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Air—The Lass of Patie's Mill.

When all within is

peace, How nature seems to smile! Delights that never cease,

The live-long day beguile. From morn to dewy eve,

With open hand she showers Fresh blessings to deceive

And soothe the silent hours.

It is content of heart

Gives nature power to please; The mind that feels no smart

Enlivens all it sees; Can make a wintry sky

Seem bright as smiling May, And evening's closing eye

As peep of early day.

The vast majestic globe,

So beauteously array'd In nature's various robe,

With wondrous skill display'd, Is to a mourner's heart

A dreary wild at best; It flutters to depart,

And longs to be at rest.

ON THE

LOSS OF THE ROYAL GEORGE.

WRITTEN WHEN THE NEWS ARRIVED,

SEPT. 1782.

To the March in Scipio.

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.

1

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.

Bat Kempenfelt is gone,

His victories are o'er;
And he and his eight hundred

Shall plough the wave no more.

SONNET TO WILLIAM WILBERFORCE, ESQ.

1792.

Thy country, Wilberforce, with just disdain,

Hears thee by cruel men and impious callid

Fanatic, for thy zeal to loose the enthralld From exile, public sale, and slavery's chain.

Friend of the poor, the wrong’d, the fetter-gall’d, Fear not lest labour such as thine be vain.

Thou hast achieved a part; hast gain’d the ear Of Britain's senate to thy glorious cause; Hope smiles, joy springs, and thoʻcold caution pause

And weave delay, the better hour is near

That shall remunerate thy toils severe By peace for Afric, fenced with British laws. Enjoy what thou hast won, esteem and love From all the Just on earth, and all the Blest above.

SONNET TO HENRY COWPER, ESQ.

On his Emphatical and Interesting Delivery of the

Defence of Warren Hastings, Esq. in the House of Lords.

Cowper, whose silver voice, task'd sometimes hard,

Legends prolix delivers in the ears

(Attentive when thou read'st) of England's peers, Let verse at length yield thee thy just reward.

Thou wast not heard with drowsy disregard,

Expending late on all that length of plea

Thy generous powers, but silence honour'd thee, Mute as e'er gazed on orator or bard. Thou art not voice alone, but hast beside Both heart and head: and couldst with music sweet

Of attic phrase and senatorial tone, Like thy renown'd forefathers, far and wide Thy fame diffuse, praised not for utterance meet

Of others' speech, but magic of thy own,

SONNET TO JOHN JOHNSON.

On his Presenting me with an Antique Bust of Homer.

1793. KINSMAN beloved, and as a son, by me!

When I behold this fruit of thy regard,

The sculptured form of my old favourite bard, I reverence feel for him, and love for thee. Joy too and grief. Much joy that there should be

Wise men and learn’d, who grudge not to reward

With some applause my bold attempt and hard, Which others scorn: critics by courtesy. The grief is this, that sunk in Homer's mine,

I lose my precious years now soon to fail, Handling his gold, which howsoe'er it shine,

Proves dross, when balanced in the Christian scale. Be wiser thou-like our forefather Donne, Seek heavenly wealth, and work for God alone.

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