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 5001. 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," "Call armourers, ho! Furbish my vizor-close my rivets up I brook no dallying". "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 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- Too soon in few-but deadly words, Some flying straggler breathed to tell, She sprung to search the fatal field. She went-with courage not her own— On 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'd— To worse than death-and deepest night*. [* Mr. Campbell, in his Adelgitha, and above all in his Wounded Hussar, has given a vigorous echo of this poem of Penrose's, which wants little to rank it high among our ballad strains. The picture in the last stanza but two is very fine: Drear anguish urged her to press.] SIR WILLIAM BLACKSTONE. [Born, 1723. Died, 1780.] THE LAWYER'S FAREWELL TO HIS MUSE. As, by some tyrant's stern command, A wretch forsakes his native land, In foreign climes condemn'd to roam An endless exile from his home; Companion of my tender age, By verdant hill, or shady grove, 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, Instead of these a formal band, In furs and coifs, around me stand; With sounds uncouth and accents dry, That grate the soul of harmony, Each pedant sage unlocks his store Of mystic, dark, discordant lore; And points with tottering hand the ways There, in a winding close retreat, O let me pierce the secret shade Then welcome business, welcome strife, SIR JOHN HENRY MOORE, BART. [Born, 1756. Died, 1780.] THIS interesting and promising young man died of a decline, in his twenty-fourth year. LABOUR AND GENIUS; OR, THE MILL-STREAM AND THE CASCADE. BETWIXT two sloping verdant hills A current pour'd its careless rills, How blind is man's incurious race A FABLE. To bring her hidden worth to sight, And place her charms in fairest light? * He said and to his favourite son Consign'd the task, and will'd it done. Damon his counsel wisely weigh'd, And carefully the scene survey'd. And, though it seems he said but little, He took his meaning to a tittle. And first, his purpose to befriend, A bank he raised at th' upper end: Compact and close its outward side, To stay and swell the gathering tide: But on its inner, rough and tall, A ragged cliff, a rocky wall. The channel next he oped to view, And from its course the rubbish drew. Enlarged it now, and now with line Oblique pursued his fair design. Preparing here the mazy way, And there the fall for sportive play ; The precipice abrupt and steep, The pebbled road, and cavern deep; The rooty seat, where best to view The fairy scene, at distance due. He last invoked the dryads' aid, And fringed the borders round with shade. Damon perceives, with ravish'd eyes, Not distant far below, a mill Was built upon a neighb'ring rill : Whose pent-up stream, whene'er let loose, Impell'd a wheel, close at its sluice, So strongly, that by friction's power, "Twould grind the firmest grain to flour. Or, by a correspondence new, With hammers, and their clatt'ring crew, Would so bestir her active stumps, On iron blocks, though arrant lumps, That in a trice she'd manage matters, To make 'em all as smooth as platters. Or slit a bar to rods quite taper, With as much ease as you'd cut paper. For, though the lever gave the blow, Yet it was lifted from below; And would for ever have lain still, But for the bustling of the rill ; Who, from her stately pool or ocean, Put all the wheels and logs in motion ; Things in their nature very quiet, Though making all this noise and riot. This stream that could in toil excel, Began with foolish pride to swell : Piqued at her neighbour's reputation, And thus express'd her indignation : "Madam! methinks you're vastly proud, You wasn't used to talk so loud. Nor cut such capers in your pace, Marry! what antics, what grimace! For shame! don't give yourself such airs, In flaunting down those hideous stairs. Nor put yourself in such a flutter, Whate'er you do, you dirty gutter! I'd have you know, you upstart minx! Ere you were form'd, with all your sinks, A lake I was, compared with which, Your stream is but a paltry ditch. And still, on honest labour bent, I ne'er a single flash mispent. And yet no folks of high degree Which, though so fine, you scarce would think it, "Dear Coz," replied the beauteous torrent, ABSENCE. WITH leaden foot Time creeps along, Ah! envious power! reverse my doom, Now double thy career; Strain every nerve, stretch every plume, And rest them when she's here. |