Twelve sailors, on the foremast who depend,
High on the platform of the top ascend ·
Fatal retreat for while the plunging prow
Immerges headlong in the wave below,
Down-prest by watery weight the bowsprit bends,
And from above the stern deep-crashing rends:
Beneath her bow the floating ruins lie;
The foremast totters unsustained on high:
And now the ship, fore-lifted by the sea,
Hurls the tall fabric backward o'er her lee;
While, in the general wreck, the faithful stay
Drags the main-topmast by the cap away;
Flung from the mast, the seamen strive in vain
Through hostile floods their vessel to regain;
Weak hope, alas! they buffet long the wave,
And grasp at life, though sinking in the grave:
Till all exhausted, and bereft of strength,
O'erpowered, they yield to cruel fate at length:
The burying waters close around their head;
They sink for ever numbered with the dead!
2. EVENING ON BOARD SHIP.
The sun's bright orb, declining, all serene,
Now glanced obliquely o'er the woodland scene.
Creation smiles around! on every spray
The warbling birds exalt their evening lay.
Blithe skipping o'er yon hill, the fleecy train
Join the deep chorus of the lowing plain;
The golden lime and orange there were seen,
On fragrant branches of perpetual green.
The crystal streams, that velvet meadows lave.
To the green ocean roll with chiding wave.
The glassy ocean hushed forgets to roar,
But trembling murmurs on the sandy shore
And lo! his surface, lovely to behold!
Glows in the west, a sea of living gold!
While, all above, a thousand liveries gay
The skies with pomp ineffable array.
Arabian sweets perfume the happy plains:
Above, beneath, around, enchantment reigns!
While yet the shades, on time's eternal scale,
With long vibration deepen o'er the vale;
While yet the songsters of the vocal grove
With dying numbers tune the soul to love,
With joyful eyes the attentive master sees
The auspicious omens of an eastern breeze.
Now radiant Vesper leads the starry train,
And night slow draws her veil o'er land and main;
Round the charged bowl the sailors form a ring ;
By turns recount the wondrous tale, or sing;
As love or battle, hardships of the main,
Or genial wine, awake their homely strain:
Then some the watch of night alternate keep;
The rest lie buried in oblivious sleep.
CCXIV. JOHN SCOTT, 1730—1783.
ODE ON HEARING THE DRUM.
I hate that drum's discordant sound,
Parading round, and round, and round:
To thoughtless youth it pleasure yields,
And lures from cities and from fields,
To sell their liberty for charms
Of tawdry lace, and glittering arms;
And when Ambition's voice commands,
To march, and fight, and fall in foreign lands.
I hate that drum's discordant sound,
Parading round, and round, and round:
To me it talks of ravaged plains,
And burning towns, and ruined swains,
And mangled limbs, and dying groans,
And widows' tears, and orphans' moans;
And all that misery's hand bestows
To fill the catalogue of human woes.
CCXV. CHARLES CHURCHILL, 1730-1764. 1. OF HIMSELF.
Me, whom no muse of heavenly birth inspires,
No judgment tempers, when rash genius fires;
Who boast no merit but mere knack of rhyme,
Short glams of sense and satire out of time;
Who cannot follow where trim fancy leads
By prattling streams, o'er flower-impurpled meads;
Who often, but without success, have prayed
For apt Alliteration's artful aid;
Who would, but cannot, with a master's skill,
Coin fine new epithets which mean no ill:
Me, thus uncouth, thus every way unfit
For pacing poesy, and ambling wit,
Taste with contempt beholds, nor deigns to place
Amongst the lowest of her favoured race.
Had I the power, I could not have the time,
While spirits flow, and life is in her prime,
Without a sin 'gainst pleasure, to design
A plan, to methodise each thought, each line,
Highly to finish, and make every grace,
In itself charming, take new charms from place.
Nothing of books, and little known of men,
When the mad fit comes on I seize the pen ;
Rough as they run, the rapid thoughts set down,
Rough as they run, discharge them on the town.
What is't to us, if taxes rise or fall?
Thanks to our fortune, we pay none at all.
Let muckworms, who in dirty acres deal,
Lament those hardships which we cannot feel.
His Grace, who smarts, may bellow if he please,
But must I bellow too, who sit at ease?
By custom safe, the poet's numbers flow
Free as the light and air some years ago.
No statesman e'er will find it worth his pains
To tax our labours and excise our brains.
Burthens like these, vile earthly buildings bear;
No tribute's laid on castles in the air!
The hive is up in arms, expert to teach,
Nor proudly to be taught unwilling, each
Seems from her fellows a new zeal to catch,
Strength in her limbs, and on her wings dispatch,
The bee goes forth, from herb to herb she flies,
From flower to flower, and loads her labouring thighs
With treasured sweets, robbing those flowers which left
Find not themselves made poorer by the theft;
Their scents as lively, and their looks as fair,
As if the pillager had not been there.
Ne'er doth she flit on pleasure's silken wing;
Ne'er doth she, loitering, let the bloom of spring
Unrifled pass, and on the downy breast
Of some fair flower indulge untimely rest.
Ne'er doth she, drinking deep of those rich dews
Which chemist Night prepared, that faith abuse
Due to the hive, or, selfish in her toils,
To her own private use convert the spoils.
Love of the stock first call'd her forth to roam,
And to the stock she brings her booty home.
CCXVI. GEORGE HORNE, 1730—1792.
DIALOGUE OF THE FLOWERS.
The Heliotrope-Through all the changes of the day
I turn me to the sun;
In clear or cloudy skies I say
Alike-Thy will be done!
The Violet-A lowly flower, in secret bower,
Invisible I dwell;
For blessing made, without parade,
Known only by the smell.
The Lily-Emblem of Him, in whom no stain
The eye of heaven could see,
In all their glory, monarchs vain
Are not array'd like me.
The Rose-With ravish'd heart that crimson hail,
Which in my bosom glows;
Think how the lily of the vale
Became like Sharon's rose.
The Primrose-When time's dark winter shall be o'er,
His storms and tempests laid;
Like me you'll rise, a fragrant flower,
But not like me to fade.
The Garden-The bower of innocence and bliss,
Sin caus'd to disappear;
Repent, and walk in faith and love-
You'll find an Eden here.
CCXVII. SAMUEL BISHOP, 1731-1795.
Thee, Mary, with this ring I wed;
So, fourteen years ago, I said.
Behold another ring!-For what?
To wed thee o'er again? Why not?
With that first ring I married youth,
Grace, beauty, innocence, and truth;
Taste long admired, sense long revered,
And all my Molly then appeared.
If she, by merit since disclosed,
Prove twice the woman I supposed,
I plead that double merit now,
To justify a double vow.
Here, then, to-day (with faith as sun,
With ardour as intense, as pure,
As when, amidst the rights divine,
I took thy troth, and plighted mine),
To thee, sweet girl, my second ring
A token and a pledge I bring:
With this I wed, till death us part,
Thy riper virtues to my heart;
Those virtues which, before untried,
The wife has added to the bride;
Those virtues, whose progressive claim,
Endearing wedlock's very name,
My soul enjoys, my song approves,
For conscience' sake as well as love's.
And why ?-They show me every hour Honour's high thought, Affection's power, Discretion's deed, sound Judgment's sentence, And teach me all things-but repentance.
CCXVIII. OLIVER GOLDSMITH, 1731—1774.
1. EDWIN AND ANGELINA.
Turn, gentle Hermit of the dale,
And guide my lonely way,
To where yon taper cheers the vale
With hospitable ray.
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