1720.

FALCONER.

Few poets without practical experience can describe a seaman's life or ways, nor can a limner truly paint a vessel at sea-(hardly one at anchor) "Turner," 66 Cooper "Hall," and "Maryatt," excel; but they were wholly, or in part sailors, and Falconer, was the purser of the unfortunate frigate "Aurora," which foundered off the Cape of Good Hope, when every soul on board perished.

Amidst this fearful trance, a thund'ring sound,
He hears, and thrice the hollow decks rebound,
Up starting from his couch on deck he sprung,
Thrice with shrill note the boatswain's whistle rung,
"All hands unmoor," proclaimed a boist'rous cry,
All hands unmoor the cavern'd rocks reply,
Uptorn reluctant from its oozy cave,
The pond'rous anchor rises o'er the wave;
With ruin pregnant now the clouds impend,
And storm and cataract tumultuous blend-
Deep on her side the reeling vessel lies,
Brail up the mizen quick the master cries
Man the clue garnets, let the main sheet fly-
The boist'rous squall still presses from on high,
And swift, and fatal as the light'ning's course
Through the torn mainsail bursts with thund'ring
force,

Hard up the helm a weather, "Rodmond" cries,
Swift at the word, the helm a weather flies.

1731.

GOLDSMITH.

Pleased with his guest the good man learn'd to glow,

And quite forgot their vices in their woe;

Careless their merits or their faults to scan,

His pity gave ere charity began—

Thus to relieve the wretched was his pride
And even his failings lean'd on virtue's side;
But on his duty, prompt at every call,

He watch'd and wept—he pray'd—and felt for all ;
And as a bird each fond endearment tries

To tempt her new fledged offspring to the skies,

He tried each art, reproved each dull delay

And lured to brighter worlds and led the way.

Near yonder Thorn that lifts its head on high, Where once a sign post caught the passing eye Low lies that house, where nut-brown draughts inspired,

When grey beard mirth, and smiling toil retir'd;
Where village statesmen talk'd with looks profound;
And news, much older than their ale, went round;
Imagination fondly stoops to trace

The parlour splendours of that festive place;
The white-wash'd wall, the nicely sanded floor,
The varnish'd clock that click'd behind the door;
The chest contriv'd a double debt to pay,
A bed by night, a chest of drawers by day;
The pictures, placed for ornament and use,
The twelve good rules, the royal game of goose,
The hearth-except when winter chill'd the day,
With aspen boughs, and flowers, and fennel gay;
While broken tea cups, wisely kept for show-
Rang'd o'er the chimney, glisten'd in a row
Vain transitory splendours! could not all
Reprieve the tott'ring from its fall.

-(Deserted Village.)

1759.

BURNS.

Born and bred a peasant's son-but did not "Whistle as he went for want of thought."

Who made the heart, 'tis he alone
Decidedly can try us;

He knows each cord-its various tone,
Each spring, its various bias.

Then at the balance lets be mute,
We never can adjust it—

What's done, we partly can compute,
But know not what's resisted.

TO MARY IN HEAVEN.

Thou ling'ring star, with less'ning ray,
That lov'st to greet the early morn,

Again thou usher'st in the day

My Mary from my soul was torn.

O Mary! dear departed shade!

Where is thy place of blissful rest?

See'st thou thy lover lowly laid?

Hear'st thou the groans that rend his breast?

That sacred hour can I forget,

Can I forget the hallowed grove, Where by the winding Ayr we met, To live one day of parting love! Eternity will not efface

Those records dear of transports past;

Thy image at our last embrace;

Ah! little thought we 'twas our last!

Ayr gurgling kiss'd his pebbled shore,
O'erhung with wild woods, thick'ning, green;
The fragrant birch, and hawthorn hoar,
Twin'd amorous round the raptured scene.
The flowers sprang wanton to be prest,
The birds sang love on every spray,
'Till too, too soon, the glowing west
Proclaim'd the speed of winged day.

Still o'er these scenes my mem'ry wakes,
And fondly broods with miser care;
Time but the impression stronger makes,
As streams their channels deeper wear.

My Mary, dear departed shade!

Where is thy place of blissful rest?

See'st thou thy lover lowly laid?

Hear'st thou the groans that rend his breast?

1800.

SIR WALTER SCOTT BART.

Wherever true taste prevails, or his country's vernacular idiom is familiar,-his pleasing rhyme, amusing romance, and instructive historic notes and essays, will long contend (like the unspotted works of "Addison") with the insidious power of oblivion.

O woman in our hours of ease,

Uncertain coy and hard to please;
And variable as the shade,

Of the tall quiv'ring aspen made

When pain and anguish wring the brow
A ministering angel thou.