Might I still hope to win thy love, No longer would I stay."

"Now farewell grief, and welcome joy
Once more unto my heart;
For since I've found thee, lovely youth,
We nevermore will part."

WILLIAM COWPER.

[1731-1800.]

LOSS OF THE ROYAL GEORGE.

TOLL for the brave!

The brave that are no more! All sunk beneath the wave

Fast by their native shore!

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.

69

LINES TO MY MOTHER'S PICTURE.

O THAT those lips had language! Life has passed

With me but roughly since I heard thee last.

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

The same that oit 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 tyrannic 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? Perhaps thou gav'st me, though unfelt, a kiss;

Perhaps a tear, if souls can weep in blissAh, that maternal smile! it answers Yes.

I heard the bell tolled on thy burial day, I saw the hearse that bore thee slow away, And, turning from my nursery window, drew

A long, long sigh, and wept a last adieu! But was it such? It was. Where thou

art gone, Adieus and farewells are a sound unknown. May I but meet thee on that peaceful

shore,