244

TO ALL YOU LADIES NOW ON LAND.

But now our fears tempestuous grow,
And cast our hopes away;

Whilst you, regardless of our woe,
Sit careless at a play;

Perhaps permit some happier man
To kiss your hand, or flirt your fan.
With a fa, la, la, la, la.

When any mournful tune you hear
That dies in ev'ry note,

As if it sighed with each man's care,
For being so remote:

Then think how often love we've made
To you, when all those tunes were play'd!
With a fa, la, la, la, la.

In justice you cannot refuse

To think of our distress,

When we, for hopes of honour, lose
Our certain happiness!

All those designs are but to prove
Ourselves more worthy of your love!
With a fa, la, la, la, la.

And now we've told you all our loves,
And likewise all our fears;
In hopes this declaration moves
Some pity for our tears;
Let's hear of no inconstancy-
We have too much of that at sea.
With a fa, la, la, la, la.

Charles Sackville, Lord Dorset.

246

THE DEATH OF THE BRAVE.

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.

W. Cowper.

THE DEATH OF THE BRAVE.

How sleep the brave, who sink to rest
By all their country's wishes blest!
When spring, with dewy fingers cold,
Returns to deck their hallow'd mould,
She there shall dress a sweeter sod
Than fancy's feet have ever trod.

By fairy hands their knell is rung,
By forms unseen their dirge is sung:
There Honour comes, a pilgrim grey,
To bless the turf that wraps their clay;
And Freedom shall awhile repair,
To dwell a weeping hermit there.

W. Collins.

A DIRGE.

247

A DIRGE.

O SING unto my roundelay,

O drop the briny tear with me;
Dance no more at holyday,
Like a running river be:
My love is dead,

Gone to his death-bed,

All under the willow-tree.

Black his cryne as the winter night,
White his rode as the summer snow,
Red his face as the morning light,
Cold he lies in the grave below:
My love is dead,

Gone to his death-bed,

All under the willow-tree.

Sweet his tongue as the throstle's note,
Quick in dance as thought can be,

Deft his tabor, cudgel stout;

O! he lies by the willow-tree:
My love is dead,

Gone to his death-bed,

All under the willow-tree.

Hark! the raven flaps his wing
In the brier'd dell below;
Hark! the death-owl loud doth sing
To the night-mares as they go:
My love is dead,

Gone to his death-bed,

All under the willow-tree.

See! the white moon shines on high;
Whiter is my true love's shroud,
Whiter than the morning sky,
Whiter than the evening cloud:
My love is dead,

Gone to his death-bed,

All under the willow-tree.

Here upon my true love's grave
Shall the barren flowers be laid,
Not one holy Saint to save
All the calness of a maid:
My love is dead,

Gone to his death-bed,

All under the willow-tree.

With my hands I'll dent the briars
Round his holy corse to gree;
Ouphant fairy, light your fires-
Here my body still shall be:
My love is dead,

Gone to his death-bed,

All under the willow-tree.

Come, with acorn-cup and thorn,

Drain my heartè's blood away;
Life and all its goods I scorn,
Dance by night, or feast by day:
My love is dead,

Gone to his death-bed,

All under the willow tree.

Water-witches crowned with reytes,
Bear me to your Lethal tide.
I die! I come! my true love waits!
Thus the damsel spake, and died.

Thomas Chatterton.