With her book, ana her voice, and her lyre She will have just the life she prefers, ON THE LOSS OF THE ROYAL GEORGE. [To the March in Scipio.] WRITTEN WHEN THE NEWS ARRIVED [September, 1782.] TOLL for the brave! The brave that are no more, Eight hundred of the brave, Had made the vessel heel, A land breeze shook the shrouds, And she was overset ; 248 LOSS OF THE ROYAL GEORGI Down went the Royal George, Toll for the brave! Brave Kempenfelt is gone It was not in the battle; His sword was in his sheath; Weigh the vessel up, Once dreaded by our foes! And mingle with our cup, The tear that England owes. Her timbers yet are sound, Full-charg'd with England's thunda. But Kempenfelt is gone, His victories are o'er; And he and his eight hundred, Shall plough the wave ro more. THE NEEDLESS ALARM. A TALE. TIIERE is a field, through which I often pass Thick overspread with moss and silky grass, Adjoining close to Kilwick's echoing wood, Where oft the bitch fox hides her hapless brood, Reserv'd to solace many a neighb'ring squire, That he may follow them through brake and brier, Contusion, hazarding of neck, or spine, Not yet the hawthorn bore her berries red, With which the fieldfare, wintry guest, is fed; Nor autumn yet had brush'd from ev'ry spray, With her chill hand the mellow leaves away; But corn was hous'd and beans were in the stack; Now therefore issu'd forth the spotted pack, With tails high mounted, ears hung low, and throats, With a whole gamut fill'd of heav'nly notes, Though ears she gave me two, gave me no ear. The sun, accomplishing his early march, And heedless whither, to that field I came, Or with the high-rais'd horn's melodious clang Sheep graz'd the field; some with soft bosom press'd The herb as soft, while nibbling stray'd the rest; To me their peace by kind contagion spread. But when the huntsman with distended cheek, Gan make his instru nent of music speak, And from within the wood that crash was heard, *Two woods belonging to John Trockmortor, Esq. |