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'Tis now become a history little known,

That once we called the pastoral house our own.
Short-lived possession! but the record fair
That memory keeps, of all thy kindness there,
Still outlives many a storm that has effaced
A thousand other themes less deeply traced.
Thy nightly visits to my chamber made,

That thou mightst know me safe and warmly laid;
Thy morning bounties ere I left my home,

The biscuit, or confectionery plum;

The fragrant waters on my cheek bestowed

By thy own hand, till fresh they shone and glowed;
All this, and more endearing still than all,

Thy constant flow of love, that knew no fall,
Ne'er roughened by those cataracts and brakes
That humour interposed too often makes;
All this still legible in memory's page,
And still to be so to my latest age,

Adds joy to duty, makes me glad to pay

Such honours to thee as my numbers may;

Perhaps a frail memorial, but sincere,

Not scorned in heaven, though little noticed here. Could Time, his flight reversed, restore the hours, When, playing with thy vesture's tissued flowers, The violet, the pink, and jessamine,

I pricked them into paper with a pin

(And thou wast happier than myself the while,
Wouldst softly speak, and stroke my head and smile),
Could those few pleasant days again appear,
Might one wish bring them, would I wish them here?
I would not trust my heart-the dear delight
Seems so to be desired, perhaps I might.-
But no-what here we call our life is such
So little to be loved, and thou so much,
That I should ill requite thee to constrain
Thy unbound spirit into bonds again.

Thou, as a gallant bark from Albion's coast
(The storms all weathered and the ocean crossed)
Shoots into port at some well-havened isle,
Where spices breathe, and brighter seasons smile,

There sits quiescent on the floods that show
Her beauteous form reflected clear below,

While airs impregnated with incense play
Around her, fanning light her streamers gay;
So thou, with sails how swift! hast reached the shore,
"Where tempests never beat nor billows roar."
And thy loved consort on the dangerous tide
Of life long since has anchored by thy side.
But me, scarce hoping to attain that rest,
Always from port withheld, always distressed-
Me howling blasts drive devious, tempest tost,
Sails ripped, seams opening wide, and compass lost,
And day by day some current's thwarting force
Sets me more distant from a prosperous course.
Yet, oh, the thought that thou art safe, and he!
That thought is joy, arrive what may to me.
My boast is not, that I deduce my birth
From loins enthroned and rulers of the earth;
But higher far my proud pretensions rise—
The son of parents passed into the skies!
And now, farewell-Time unrevoked has run
His wonted course, yet what I wished is done.
By contemplation's help, not sought in vain,
I seem to have lived my childhood o'er again;
To have renewed the joys that once were mine,
Without the sin of violating thine:

And, while the wings of Fancy still are free,
And I can view this mimic show of thee,
Time has but half succeeded in his theft-
Thyself removed, thy power to soothe me left.

LOSS OF THE ROYAL GEORGE

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;

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 its 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 tears that England owes.

Her timbers yet are sound,

And she may float again

Full charged with England's thunder,

And plough the distant main:

But Kempenfelt is gone,

His victories are o'er;

And he and his eight hundred

Shall plough the wave no more.

THOMAS CHATTERTON [1752-1770]

MYNSTRELLES SONGE

O! SYNGE untoe mie roundelaie,

O! droppe the brynie teare wythe mee,
Daunce ne moe atte hallie daie,
Lycke a reynyngel ryver bee;
Mie love ys dedde,

Gon to hys death-bedde,

Al under the wyllowe tree.

Blacke hys cryne as the wyntere nyghte,
Whyte hys rode3 as the sommer snowe,
Rodde hys face as the mornynge lyghte,
Cale he lyes ynne the grave belowe;

Swote hys tyngue as the throstles note,
Quycke ynn daunce as thoughte canne bee,
Defte hys taboure, codgelle stote,

O! hee lyes bie the wyllowe tree:

Harke! the ravenne flappes hys wynge,
In the briered delle belowe;

Harke! the dethe-owle loude dothe synge,
To the nyghte-mares as heie goe;

See! the whyte moone sheenes onne hie;
Whyterre ys mie true loves shroude;
Whyterre yanne the mornynge skie,
Whyterre yanne the evenynge cloude;

Heere, uponne mie true loves grave,
Schalle the baren fleurs be layde,
Nee one hallie Seyncte to save
Al the celness of a mayde.

1 running,

2 hair.

3 complexion.

Wythe mie hondes I'lle dente the brieres
Rounde his hallie corse to gre,

Ouphante fairie lyghte youre fyres,
Heere mie boddie stylle schalle bee.

Comme, wythe acorne-coppe & thorne,
Drayne mie hartys blodde awaie;
Lyfe & all yttes goode I scorne,
Daunce bie nete, or feaste bie daie.

Waterre wytches, crownede wythe reytes,*
Bere mee to yer leathalle tyde.

I die; I comme; mie true love waytes.
Thos the damselle spake, and dyed.

Mie love ys dedde, etc.

[From ELLA.]

GEORGE CRABBE [1754-1832]

VILLAGE LIFE

"As Truth will paint it, and as Bards will not."

HERE, wandering long, amid these frowning fields,
I sought the simple life that Nature yields;
Rapine and Wrong and Fear usurped her place,
And a bold, artful, surly, savage race;

Who, only skilled to take the finny tribe,
The yearly dinner, or septennial bribe,

Wait on the shore, and, as the waves run high,
On the tossed vessel bend their eager eye,
Which to their coast directs its vent'rous way;
Theirs or the ocean's miserable prey.

As on their neighbouring beach yon swallows stand,
And wait for favouring winds to leave the land;
While still for flight the ready wing is spread:

So waited I the favouring hour, and fled;

Fled from these shores where guilt and famine reign, And cried, "Ah! hapless they who still remain:

4 water-flags

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