Here never could the spearman pass,
Or forester, unmoved;
Here oft the tear-besprinkled grass
Llewellyn's sorrow proved.
And here he hung his horn and spear;
And, oft as evening fell,
In fancy's piercing sounds would hear
Poor Gelert's dying yell!
Bruce to his Army.
SCOTS, wha hae wi' Wallace bled,
Scots, wham Bruce has aften led;
Welcome to your gory bed,
Or to victory!
Now's the day, and now's the hour,
See the front of battle lour;
See approach proud Edward's power,
Chains and slavery!
Wha will be a traitor-knave?
Wha can fill a coward's grave?
Wha sae base as be a slave?
Let him turn and flee!
Wha, for Scotland's king and law,
Freedom's sword would strongly draw,
Freeman stand or freeman fa',
Let him follow me!
By oppression's woes and pains!
By your sons in servile chains!
We will drain our dearest veins,
But they shall be free!
Lay the proud usurper low!
Tyrants fall in every foe!
Liberty's in every.blow!
Let us do, or die!
The Sailor's Orphan Boy.
STAY, lady stay, for mercy's sake,
And hear a helpless orphan's tale:
Ah! sure my looks must pity wake-
'Tis want that makes my cheek so pale!
Yet I was once a mother's pride,
And my brave father's hope and joy:
But in the Nile's proud fight he died
And I am now an orphan boy!
Poor, foolish child! how pleased was I,
When news of Nelson's victory came,
Along the crowded streets to fly,
To see the lighted windows flame!
To force me home my mother sought-
She could not bear to see my joy!
For with my father's life 'twas bought-
And made me a poor orphan boy!
The people's shouts were long and loud;
My mother, shuddering, closed her ears:
"Rejoice! rejoice!" still cried the crowd-
My mother answered with her tears!
"Oh! why do tears steal down your cheeks,
Cried I," while others shout for joy?"
She kiss'd me, and, in accents weak,
She call'd me-her "poor orphan boy!"
"What is an orphan boy?" I said;
When suddenly she gasp'd for breath, And her eyes closed; I shriek'd for aid:But, ah! her eyes were closed in death! My hardships since-I will not tell:
But now, no more a parent's joy,
Ah! lady, I have learn'd too well
What 'tis to be an orphan boy!
Oh! were I by your bounty fed!—
Nay, gentle lady, do not chide;
Trust me, I mean to earn my bread-
The sailor's orphan boy has pride!
"Lady, you weep: what is't you say?
You'll give me clothing, food, employ!"
Look down, dear parents! look, and see
Your happy, happy orphan boy!
BUT most by numbers judge a poet's song;
And smooth or rough, with them is right or wrong:
In the bright Muse though thousand charms conspire,
Her voice is all these tuneful fools admire;
Who haunt Parnassus but to please the ear,
Not mend their minds; as some to church repair,
Not for the doctrine, but the music there:
These, equal syllables alone require,
Though oft the ear the open vowels tire;
While expletives their feeble aid do join,
And ten low words oft creep in one dull line;
While they ring round the same unvaried chimes,
With sure returns of still-expected rhymes:
Where'er you find " the cooling western breeze,"
In the next line it "whispers through the trees;"
If crystal streams "with pleasing murmurs creep,"
The reader's threaten'd-not in vain-with "sleep:"
Then, at the last and only couplet, fraught
With some unmeaning thing they call a thought,
A needless Alexandrine ends the song,
That, like a wounded snake, drags its slow length along.
Leave such to tune their own dull rhymes, and know
What's roundly smooth, or languishingly slow;
And praise the easy vigour of a line,
Where Denham's strength and Waller's sweetness join.
True ease in writing comes from art, not chance;
As those move easiest who have learn'd to dance.
'Tis not enough no harshness give offence,
The sound must seem an echo to the sense:
Soft is the strain when zephyr gently blows,
And the smooth stream in smoother numbers flows;
But, when loud surges lash the sounding shore,
The hoarse rough verse should like the torrent roar.
When Ajax strives some rock's vast weight to throw,
The line too labours, and the words move slow;
Not so when swift Camilla scours the plain,
Flies o'er the unbending corn, and skims along the main.
Battle of the Baltic.
OF Nelson and the North,
Sing the glorious day's renown,.
When to battle fierce came forth.
All the might of Denmark's crown,
And her arms along the deep proudly shone;
By each gun the lighted brand
In a bold deterinined hand,
And the prince of all the land
Led them on.
Like leviathans afloat,
Lay their bulwarks on the brine;
While the sign of battle flew
On the lofty British line:
It was ten of April morn by the chime:
As they drifted on their path,
There was silence deep as death;
And the boldest-held his breath
For a time!
But the might of England flush'd
To anticipate the scene;
And her van the fleeter rush'd
O'er the deadly space between.
"Hearts of oak! our captains cried, when each gun From its adamantine lips
Spread a death-shade round the ships,
Like the hurricane eclipse
Again! again! again!
And the havoc did not slack,
Till a feeble cheer the Dane
To our cheering sent us back;
Their shots along the deep slowly boom;
Then ceased-and all is wail,
As they strike the shatter'd sail;
Or, in conflagration pale,
Light the gloom!
Out spoke the victor then,
As he hail'd them o'er the wave,
Ye are brothers! ye are men!
And we conquer but to save!-
So peace, instead of death, let us bring:
But yield, proud foe, thy fleet,
With the crews, at England's feet,
And make submission meet
In the bright Muse though thousand charms conspire,
Her voice is all these tuneful fools admire;
Who haunt Parnassus but to please the ear,
Not mend their minds; as some to church repair,
Not for the doctrine, but the music there:
These, equal syllables alone require,
Though oft the ear the open vowels tire;
While expletives their feeble aid do join,
And ten low words oft creep in one dull line;
While they ring round the same unvaried chimes,
With sure returns of still-expected rhymes:
Where'er you find " the cooling western breeze,”
In the next line it "whispers through the trees;"
If crystal streams "with pleasing murmurs creep,"
The reader's threaten'd-not in vain-with "sleep:"
Then, at the last and only couplet, fraught
With some unmeaning thing they call a thought,
A needless Alexandrine ends the song,
That, like a wounded snake, drags its slow length along.
Leave such to tune their own dull rhymes, and know
What's roundly smooth, or languishingly slow;
And praise the easy vigour of a line,
Where Denham's strength and Waller's sweetness join.
True ease in writing comes from art, not chance;
As those move easiest who have learn'd to dance.
'Tis not enough no harshness give offence,
The sound must seem an echo to the sense:
Soft is the strain when zephyr gently blows,
And the smooth stream in smoother numbers flows;
But, when loud surges lash the sounding shore,
The hoarse rough verse should like the torrent roar.
When Ajax strives some rock's vast weight to throw,
The line too labours, and the words move slow;
Not so when swift Camilla scours the plain,
Flies o'er the unbending corn, and skims along the main.
Battle of the Baltic.
OF Nelson and the North,
Sing the glorious day's renown, .
When to battle fierce came forth.
All the might of Denmark's crown,
And her arms along the deep proudly shone;
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