"But chiefly by his face and mien,

That were so fair to view, His flaxen locks that sweetly curled, And eyes of lovely blue.'

"O lady, he is dead and gone!

Lady, he's dead and gone! And at his head a green grass turf, And at his heels a stone.

"Within these holy cloisters long He languished, and he died, Lamenting of a lady's love,

And 'plaining of her pride.

"Here bore him barefaced on his bier
Six proper youths and tall;
And many a tear bedewed his grave
Within yon kirkyard wall.'

"And art thou dead, thou gentle youth?
And art thou dead and gone?
And didst thou die for love of me?
Break, cruel heart of stone!"

"O, weep not, lady, weep not so;
Some ghostly comfort seek:
Let not vain sorrow rive thy heart,
Nor tears bedew thy cheek."

"O do not, do not, holy friar,

My sorrow now reprove; For I have lost the sweetest youth That e'er won lady's love.

"And now, alas! for thy sad loss I'll evermore weep and sigh; For thee I only wished to live, For thee I wish to die."

"Weep no more, lady, weep no more;
Thy sorrow is in vain :
For violets plucked, the sweetest shower
Will ne'er make grow again.

"Our joys as wingéd dreams do fly;
Why then should sorrow last?
Since grief but aggravates thy loss,
Grieve not for what is past."

"O, say not so, thou holy friar!
I pray thee say not so;

For since my true love died for me, 'Tis meet my tears should flow.

"And will he never come again? Will he ne'er come again?

Might I still hope to win thy love,
No longer would I stay."

"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
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 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

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 1 shed?

Hovered thy spirit o'er thy sorrowing son, Wretch even then, life's journey just

begun?

Perhaps thou gav'st me, though unfelt, a kiss;

Perhaps a tear, if souls can weep in blissAh, that maternal smile! it answers Yes.

I heard the bell tolled on thy burial day, I saw the hearse that bore thee slow away, And, turning from my nursery window, drew

A long, long sigh, and wept a last adieu But was it such? It was. Where thou

art gone, Adieusand farewells are a sound unknown. May I but meet thee on that peaceful shore,

The parting words shall pass my lips no

more!

Thy maidens, grieved themselves at my

concern,

Oft gave me promise of thy quick return;
What ardently I wished I long believed,
And, disappointed still, was still deceived;
By expectation every day beguiled,
Dupe of to-morrow even from a child.
Thus many a sad to-morrow came and
went,

Till, all my stock of infant sorrows spent,
I learned at last submission to my lot;
But, though I less deplored thee, ne'er
forgot.

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,
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 honors to thee as my numbers may;
Perhaps a frail memorial, but sincere,
Not scorned in heaven, though little no-
ticed 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,