismal tale is told.

"I, by twenty sail attended,

Did this Spanish town affright: Nothing then its wealth defended

But my orders not to fight: O! that in this rolling ocean

I had cast them with disdain, And obey'd my heart's warm motion, To have quell'd the pride of Spain.

"For resistance I could fear none,

But with twenty ships had done What thou, brave and happy Vernon, Hast achieved with six alone.

[* Admiral Vernon's ship.]

Then the Bastimentos never
Had our foul dishonour seen,
Nor the sea the sad receiver

Of this gallant train had been.

"Thus, like thee, proud Spain dismaying,
And her galleons leading home,
Though condemn'd for disobeying,
I had met a traitor's doom;
To have fall'n, my country crying

He has play'd an English part,
Had been better far than dying

Of a grieved and broken heart. "Unrepining at thy glory,

Thy successful arms we hail; But remember our sad story,

And let Hosier's wrongs prevail,
Sent in this foul clime to languish.

Think what thousands fell in vain,
Wasted with disease and anguish,
Not in glorious battle slain.
"Hence, with all my train attending
From their oozy tombs below,
Through the hoary foam ascending,

Here I feed my constant woe :
Here the Bastimentos viewing,

We recall our shameful doom, And our plaintive cries renewing,

Wander through the midnight gloom. "O'er these waves for ever mourning Shall we roam deprived of rest, If to Britain's shores returning, You neglect my just request. After this proud foe subduing, When your patriot friends you see, Think on vengeance for my ruin,

And for England shamed in me *."

[* I was much amused with hearing old Leonidas Glover sing his own fine ballad of Hosier's Ghost, which was very affecting. He is past eighty.-HANNah More. Life, vol. i. p. 405.]

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All nature seem'd rapt and enchanted.
Except the querulous, unthankful rill ;
Unawed by this imposing scene,
Our Blackbird the enchantment broke ;
Flourish'd a sprightly air between,
And whistled the Black Joke.
This lively unexpected motion
Set nature in a gayer light;

Quite overturn'd the monks' devotion,
And scatter'd all the gloom of night.
I have been taught in early youth,
By an expert metaphysician,
That ridicule's the test of truth,
And only match for superstition.
Imposing rogues, with looks demure,
At Rome keep all the world in awe;
Wit is profane, learning impure,
And reasoning against the law.
Between two tapers and a book,
Upon a dresser clean and neat,
Behold a sacerdotal cook,

Cooking a dish of heavenly meat !

How fine he curtsies! Make your bow;
Thump your breast soundly, beat your poll;
Lo! he has toss'd up a ragout,

To fill the belly of your soul.
Even here there are some holy men
Would fain lead people by the nose;
Did not a blackbird, now and then,
Benevolently interpose.

My good Lord Bishop, Mr. Dean,
You shall get nothing by your spite;
Tristram shall whistle at your spleen,
And put Hypocrisy to flight.

TO MISS

THANKS to your wiles, deceitful fair,
The gods so long in vain implored,
At last have heard a wretch's prayer;
At last I find myself restored,
From thy bewitching snares and thee :
I feel for once this is no dream;
I feel my captive soul is free;
And I am truly what I seem.

Without a blush your name I hear,

No transient glow my bosom heats; And, when I meet your eye, my dear, My fluttering heart no longer beats.

I dream, but I no longer find

Your form still present to my view; I wake, but now my vacant mind No longer waking dreams of you.

I meet you now without alarms,
Nor longer fearful to displease,
I talk with ease about your charms,
E'en with my rival talk with ease.
Whether in angry mood you rise,

Or sweetly sit with placid guile,
Vain is the lightning of your eyes,

And vainer still your gilded smile.

Loves in your smiles no longer play;

Your lips, your tongue have lost their art; Those eyes have now forgot the way That led directly to my heart.

Hear me ; and judge if I'm sincere ; That you are beauteous still I swear : But oh! no longer you appear

The fairest, and the only fair.

Hear me ; but let not truth offend,

In that fine form, in many places, I now spy faults, my lovely friend,

Which I mistook before for graces,

And yet, though free, I thought at first, With shame my weakness I confess, My agonising heart would burst,

The agonies of death are less.

The little songster thus you see

Caught in the cruel schoolboy's toils, Struggling for life, at last like me,

Escapes, and leaves his feather'd spoils. His plumage soon resumes its gloss, His little heart soon waxes gay; Nor falls, grown cautious from his loss, To artifice again a prey.

It is not love, it is not pique,

That gives my whole discourse this cast; "Tis nature that delights to speak Eternally of dangers past.

Carousing o'er the midnight bowl
The soldier never ceasing prates,
Shows every scar to every soul,
And every hair-breadth 'scape relates.

Which of us has most cause to grieve?
Which situation would you chuse !
I, a capricious tyrant leave,

And you, a faithful lover lose.

I can find maids in every rout,

With smiles as false, and forms as fine; But you must search the world throughout To find a heart as true as mine.

EDWARD THOMPSON.

[Born, 1738. Died, 1786.]

CAPTAIN EDWARD THOMPSON was a native of Hull, and went to sea so early in life as to be precluded from the advantages of a liberal education. At the age of nineteen, he acted as lieutenant on board the Jason, in the engagement off Ushant, between Hawke and Conflans. Coming to London, after the peace, he resided, for some time, in Kew-lane, where he wrote some light pieces for the stage, and some licentious poems; the titles of which need not be revived. At the breaking out of the American war, Garrick's interest obtained promotion for him in his own profession; and he was appointed to the command of the Hyæna frigate, and made his fortune by the single capture of a French

East Indiaman. He was afterwards in Rodney's action off Cape St. Vincent, and brought home the tidings of the victory. His death was occasioned by a fever, which he caught on board the Grampus, while he commanded that vessel, off the coast of Africa. Though a dissolute man, he had the character of an able and humane commander.

A few of his sea songs are entitled to remembrance. Besides his poems and dramatic pieces, he published "Letters of a Sailor;" and edited the works of John Oldham, P. Whitehead, and Andrew Marvell. For the last of those tasks he was grossly unqualified.

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 sail'd,
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 !

SONG.

BEHOLD upon the swelling wave,
With streaming pendants gay,
Our gallant ship invites the brave,
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.

SONG.

LOOSE every sail to the breeze,

The course of my vessel improve; I've done with the toils of the seas,

Ye sailors, I'm bound to my love.

Since Emma is true as she's fair,

My griefs I fling all to the wind: "Tis a pleasing return for my care, My mistress is constant and kind.

My sails are all fill'd to my dear ; What tropic bird swifter can move ? Who, cruel, shall hold his career

That returns to the nest of his love!

Hoist every sail to the breeze,

Come, shipmates, and join in the song ; Let's drink, while the ship cuts the seas, To the gale that may drive her along.

HENRY HEADLEY.

[Born, 1766. Died, 1788.]

HENRY HEADLEY, whose uncommon talents were lost to the world at the age of twenty-two, was born at Irstead, in Norfolk. He received his education at the grammar-school of Norwich, under Dr. Parr; and, at the age of sixteen, was admitted a member of Trinity college, Oxford. There the example of Thomas Warton, the senior of his college, led him to explore the beauties of our elder poets. About the age of twenty he published some pieces of verse, which exhibit no very remarkable promise; but his "Select Beauties of the Ancient English Poets," which appeared in the following year, were accompanied with critical observations, that showed an unparalleled ripeness of mind for his years. leaving the university, after a residence of four years, he married, and retired to Matlock, in Derbyshire. His matrimonial choice is said to have been hastily formed, amidst the anguish of disappointment in a previous attachment. But

On

short as his life was, he survived the lady whom he married.

The symptoms of consumption having appeared in his constitution, he was advised to try the benefit of a warmer climate; and he took the resolution of repairing to Lisbon, unattended by a single friend. On landing at Lisbon, far from feeling any relief from the climate, he found himself oppressed by its sultriness; and in this forlorn state, was on the point of expiring, when Mr. De Vismes, to whom he had received a letter of introduction from the late Mr. Windham, conveyed him to his healthful villa, near Cintra, allotted spacious apartments for his use, procured for him the ablest medical assistance, and treated him with every kindness and amusement that could console his sickly existence. But his malady proved incurable; and, returning to England at the end of a few months, he expired at Norwich.

FROM HIS "INVOCATION TO MELANCHOLY."

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 wond'rous mirror that she bears,
And bids thy unsated soul and wandering 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 en-
tranced

Long tangled woods, and ever stagnant lakes,
That know no zephyr pure, or temperate gale,
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.

THOMAS RUSSELL.

[Born, 1762. Died, 1788.]

[THOMAS RUSSELL was the son of an attorney at Bridport, and one of Joseph Warton's wonderful boys at Winchester School. He became fellow of New College Oxford, and died of consumption at Bristol Hot-Wells in his twenty-sixth year. His poems were posthumous. The sonnet on

Philoctetes is very fine; and of our young writers, mature rather in genius than in years, Russell holds no humble place. Mr. Southey has num bered five, and Russell is among them-Chatterton, Bruce, Russell, Bampfylde, and Kirke White.]

TO VALCLUSA.

SONNETS.

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.
Yet still, enamour'd of the tender tale,
Pale Passion haunts thy grove's romantic gloom,
Yet still soft music breathes in every gale,
Still undecay'd the fairy garlands bloom,
Still heavenly incense fills each fragrant vale,
Still Petrarch's Genius weeps o'er Laura's tomb.

SUPPOSED TO BE WRITTEN AT LEMNOS.

On this lone isle, whose rugged rocks affright
The cautious pilot, ten revolving years
Great Pæon's son, unwonted erst to tears,
Wept o'er his wound: alike each rolling light
Of heaven he watch'd,and blamed its lingering flight:
By day the sea-mew, screaming round his cave,
Drove slumber from his eyes, the chiding wave,
And savage howlings chased his dreams by night.
Hope still was his; in each low breeze that sigh'd
Through his rude grot, he heard a coming oar:
In each white cloud a coming sail he spied;
Nor seldom listen'd to the fancied roar
Of Eta's torrents, or the hoarser tide
That parts famed Trachis from th' Euboic shore.

JOHN LOGAN.

[Born, 1748. Died, 1788.]

JOHN LOGAN was the son of a farmer, in the parish of Fala, and county of Mid-Lothian, Scotland. He was educated for the church, at the university of Edinburgh. There he contracted an intimacy with Dr. Robertson, who was then a student of his own standing; and he was indebted to that eminent character for many friendly offices in the course of his life. After finishing his theological studies, he lived for some time in the family of Mr. Sinclair, of Ulbster, as tutor to the late Sir John Sinclair. In his twenty-fifth

year, he was ordained one of the ministers of Leith; and had a principal share in the scheme for revising the psalmody of the Scottish church, under the authority of the General Assembly. He contributed to this undertaking several scriptural translations, and paraphrases, of his own composition. About the same time, he delivered, during two successive seasons, in Edinburgh, Lectures on History, which were attended with so much approbation, that he was brought forward as a candidate for the Professorship of History in the

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