WILLIAM COWPER. Might I still hope to win thy love, "Now farewell grief, and welcome joy Once more unto my heart; For since I've found thee, lovely youth, We nevermore will part." WILLIAM COWPER. [1731-1800.] 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 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; She ran upon no rock. His sword was in its sheath, 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 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. 69 LINES TO MY MOTHER'S PICTURE. O THAT those lips had language! Life has passed With me but roughly since I heard thee last. Those lips are thine, - thy own sweet smile I see, The same that oft in childhood solaced me; Voice only fails, else how distinct they say, "Grieve not, my child; chase all thy fears away!" The meek intelligence of those dear eyes (Blest be the art that can immortalize, The art that baffles time's tyrannic claim To quench it!) here shines on me still the same. Faithful remembrancer of one so dear, O welcome guest, though unexpected here! Who bid'st me honor with an artless song, Affectionate, a mother lost so long. I will obey, not willingly alone, But gladly, as the precept were her own; And, while that face renews my filial grief, Fancy shall weave a charm for my relief, Shall steep me in Elysian revery, A momentary dream that thou art she. My mother! when I learned that thou wast dead, Say, wast thou conscious of the tears I shed? Hovered thy spirit o'er thy sorrowing son, Wretch even then, life's journey just The parting words shall pass my lips no | (And thou wast happier than myself the more! Thy maidens, grieved themselves at my concern, Oft gave me promise of thy quick return; Till, all my stock of infant sorrows spent, Where once we dwelt our name is heard no more, Children not thine have trod my nursery floor; And where the gardener Robin, day by day, Drew me to school along the public way, Delighted with my bawble coach, and wrapped In scarlet mantle warm, and velvet capped, 'T is 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, All this, and, more endearing still than all, Thy constant flow of love, that knew no fall, Ne'er roughened by those cataracts and breaks That humor interposed too often makes, - Could Time, his flight reversed, restore the hours When, playing with thy vesture's tissued flowers, The violet, the pink, and jessamine, JEAN ADAM. 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 I can view this mimic show of thee, left. MYSTERIES OF PROVIDENCE. Gop moves in a mysterious way His wonders to perform; He plants his footsteps in the sea, And rides upon the storm. Deep in unfathomable mines He treasures up his bright designs, Ye fearful saints, fresh courage take! Judge not the Lord by feeble sense, His purposes will ripen fast, The bud may have a bitter taste, Blind unbelief is sure to err, And scan his works in vain; God is his own interpreter, And he will make it plain. JEAN ADAM. [1710-1765.] THE MARINER'S WIFE. AND are ye sure the news is true? 71 Mak haste, lay by your wheel; For there's nae luck about the house, And gie to me my bigonet, My bishop's satin gown; That Colin 's in the town. Rise, lass, and mak a clean fireside, Gie little Kate her button gown, There's twa fat hens upo' the coop, Been fed this month and mair; Mak haste and thraw their necks about, That Colin weel may fare; And mak our table neat and clean, Let everything look braw, For wha can tell how Colin fared Sae true his heart, sae smooth his speech, As he comes up the stair. And will I hear him speak? The cauld blasts o' the winter wind, On the cold cheek of death smiles and roses are blending, 73 When pains grow sharp and sickness rages, The greatest love of life appears. When sports went round, and all were And beauty immortal awakes from the On neighbor Dodson's wedding-day, tomb." JOHN LANGHORNE. [1735-1779.] THE DEAD. Of them who, wrapt in earth so cold, For many a tender thought is due. Why else the o'ergrown paths of time Why seeks he with unwearied toil, Death called aside the jocund groom And, looking grave, "You must," says he, "Quit your sweet bride, and come with me. "With you! and quit my Susan's side? What more he urged I have not heard, His reasons could not well be stronger; Through Death's dim walks to urge his And further, to avoid all blame Of cruelty upon my name, To give you time for preparation, And grant a kind reprieve, Well pleased the world will leave." What next the hero of our tale befell, |