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Mark those numbers pale and horrid,
Those were once my sailors bold,
While his dismal tale is told.
“ I, by twenty sail attended,
Did this Spanish town affright:
orders not to fight: O! that in this rolling ocean
I had cast them with disdain,
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 achiev'd with six alone. Than the Bastimentos never
Had our foul dishonour seen, Nor the sea the sad receiver
Of this gallant train had been.
“ Thus, like thee, proud Spain dismaying,
And her galleons leading home,
I had met a traitor's doom;
He has play'd an English part,
Of a griev'd 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 From their
tombs below, Through the hoary foam ascending,
Here I feed my constant woe: Here the Bastimentos viewing,
We recal our shameful doom, And our plaintive cries renewing,
Wander through the midnight gloom.
« O'er these waves for ever mourning
Shall we roam depriv'd of rest, If to Britain's shores returning,
You neglect my just request. After this proud foe subduing,
When your patriot friends you see,
JOHN HALL STEPHENSON.
BORN 1718.-DIED 1785.
I have met with no account of this writer's life, nor have I been very anxious to seek for it, as a volume of poems, which bears his name, is disgraced by obscenity.
A MACARONI FABLE,
In concert with the curfew bell,
Flourish'd a sprightly air between,
THANKS to your wiles, deceitful fair,
The gods, so long in vain implor'd, At last have heard a wretch's prayer;
At last I find myself restor'd,
From thy bewitching snares and thee:
I feel for once this is no dream; I feel my captive soul is free;
And I am truly what I seem.
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,
E'en with my rival talk with ease.