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Well had the boding tremblers learned
The day's disasters in his morning face; Full well they laughed, with counterfeited glee,
At all his jokes, for many a joke had he; Full well the busy whisper, circling round, Conveyed the dismal tidings when he frowned.
Yet he was kind, or if severe in aught, The love he bore to learning was in fault. The village all declared how much he knew;
'T was certain he could write, and cipher too;
Lands he could measure, times and tides presage,
And even the story ran that he could gauge; In arguing, too, the parson owned his skill, For, even though vanquished, he could argue still;
While words of learned length and thundering sound
Amazed the gazing rustics ranged around; And still they gazed, and still the wonder
Obscure it sinks, nor shall it more impart An hour's importance to the poor man's heart;
Thither no more the peasant shall repair
No more the woodman's ballad shall prevail;
No more the smith his dusky brow shall clear,
Relax his ponderous strength, and lean to hear.
The host himself no longer shall be found Careful to see the mantling bliss go round; Nor the coy maid, half willing to be prest, Shall kiss the cup to pass it to the rest.
"Weep no more, lady, weep no more;
"Our joys as wingéd dreams do fly;
"O, say not so, thou holy friar!
I pray thee say not so;
For since my true love died for me, "T is meet my tears should flow.
"And will he never come again? Will he ne'er come again?
Might I still hope to win thy love,
"Now farewell grief, and welcome joy
Once more unto my heart; For since I've found thee, lovely youth, We nevermore will part."
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
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;
His sword was in its sheath,
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! 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 oft in childhood solaced
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
Faithful remembrancer of one so dear, O welcome 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,
Say, wast thou conscious of the tears I shed?
Hovered thy spirit o'er thy sorrowing son, Wretch even then, life's journey just
Perhaps thou gav'st me, though unfelt, a kiss;
Perhaps a tear, if souls can weep in bliss — Ah, that maternal smile! it answers
I heard the bell tolled on thy burial day, I saw the hearse that bore thee slow away, And, turning from my nursery window,
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,