The shepherdess, whose kindly care Had watch'd o'er Owen's infant breath, Must now their silent mansions share, Whom time leads calmly down to death. "O tell me, parent if thou art, What is this lovely picture dear? Why wounds its mournful eye my heart? Why flows from mine th' unbidden tear?” "Ah, youth! to leave thee loth am I, Though I be not thy parent dear; "But it will make thee much bewail, XXIV. The heart that sorrow doom'd to share But when that seal is first imprest, In paleness clothed, and lifted hands, The simple guardian of his life Look'd wistful for the tear to glide; But, when she saw his tearless strife, Silent, she lent him one-and died. XXV. "No, I am not a shepherd's boy," Awaking from his dream, he said: "Ah, where is now the promised joy Of this for ever, ever fled! "O picture dear !—for her loved sake How fondly could my heart bewail! My friendly shepherdess, O wake, And tell me more of this sad tale : "O tell me more of this sad tale- And I will go to Lothian's vale, XXVI. Owen to Lothian's vale is fled Earl Barnard's lofty towers appear— "O! art thou there?" the full heart sail. "O! art thou there, my parent dear!" Yes, she is there: from idle state Oft has she stole her hour to weep; Think how she "by thy cradle sat," And how she "fondly saw thee sleep." Now tries his trembling hand to frame Full many a tender line of love; And still he blots the parent's name, For that, he fears, might fatal prove. XXVII. O'er a fair fountain's smiling side Reclined a dim tower, clad with moss, Where every bird was wont to bide, That languish'd for its partner's loss. This scene he chose, this scene assign'd A parent's first embrace to wait, And many a soft fear fill'd his mind, Anxious for his fond letter's fate. The hand that bore those lines of love, XXVIII. "She comes not ;-can she then delay !" Cried the fair youth, and dropt a tear"Whatever filial love could say, To her I said, and call'd her dear. "She comes-Oh! no-encircled round, "Tis some rude chief with many a spear. My hapless tale that earl has found Ah me! my heart!--for her I fear.” His tender tale that earl had read, Or ere it reach'd his lady's eye; His dark brow wears a cloud of red, In rage he deems a rival nigh. XXIX. 'Tis o'er-those locks that waved in gold, That waved adown those cheeks so fair, Wreathed in the gloomy tyrant's hold, Hang from the sever'd head in air! That streaming head he joys to bear In horrid guise to Lothian's halls! Bids his grim ruffians place it there, Erect upon the frowning walls. The fatal tokens forth he drew- The trembling victim straight he led, THOMAS PENROSE. [Born, 1743. Died, 1779.] THE history of Penrose displays a dash of warlike adventure, which has seldom enlivened the biography of our poets. He was not led to the profession of arms, like Gascoigne, by his poverty, or like Quarles, Davenant, and Waller, by political circumstances; but, in a mere fit of juvenile ardour, gave up his studies at Oxford, where he was preparing to become a clergyman, and left the banners of the church for those of the battle. This was in the summer of 1762, when the unfortunate expedition against Buenos Ayres sailed under the command of Captain Macnamara. It consisted of three ships: the Lord Clive, of 64 guns; the Ambuscade of 40, on board of which Penrose acted as lieutenant of marines; the Gloria, of 38; and some inferior vessels. Preparatory to an attack on Buenos Ayres, it was deemed necessary to begin with the capture of Nova Colonia, and the ships approached closely to the fortress of that settlement. The men were in high spirits; military music sounded on board; while the new uniforms and polished arms of the marines gave a splendid appearance to the scene. Penrose, the night before, had written and despatched to his mistress in England a poetical address, which evinced at once the affection and serenity of his heart, on the eve of danger. The gay preparative was followed by a heavy fire of several hours, at the end of which, when the Spanish batteries were almost silenced, and our countrymen in immediate expectation of seeing the enemy strike his colours, the Lord Clive was found to be on fire; and the same moment which discovered the flames showed the impossibility of extinguishing them. A dreadful spectacle was then exhibited. Men, who had, the instant before, assured themselves of wealth and conquest, were seen crowding to the sides of the ship, with the dreadful alternative of perishing by fire or water. The enemy's fire was redoubled at the sight of their calamity. Out of Macnamara's crew, of 340 men, only 78 were saved. Penrose escaped with his life on board the Ambuscade, but received a wound in the action; and the subsequent hardships which he underwent, in a prize-sloop, in which he was stationed, ruined the strength of his constitution. He returned to England; resumed his studies at Oxford; and having taken orders, accepted of the curacy of Newbury, in Berkshire, of which his father was the rector. He resided there for nine years, having married the lady already alluded to, whose name was Mary Slocock. A friend at last rescued him from this obscure situation, by presenting him with the rectory of Beckington and Standerwick, in Somersetshire, worth about 5007. a year. But he came to his preferment too late to enjoy it. His health having never recovered from the shock of his American service, obliged him, as a last remedy, to try the hot wells at Bristol, at which place he expired, in his thirty-sixth year. THE HELMETS. A FRAGMENT. 'Twas midnight-every mortal eye was closed Through the whole mansion. -save an antique crone's, That o'er the dying embers faintly watch'd The village curate, waiting late to shrive Low gleam'd the moon-not bright-but of such power As mark'd the clouds, black, threatening over head, "I hear it," cries the proudly gilded casque, (Fill'd by the soul of one, who erst took joy In slaught'rous deeds,) " I hear amidst the gale The hostile spirit shouting-once-once more In the thick harvest of the spears we'll shineThere will be work anon." "I'm 'waken'd too," Replied the sable helmet (tenanted The spirits, wand'ring round this Gothic pile, "Call armourers, ho! Furbish my vizor-close my rivets up- "Soft, my hasty friend," Said the black beaver, "Neither of us twain To my once master,-since unsought, unused, O shield my suffering country!-Shield it," pray'd THE FIELD OF BATTLE. FAINTLY bray'd the battle's roar Panting Terror fled before, Wounds and death were left behind. The war-fiend cursed the sunken day, That check'd his fierce pursuit too soon; That drench'd the dying and the dead. Maria, Sorrow's early child; By duty led, for every vein Was warm'd by Hymen's purest flame ; With Edgar o'er the wint'ry main She, lovely, faithful wanderer, came. In darkest hours might joy impart ; While her soul trembled in a sigh- Some flying straggler breathed to tell, She press'd to hear-she caught the tale She sprung to search the fatal field. She went-with courage not her ownOn many a corpse she cast her gaze And turn'd her ear to many a groan. Drear anguish urged her to press Full many a hand, as wild she mourn'd ;-Of comfort glad, the drear caress The damp, chill, dying hand return'd. Her ghastly hope was well nigh fled_ When late pale Edgar's form she found, Half-buried with the hostile dead, And gored with many a grisly wound. She knew she sunk-the night-bird scream'd -The moon withdrew her troubled light, And left the fair,-though fall'n she seem'dTo worse than death-and deepest night. [* Mr. Campbell, in his Adelgitha, and above all in ta Wounded Hussar, has given a vigorous echo of this poet of Penrose's, which wants little to rank it high among our ballad strains. The picture in the last stanza bui two is very fine: Drear anguish urged her to press.] SIR WILLIAM BLACKSTONE. [Born, 1723. Died, 1780.] THE LAWYER'S FAREWELL TO HIS MUSE. Companion of my tender age, Then all was joyous, all was young, These scenes must charm me now no more. Shakspeare no more, thy sylvan son, Pope's heaven-strung lyre, nor Waller's ease, In furs and coifs, around me stand; With sounds uncouth and accents dry, That grate the soul of harmony, Of mystic, dark, discordant lore; There, in a winding close retreat, O let me pierce the secret shade Then welcome business, welcome strife, |