More close they cling distracted round the form
Of their lov'd sire-more frantic raves the storm-
Heard you that cry? it reach'd the sea-beat shore-
Father and child-their agony is o'er-
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Its murmurs cease-they meet their awful doom--
The wreck their coffin-the wild sea their tomb.
SOLENT SEA.-ROYAL REGATTA.
With flowing sail our vessel cleaves the tide,
And from the deck, in prospect opening wide,
Broad on the bow, increasing to the view,
Vecta, thy cliffs are seen of paly blue.
Now issuing from the Solent sea,* behold
A gorgeous fleet diffusing rays of gold
O'er the proud waves-crowds line the winding shore,
And echoing thunders from the bastions roar.
High in the midst, with banner'd prow, appears
The royal yacht that England's monarch bears;
Imperial Brunswick, on his genuine throne,
A war-ship's deck, with all the sea his own.
The Solent sea is the channel between the Isle of Wight and Hampshire.
Britannia! rise; awake, O fairest Isle,
Behold thy wooden walls, a floating pile,
In steady phalanx round their Sovereign keep,
Whose star adorns the billows of the deep.
Now as we thread the throng, a thousand eyes
Pursue our warlike vessel as she flies,
And of one origin, rejoice again
Strength to confer on Amity's bright chain.
Then, as we pass amidst the royal fleet,
Our guns great Albion's princely standard greet, From whose bright-blazon'd realm we proudly draw Our arms, our sacred liberty, and law.
SPITHEAD.-COMING TO AN ANCHOR.
Thy point, O Dunnose, weather'd, to the gale
We closely haul, and trim full oft the sail,
The port to gain unfolding to the sight
Its lordly hulls, and masts of towering height, 4400
Where England's proud armada on the tide,
Her floating fortresses, serenely ride.
With topsails on the cap, our way we keep
Where the lone mast emerges from the deep.*
A sad memorial of the sudden doom
That gave to Kempenfelt a watery tomb,
Blest had he, nobly prodigal of breath,
On the proud deck of battle met his death.
Now, as we pass the beacons of the bay,
Our prow
the pinnace crosses in her way
With long resounding oar-whose cheerful crew
In garb and face present a kindred hue.
Now peal our guns, and as the clouds aspire,
Loud from the bastion bursts the answering fire,
While the proud banner from the staff unroll'd,
Flag of the Union, opening many a fold,
Resplendent gleams-the lofty sails decline,
And the huge anchors dash the foaming brine.
My voyage ends :-freed from the sea's alarms,
Around her child the mother throws her arms,
* On the 29th of August, 1782, the Royal George of 100 guns, being on the heel at Spithead, in order to repair some of her copper, a sudden squall threw her on her beam-ends, and her lower deck guns being run out, the water rushed with such rapidity in at the ports, that she filled and sunk. Of 700 persons on board 400 perished, among whom was Admiral Kempenfelt; the rest were picked up by the boats of the fleet. Her masts remained standing for a considerable time, but were at length removed, and a buoy is placed over the hull.
And, as the treasure to the heart is prest,
To heav'n directs her eye with grateful breast.
Then, as the pinnace rocks upon the tides,
On the ship's ladder many a hoverer glides,
And many a pious vow my shipmates pour
In the sad trial of the parting hour.
Still lingering at the side, I hold the hand
Of the great leader of the naval band,
And Hampden-Randolph-bid a last adieu-
The
gay lieutenants of a gallant crew.
High on the yards, beneath the noon-tide gale,
The toiling tars reduce the flapping sail
With eager hand; the mother to me bears
Her hope, the solace of my drooping years,
To hold her forward, as the fleet boat flies,
With one last look to glad the sailors' eyes!
The ringlets from the fondling's face I throw,
And bare the cheek of smiles, which laughs below-
Modest and mild she waves her little hand-
It sounds the farewell of the free-born band
Again, again, again, the shouts they urge
Shake the wide shore, and raise the heaving surge.
Come on, sir; here's the place!
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