With her book, ana her voice, and her lyre
To wing all her moments at home;
And with scenes that new rapture inspire,
As oft as it suits her to roam;

She will have just the life she prefers,
With little to hope or to fear,
And ours would be pleasant as hers,
Might we view her enjoying it here.

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,
All sunk beneath the wave,
Fast by their native shore!

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 ;

248

LOSS OF THE ROYAL GEORGI

Down went the Royal George,
With all her crew complete.

Toll for the brave!

Brave Kempenfelt is gone
His last sea-fight 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 his 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-charg'd with England's thunda.
And plough the distant main.

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,
Which rural gentleman call sport divine.
A narrow brook, by rushy banks conceal'd
Runs in a bottom, and divides the field;
Oaks intersperse it, that had once a head,
But now wear crests of oven-wood instead ;
And where the land slopes to its wat'ry bourn,
Wide yawns a gulph beside a ragged thorn;
Bricks line the sides, but shiver'd long ago,
And horrid brambles intertwine below;
A hollow scoop'd, I judge, in ancient time,
For baking earth, or burning rock to lime.

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,
For which, alas! my destiny severe,

Though ears she gave me two, gave me no ear.

The sun, accomplishing his early march,
His lamp now planted on Heav'n's topmost arch,
When, exercise and air my only aim,

And heedless whither, to that field I came,
Ere yet with ruthless joy the happy hound
Told hill and dale that Reynard's track was
found,

Or with the high-rais'd horn's melodious clang
All Kilwick and all Dinglederry* rang.

Sheep graz'd the field; some with soft bosom press'd

The herb as soft, while nibbling stray'd the rest;
Nor noise was heard but of the hasty brook,
Struggling, detain'd in many a petty nook.
All seem'd so peaceful, that, from them con.
vey'd,

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.