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 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.
IN common with the Hammonds and Dorsets of a past age, and the Darwins and Hayleys of the present one, Jones
has written a good deal of smooth verse, and a few occasional stanzas possessing spirit and elegance. He was a most assiduous student, a prodigy indeed of "varying lore," and was particularly distinguished in oriental literature. In 1783 Jones was appointed a judge in Bengal, and in 1794 died at his post, of the dreadful disease of India-inflammation of the liver, which in his case was unusually rapid in its progress.
SWEET maid, if thou would'st charm my sight,
And bid these arms thy neck infold;
That rosy cheek, that lily hand,
Would give thy poet more delight
Than all Bocara's vaunted gold,
Than all the gems of Samarcand.
Boy, let yon liquid ruby flow,
And bid thy pensive heart be glad,
Whate'er the frowning zealots say:
Tell them, their Eden cannot show
A stream so clear as Rocnabad,
A bower so sweet as Mosellay.
O! when these fair perfidious maids,
Whose eyes our secret haunts infest,
Their dear destructive charms display;
Each glance my tender breast invades,
And robs my wounded soul of rest,
As Tartars seize their destined prey.
In vain with love our bosoms glow:
Can all our tears, can all our sighs,
New lustre to those charms impart ?
Can cheeks, where living roses blow,
Where nature spreads her richest dyes,
Require the borrow'd gloss of art ?
Speak not of fate: ah! change the theme,
And talk of odours, talk of wine,
Talk of the flowers that round us bloom :
'Tis all a cloud, 'tis all a dream;
To love and joy thy thoughts confine,
Nor hope to pierce the sacred gloom.
Beauty has such resistless power,
That even the chaste Egyptian dame
Sigh'd for the blooming Hebrew boy :
For her how fatal was the hour,
When to the banks of Nilus came
A youth so lovely and so coy!
But ah! sweet maid, my counsel hear
(Youth should attend when those advise
Whom long experience renders sage):
While music charms the ravish'd ear;
While sparkling cups delight our eyes,
Be gay, and scorn the frowns of age.
What cruel answer have I heard!
And yet, by heaven, I love thee still :
Can aught be cruel from thy lip?
Yet say, how fell that bitter word
From lips which streams of sweetness fill,
Which nought but drops of honey sip?
Go boldly forth, my simple lay,
Whose accents flow with artless ease,
Like orient pearls at random strung:
Thy notes are sweet, the damsels say;
But, O! far sweeter, if they please
The nymph for whom these notes are sung.
THIS amiable and clever man was in orders, and was long head-master of the Merchant Taylors' School.
ON THE ANNIVERSARY OF HER WEDDING-DAY, WHICH WAS
ALSO HER BIRTH-DAY, WITH A RING.
"THEE, Mary, with this ring I wed"-
So, fourteen years ago, I said.
Behold another ring!" for what?"
"To wed thee o'er again ?"-Why not?
With that first ring I married youth,
Grace, beauty, innocence, and truth;
Taste long admired, sense long revered,
And all my Molly then appear'd.
If she, by merit since disclosed,
Prove twice the woman I supposed,
I plead that double merit now,
To justify a double vow.
Here then to-day, (with faith as sure,
With ardour as intense, as pure,
As when, amidst the rites divine,
I took thy troth, and plighted mine,)
To thee, sweet girl, my second ring
A token and a pledge I bring:
With this I wed, till death us part,
Thy riper virtues to my heart;
Those virtues, which before untried,
The wife has added to the bride :
Those virtues, whose progressive claim,
Endearing wedlock's very name,
My soul enjoys, my song approves,
For conscience' sake as well as love's.
And why? They show me every hour, Honour's high thought, Affection's power, Discretion's deed, sound Judgment's sentence, And teach me all things-but repentance.
THE leading circumstances of the life of Burns are so familiarly known to every class of readers, that it seems superfluous to go over them, unless in a manner very different from what can be attempted in this limited publication. His own eloquent and energetic letters, whenever his genuine feelings guided his pen, afford the truest insight into his manly, and, in many points, noble character as a man and a man of genius. His single letter to Dr Moore is one of the most precious morsels of autobio
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