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.

LINES TO MY MOTHER'S PICTURE.

O THAT those lips had language! has passed

Life

With me but roughly since I heard thee

last.

Those lips are thine, -thy own sweet smile I see,

The same that oft in childhood solaced

me;

Voice only fails, else how distinct they say, "Grieve not, my child; chase all thy fears away!"

The meek intelligence of those dear eyes (Blest be the art that can immortalize, The art that baffles time's tyrannie claim To quench it!) here shines on me still the

same.

Faithful remembrancer of one so dear, Owelcome guest, though unexpected here! Who bid'st me honor with an artless song, Affectionate, a mother lost so long. I will obey, not willingly alone, But gladly, as the precept were her own; And, while that face renews my filial grief, Fancy shall weave a charm for my relief, Shall steep me in Elysian revery, A momentary dream that thou art she. My mother! when I learned that thou wast dead,

Say, wast thou conscious of the tears I shed?

Hovered thy spirit o'er thy sorrowing son, Wretch even then, life's journey just

begun ?

more!

Thy maidens, grieved themselves at my

concern,

Oft gave me promise of thy quick return;
What ardently I wished I long believed,
And, disappointed still, was still deceived;
By expectation every day beguiled,
Dupe of to-morrow even from a child.
Thus many a sad to-morrow came and
went,

Till, all my stock of infant sorrows spent,
I learned at last submission to my lot;
But, though I less deplored thee, ne'er
forgot.

Where once we dwelt our name is heard no more,

Children not thine have trod my nursery floor;

And where the gardener Robin, day by day, Drew me to school along the public way, Delighted with my bawble coach, and wrapped

In scarlet mantle warm, and velvet capped, "T is now become a history little known, That once we called the pastoral house

our own.

Short-lived possession! but the record fair, That memory keeps of all thy kindness there,

Still outlives many a storm that has effaced

A thousand other themes less deeply traced.

Thy nightly visits to my chamber made, That thou mightst know me safe and warmly laid,

All this, and, more endearing still than all,

Thy constant flow of love, that knew no fall,

Ne'er roughened by those cataracts and breaks

That humor interposed too often makes,
All this, still legible in memory's page,
And still to be so to my latest age,
Adds joy to duty, makes me glad to pay
Such honors to thee as my numbers may;
Perhaps a frail memorial, but sincere,
Not scorned in heaven, though little no-
ticed here.

Could Time, his flight reversed, restore the hours

When, playing with thy vesture's tissued

flowers,

The violet, the pink, and jessamine,
I pricked them into paper with a pin,

while,

But when shall spring visit the mouldering urn?

O, when shall day dawn on the night of the grave?

""T was thus, by the glare of false science betrayed,

That leads to bewilder, and dazzles to blind,

My thoughts wont to roam from shade onward to shade,

Destruction before me, and sorrow behind.

'O pity, great Father of light,' then I cried,

"Thy creature, who fain would not wander from thee!

Lo, humbled in dust, I relinquish my

pride;

From doubt and from darkness thou only canst free!'

MRS. THRALE.

73

roses are blending,

tomb."

JOHN LANGHORNE.

[1735-1779.]

THE DEAD.

Or them who, wrapt in earth so cold, No more the smiling day shall view, Should many a tender tale be told,

For many a tender thought is due.

Why else the o'ergrown paths of time Would thus the lettered sage explore, With pain these crumbling ruins climb, And on the doubtful sculpture pore?

Why seeks he with unwearied toil,

Death called aside the jocund groom
With him into another room,

And, looking grave, "You must," says

he,

"Quit your sweet bride, and come with

me."

"With you! and quit my Susan's side? With you!" the hapless husband cried; "Young as I am, 'tis monstrous hard! Besides, in truth, I'm not prepared: My thoughts on other matters go; This is my wedding-day, you know."

What more he urged I have not heard,

His reasons could not well be stronger; So Death the poor delinquent spared,

And left to live a little longer. Yet calling up a serious look, His hour-glass trembled while he spoke. Neighbor," he said, "farewell! no more Shall Death disturb your mirthful hour:

66

Of cruelty upon my name,

To give you time for preparation,
And fit you for your future station,
Three several warnings you shall have,
Before you 're summoned to the grave;
Willing for once I'll quit my prey,

And grant a kind reprieve,
In hopes you'll have no more to say,
But when I call again this way,

Well pleased the world will leave."
To these conditions both consented,
And parted perfectly contented.

What next the hero of our tale befell,
How long he lived, how wise, how well,
How roundly he pursued his course,
And smoked his pipe, and stroked his
horse,

The willing muse shall tell :
He chaffered, then he bought and sold,
Nor once perceived his growing old,

Nor thought of Death as near: His friends not false, his wife no shrew, Many his gains, his children few,