Are struggling in my heart—O'erpow'ring fate Without regret in Persia's sight and thine Weighs down his eyelids, and the gloom of death THE SAME CONTINUED. FROM BOOK IX. IN sable vesture, spangled o'er with stars, A voice replied. No enemies we come, The Spartan answers. Through the midnight shade What purpose draws your wand'ring steps abroad? O gen'rous warrior, listen to the pray'r The chief, descending, through th' unfolded gates Upheld a flaming torch. The light disclosed One first in servile garments. Near his side A woman graceful and majestic stood, Not with an aspect, rivalling the pow'r Of fatal Helen, or th' ensnaring charms Of love's soft queen, by such as far surpass'd Whate'er the lily, blending with the rose, Spreads on the cheek of beauty soon to fade; Such as express'd a mind by wisdom ruled, By sweetness temper'd; virtue's purest light Illumining the countenance divine : Yet could not soften rig'rous fate, nor charm Malignant fortune to revere the good; Here ending, he conducts her. At the call His mien, his voice, her anxious dread dispel, Benevolent and hospitable thus. Thy looks, fair stranger, amiable and great, A mind delineate, which from all commands Supreme regard. Relate, thou noble dame, By what relentless destiny compell'd, Thy tender feet the paths of darkness tread; If to be great and wretched may deserve Thus to the hero sued the royal maid, Such are thy sorrows, O for ever dear, Night retires A band Attend, assist this princess. Is call'd. The well-remember'd spot they find, Of white-robed virgins, seated on a range A high, triumphal, solemn dirge of praise, In bless'd Elysium was the song. Go, meet Let them salute the children of their laws. Meet Homer, Orpheus and th' Ascræan bard, Who with a spirit, by ambrosial food Thy beauteous limbs were thrown. Thy snowy hue Refined, and more exalted, shall contend Your splendid fate to warble through the bow'rs Then, with no trembling hand, no change of look, She drew a poniard, which her garment veil'd ; And instant sheathing in her heart the blade, On her slain lover silent sunk in death. The unexpected stroke prevents the care Of Agis, pierced by horror and distress, Like one, who, standing on a stormy beach, Beholds a found'ring vessel, by the deep At once engulf'd; his pity feels and mourns, Deprived of pow'r to save: so Agis view'd The prostrate pair. He dropp'd a tear, and thus. Oh! much lamented! Heavy on your heads Hath evil fall'n, which o'er your pale remains Commands this sorrow from a stranger's eye. Illustrious ruins! May the grave impart That peace which life denied! and now receive This pious office from a hand unknown. He spake, unclasping from his shoulders broad His ample robe. He strew'd the waving folds O'er each wan visage; turning then address'd The slave, in mute dejection standing near. Thou, who, attendant on this hapless fair, Hast view'd this dreadful spectacle, return. These bleeding relics bear to Persia's king, Thou with four captives, whom I free from bonds. FROM BOOK XII. Song of the Priestess of the Muses to the chosen Band after their Return from the Inroad into the Persian Camp, on the Night before the Battle of Thermopyla. BACK to the pass in gentle march he leads Dispel the languor from their harass'd nerves, Like your renown. Your ashes we will cull. In ev'ry tongue, through ev'ry age and clime, Of praise with men, of happiness with gods. ADMIRAL HOSIER'S GHOST. ON THE TAKING OF PORTO-BELLO FROM THE SPANIARDS BY ADMIRAL VERNON*. Nov. 22, 1739. As near Porto-Bello lying On the gently swelling flood, From the Spaniards' late defeat ; On a sudden shrilly sounding, Hideous yells and shrieks were heard ; Which for winding sheets they wore, Frowning on that hostile shore. [* The case of Hosier, which is here so pathetically represented, was briefly this. In April 1726 that commander was sent with a strong fleet into the Spanish West-Indies, to block up the galleons in the ports of that country, or, should they presume to come out, to seize and carry them into England; he accordingly arrived at the Bastimentos near Porto-Bello, but being employed rather to overawe than to attack the Spaniards, with whom it was probably not our interest to go to war, he continued long inactive on that station, to his own great regret. He afterwards removed to Carthagena, and remained cruising in these seas till far the greater part of his men peri-hed deplorably by the diseases of that unhealthy climate. This brave man seeing his best officers and men thus daily swept away, his ships exposed to inevitable destruction, and himself made the sport of the enemy, is said to have died of a broken heart.-PERCY.] On them gleam'd the moon's wan lustre, "Heed, O heed, our fatal story, I am Hosier's injured ghost, You, who now have purchased glory At this place where I was lost; Though in Porto-Bello's ruin You now triumph free from fears, When you think on our undoing, You will mix your joy with tears. "See these mournful spectres, sweeping "I, by twenty sail attended, Did this Spanish town affright: Nothing then its wealth defended But my orders not to fight: O! that in this rolling ocean I had cast them with disdain, And obey'd my heart's warm motion, To have quell'd the pride of Spain. "For resistance I could fear none, But with twenty ships had done What thou, brave and happy Vernon, Hast achieved with six alone. [* Admiral Vernon's ship.] Then the Bastimentos never Of this gallant train had been. "Thus, like thee, proud Spain dismaying, He has play'd an English part, Of a grieved and broken heart. "Unrepining at thy glory, Thy successful arms we hail; But remember our sad story, And let Hosier's wrongs prevail, Sent in this foul clime to languish. Think what thousands fell in vain, Wasted with disease and anguish, Not in glorious battle slain. "Hence, with all my train attending We recall our shameful doom, Wander through the midnight gloom. "O'er these waves for ever mourning Shall we roam deprived of rest, If to Britain's shores returning, You neglect my just request. After this proud foe subduing, When your patriot friends you see, Think on vengeance for my ruin, And for England shamed in me [* I was much amused with hearing old Leonidas Glover sing his own fine ballad of Hosier's Ghost, which was very affecting. He is past eighty.-HANNAH MORE. Life, vol. i. p. 405.] All nature seem'd rapt and enchanted. Quite overturn'd the monks' devotion, Cooking a dish of heavenly meat ! How fine he curtsies! Make your bow; My good Lord Bishop, Mr. Dean, TO MISS THANKS to your wiles, deceitful fair, Without a blush your name I hear, No transient glow my bosom heats; And, when I meet your eye, my dear, My fluttering heart no longer beats. I dream, but I no longer find Your form still present to my view; I wake, but now my vacant mind No longer waking dreams of you. I meet you now without alarms, Nor longer fearful to displease, I talk with ease about your charms, E'en with my rival talk with ease. Whether in angry mood you rise, Or sweetly sit with placid guile, Vain is the lightning of your eyes, And vainer still your gilded smile. Loves in your smiles no longer play; Your lips, your tongue have lost their art; Those eyes have now forgot the way That led directly to my heart. Hear me ; and judge if I'm sincere ; That you are beauteous still I swear : But oh! no longer you appear The fairest, and the only fair. Hear me ; but let not truth offend, In that fine form, in many places, I now spy faults, my lovely friend, Which I mistook before for graces. And yet, though free, I thought at first, With shame my weakness I confess, My agonising heart would burst, The agonies of death are less. The little songster thus you see Caught in the cruel schoolboy's toils, Struggling for life, at last like me, Escapes, and leaves his feather'd spoils. His plumage soon resumes its gloss, His little heart soon waxes gay; Nor falls, grown cautious from his loss, To artifice again a prey. It is not love, it is not pique, That gives my whole discourse this cast; "Tis nature that delights to speak Eternally of dangers past. Carousing o'er the midnight bowl And every hair-breadth 'scape relates. Which of us has most cause to grieve? And you, a faithful lover lose. I can find maids in every rout, EDWARD THOMPSON. [Born, 1738. Died, 1786.] CAPTAIN EDWARD THOMPSON was a native of Hull, and went to sea so early in life as to be precluded from the advantages of a liberal education. At the age of nineteen, he acted as lieutenant on board the Jason, in the engagement off Ushant, between Hawke and Conflans. Coming to London, after the peace, he resided, for some time, in Kew-lane, where he wrote some light pieces for the stage, and some licentious poems; the titles of which need not be revived. At the breaking out of the American war, Garrick's interest obtained promotion for him in his own profession; and he was appointed to the command of the Hyæna frigate, and made his fortune by the single capture of a French East Indiaman. He was afterwards in Rodney's action off Cape St. Vincent, and brought home the tidings of the victory. His death was occasioned by a fever, which he caught on board the Grampus, while he commanded that vessel, off the coast of Africa. Though a dissolute man, he had the character of an able and humane commander. A few of his sea songs are entitled to remembrance. Besides his poems and dramatic pieces, he published" Letters of a Sailor;" and edited the works of John Oldham, P. Whitehead, and Andrew Marvell. For the last of those tasks he was grossly unqualified. THE SAILOR'S FAREWELL. THE topsails shiver in the wind, The ship she casts to sea; But yet my soul, my heart, my mind, Should landmen flatter when we're sail'd, If Cupid fill'd his sails : Sirens in ev'ry port we meet, More fell than rocks and waves; But sailors of the British fleet Are lovers, and not slaves: No foes our courage shall subdue, Although we've left our hearts with you. These are our cares; but if you're kind, We'll scorn the dashing main, The rocks, the billows, and the wind, The powers of France and Spain. Now Britain's glory rests with you, Our sails are full-sweet girls, adieu ! SONG. BEHOLD upon the swelling wave, And a cruising we will go. Whene'er Monsieur comes in view, With hearts of oak we ply each gun, The lovely maids of Britain's isle The wind sets fair, the vessel's trim, Old Neptune guides us while we swim, United let each Briton join, Courageously advance, SONG. LOOSE every sail to the breeze, The course of my vessel improve; I've done with the toils of the seas, Ye sailors, I'm bound to my love. Since Emma is true as she's fair, My griefs I fling all to the wind: 'Tis a pleasing return for my care, My mistress is constant and kind. |