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 seafight 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.
HARK! 'tis the twanging horn o'er yonder bridge, That with its wearisome but needful length Bestrides the wintry flood, in which the moon Sees her unwrinkled face reflected bright; He comes, the herald of a noisy world, With spatter'd boots, strapp'd waist, and frozen News from all nations lumb'ring at his back. True to his charge, the close pack'd load behind, Yet careless what he brings, his one concern Is to conduct it to the destined inn;
And, having dropp'd th' expected bag, pass on. He whistles as he goes, light-hearted wretch, Cold and yet cheerful: messenger of grief Perhaps to thousands, and of joy to some; To him indiff'rent whether grief or joy. Houses in ashes, and the fall of stocks, Births, deaths, and marriages, epistles wet With tears, that trickled down the writer's cheeks Fast as the periods from his fluent quill,
Or charged with am'rous sighs of absent swains, Or nymphs responsive, equally affect
His horse and him, unconscious of them all. But oh th' important budget! usher'd in With such heart-shaking music, who can say What are its tidings? have our troops awaked? Or do they still, as if with opium drugg'd, Snore to the murmurs of th' Atlantic wave? Is India free and does she wear her plumed And jewell'd turban with a smile of peace, Or do we grind her still? The grand debate, The popular harangue, the tart reply, The logic, and the wisdom, and the wit, And the loud laugh—I long to know them all ; I burn to set th' imprison'd wranglers free, And give them voice and utt'rance once again. Now stir the fire, and close the shutters fast,
Let fall the curtains, wheel the sofa round, And while the bubbling and loud-hissing urn Throws up a steamy column, and the cups, That cheer but not inebriate, wait on each, So let us welcome peaceful ev'ning in. Not such his ev'ning, who, with shining face, Sweats in the crowded theatre, and, squeezed And bored with elbow-points through both his sides, Outscolds the ranting actor on the stage
Nor his who patient stands till his feet throb, And his head thumps, to feed upon the breath Of patriots, bursting with heroic rage, Or placemen, all tranquillity and smiles. This folio of four pages, happy work! Which not ev'n critics criticise; that holds Inquisitive Attention, while I read,
Fast bound in chains of silence, which the fair, Though eloquent themselves, yet fear to break; What is it but a map of busy life,
Its fluctuations, and its vast concerns?
Here runs the mountainous and craggy ridge
That tempts Ambition.
The seals of office glitter in his eyes;
He climbs, he pants, he grasps them! At his heels,
Close at his heels, a demagogue ascends,
And with a dext'rous jerk soon twists him down,
And wins them, but to lose them in his turn. Here rills of oily eloquence in soft Meanders lubricate the course they take; The modest speaker is ashamed and grieved T'engross a moment's notice; and yet begs, Begs a propitious ear for his poor thoughts, However trivial all that he conceives.
Sweet bashfulness! it claims at least this praise: The dearth of information and good sense That it foretels us, always comes to pass. Cat'racts of declamation thunder here; There forests of no meaning spread the page, In which all comprehension wanders lost;
While fields of pleasantry amuse us there With merry descants on a nation's woes. The rest appears a wilderness of strange But gay confusion: roses for the cheeks, And lilies for the brows of faded age, Teeth for the toothless, ringlets for the bald, Heav'n, earth, and ocean plunder'd of their sweets Nectareous essences, Olympian dews, Sermons, and city feasts, and fav'rite airs, Æthereal journeys, submarine exploits, And Katerfelto, with his hair on end At his own wonders, wond'ring for his bread. "Tis pleasant, through the loopholes of retreat, To peep at such a world; to see the stir Of the great Babel, and not feel the crowd; To hear the roar she sends through all her gates At a safe distance, where the dying sound Falls a soft murmur on th' uninjured ear. Thus sitting, and surveying thus at ease The globe and its concerns, I seem advanced To some secure and more than mortal height, That lib'rates and exempts me from them all. It turns submitted to my view, turns round With all its generations; I behold
The tumult, and am still. The sound of war Has lost its terrors ere it reaches me; Grieves, but alarms me not. I mourn the pride And av'rice that make man a wolf to man; Hear the faint echo of those brazen throats, By which he speaks the language of his heart, And sigh, but never tremble at the sound. He travels and expatiates, as the bee
From flow'r to flow'r, so he from land to land; The manners, customs, policy of all
Pay contribution to the store he gleans; He sucks intelligence in ev'ry clime, And spreads the honey of his deep research At his return-a rich repast for me. He travels, and I too. I tread his deck,
Ascend his topmast, through his peering eyes Discover countries, with a kindred heart Suffer his woes, and share in his escapes; While fancy, like the finger of a clock, Runs the great circuit, and is still at home. Oh Winter, ruler of th' inverted year, Thy scatter'd hair with sleet like ashes fill'd, Thy breath congeal'd upon thy lips, thy cheeks Fringed with a beard made white with other snows Than those of age, thy forehead wrapp'd in clouds, A leafless branch thy sceptre, and thy throne A sliding car, indebted to no wheels,
But urged by storms along its slipp'ry way, I love thee, all unlovely as thou seem'st,
And dreaded as thou art! Thou hold'st the sun A pris'ner in the yet undawning east, Short'ning his journey between morn and noon, And hurrying him, impatient of his stay, Down to the rosy west; but kindly still Compensating his loss with added hours Of social converse and instructive ease, And gath❜ring, at short notice, in one group The family dispersed, and fixing thought, Not less dispersed by daylight and its cares. I crown thee king of intimate delights, Fireside enjoyments, homeborn happiness, And all the comforts that the lowly roof Of undisturb'd Retirement, and the hours Of long, uninterrupted ev'ning know.
No rattling wheels stop short before these gates; No powder'd pert, proficient in the art
Of sounding an alarm, assaults these doors Till the street rings; no stationary steeds Cough their own knell, while, heedless of the sound, The silent circle fan themselves and quake: But here the needle plies its busy task, The pattern grows, the well-depicted flow'r, Wrought patiently into the snowy lawn, Unfolds its bosom; buds, and leaves, and sprigs,
« AnteriorContinua » |