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On them gleam'd the moon's wan lustre,

When the shade of Hosier brave
His pale bands was seen to muster,

Rising from their watery grave:
O’er the glimmering wave he hied him,

Where the Burford rear'd her sail,
With three thousand ghosts beside him,

And in groans did Vernon hail-
Heed, O heed our fatal story,

I am Hosier's injured ghost,
You who now have purchased glory

At this place where I was lost;
Though in Porto Bello's ruin

You now triumph free from fears, When you think on our undoing,

You will mix your joy with tears. See these mournful spectres sweeping

Ghastly o'er this hated wave, Whose wan cheeks are stain'd with weeping;

These were English captains brave: Mark those numbers pale and horrid,

Those were once my sailors bold, Lo, each hangs his drooping forehead,

While his dismal tale is told.

• I, by twenty sail attended,

Did this Spanish town affright; Nothing then its wealth defended

But my orders not to fight:
O! that in this rolling ocean

I had cast them with disdain,
And obey'd my heart's warm motion

To have quell’d the pride of Spain;


- For resistance I could fear none,

But with twenty ships had done What thou, brave and happy Vernon,

Hast achieved with six alone. Then the Bastimentos never

Had our foul dishonour seen, Nor the sea the sad receiver

Of this gallant train had been. Thus, like thee, proud Spain dismaying,

And her galleons leading home,
Though condemn’d for disobeying,

I had met a traitor's doom,
To have fallen, my country crying

He has play'd an English part,
Had been better far than dying

Of a grieved and broken heart. Unrepining at thy glory,

Thy successful arms we hail; But remember our sad story,

And let Hosier's wrongs prevail : Sent in this foul clime to languish,

Think what thousands fell in vain, Wasted with disease and anguish,

Not in glorious battle slain. · Hence with all my train attending,

From their oozy tombs below, Through the hoary foam ascending,

Here I feed my constant woe; Here, the Bastimentos viewing,

We recall our shameful doom, An our plaintive cries renewing,

Wander through the midnight gloom.


• O'er these waves for ever mourning

Shall we roam deprived of rest, If to Britain's shores returning

You neglect my just request; After this proud foe subduing,

When your patriot friends you see, Think on vengeance for my ruin,

And for England shamed in me.'



Ar break of day, with frightful dreams

Lenora struggled sore:
My William, art thou slaine, say'd she,

Or dost thou love no more?
He went abroade with Richard's host,

The Paynim foes to quell;
But he no word to her had writt,

An he were sick or well.
With sowne of trump and beat of drum,

His fellow soldyers come;
Their helmes bedeckt with oaken boughs,

They seeke their long’d-for home.
And every roade and every lane

Was full of old and young, To gaze at the rejoicing band,

To hail with gladsome toung. « Thank God!' their wives and children saide,

« Welcome! the brides did saye: But greete or kiss Lenora gave To none upon that daye.

* From Burger.

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She askte of all the passing trine

For him she wisht to see:
But none of all the passing traine

Could tell if lived hee.
And when the soldyers all were bye,

She tore her raven haire,
And cast herself upon the growne

In furious despaire.
Her mother ran and lyfte her up,

And clasped in her arme,
My child, my child, what dost thou ail?

God shield thy life from harm! " () mother, mother! William's gone!

What's all besyde to me? There is no mercye, sure, above !

All, all were spared but hee!' * Kneel downe, thy paternoster saye,

"Twill calm thy troubled spright: The Lord is wyse, the Lord is good;

What hee hath done is right.' « () mother, mother! say not so;

Most cruel is my fate: I prayde, and prayde; but watte avayld ?

'Tis now, alas! too late.' • Our Heavenly Father, if we praye,

Will help a suffering childe : Go take the holy sacrament;

So shall thy grief grow milde.' 0, mother, what I feel within

No sacrament can staye ;
No sacrament can teache the dead

To bear the sight of daye.'

May be, among the heathen folk

Thy Willian false doth prove, And puts away his faith and troth,

And takes another love.
· Then wherefore sorrow for his loss?

Thy moans are all in vain :
And when his soul and body parte,

His falsehode brings him paine.' « () mother, mother! gone is gone;

My hope is all forlorne ;
The grave mie onlye safeguard is-

0, had I ne'er been born!
• Go out, go out, my lampe of life;

In grislie darkness die:
There is no mercye, sure, above !

For ever let me lie.'
Almighty God! O do not judge

My poor unhappy childe;
She knows not what her lips pronounce,

Her anguish makes her wilde. • My girl, forget thine earthly woe,

And think on God and bliss ; For so, at least, shall not thy soule

Its heavenly bridegroom miss.' • O mother, mother! what is blisse,

And what the fiendis' celle? With him, 'tis heaven any where,

Without my William, helle.
* Go out, go out, my lamp of life;

In endless darkness die:
Without him I must loathe the earth,

Without him scorne the skye.'


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