Might I still hope to win thy love,
No longer would I stay."

"Now farewell grief, and welcome joy

Once more unto my heart; For since I've found thee, lovely youth, We nevermore will part."

WILLIAM COWPER.

[1731-1800.]

LOSS OF THE ROYAL GEORGE.

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.

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.

But Kempenfelt is gone,

His victories are o'er; And he and his eight hundred Shall plough the wave no more.

69

LINES TO MY MOTHER'S PICTURE.

O THAT those lips had language! Life has passed

With me but roughly since I heard thee last.

Those lips are thine, - thy own sweet smile I see,

The same that oft in childhood solaced

me;

Voice only fails, else how distinct they say, "Grieve not, my child; chase all thy fears away!"

The meek intelligence of those dear eyes (Blest be the art that can immortalize, The art that baffles time's tyrannic claim To quench it!) here shines on me still the

same.

Faithful remembrancer of one so dear, O welcome guest, though unexpected here! Who bid'st me honor with an artless song, Affectionate, a mother lost so long. I will obey, not willingly alone, But gladly, as the precept were her own; And, while that face renews my filial grief, Fancy shall weave a charm for my relief, Shall steep me in Elysian revery, A momentary dream that thou art she. My mother! when I learned that thou wast dead,

Say, wast thou conscious of the tears I shed?

Hovered thy spirit o'er thy sorrowing son, Wretch even then, life's journey just

more!

Thy maidens, grieved themselves at my

concern,

Oft gave me promise of thy quick return;
What ardently I wished I long believed,
And, disappointed still, was still deceived;
By expectation every day beguiled,
Dupe of to-morrow even from a child.
Thus many a sad to-morrow came and
went,

Till, all my stock of infant sorrows spent,
I learned at last submission to my lot;
But, though I less deplored thee, ne'er
forgot.

Where once we dwelt our name is heard no more,

Children not thine have trod my nursery floor;

And where the gardener Robin, day by day, Drew me to school along the public way, Delighted with my bawble coach, and wrapped

In scarlet mantle warm, and velvet capped, 'T is now become a history little known, That once we called the pastoral house

our own.

Short-lived possession! but the record fair, That memory keeps of all thy kindness there,

Still outlives many a storm that has effaced

A thousand other themes less deeply traced.

Thy nightly visits to my chamber made, That thou mightst know me safe and warmly laid,

All this, and, more endearing still than all,

Thy constant flow of love, that knew no fall,

Ne'er roughened by those cataracts and breaks

That humor interposed too often makes, -
All this, still legible in memory's page,
And still to be so to my latest age,
Adds joy to duty, makes me glad to pay
Such honors to thee as my numbers may;
Perhaps a frail memorial, but sincere,
Not scorned in heaven, though little no-
ticed here.

Could Time, his flight reversed, restore the hours

When, playing with thy vesture's tissued

flowers,

The violet, the pink, and jessamine,
I pricked them into paper with a pin,

From loins enthroned, and rulers of the

earth;

But higher far my proud pretensions rise,

The son of parents passed into the skies. And now, farewell! Time, unrevoked, has run

His wonted course, yet what I wished is done.

By contemplation's help, not sought in vain,

I seem to have lived my childhood o'er again,

To have renewed the joys that once were mine

Without the sin of violating thine;
And while the wings of Fancy still are
free,

And I can view this mimic show of thee,
Time has but half succeeded in his
theft,-
Thyself removed, thy power to soothe me

left.

MYSTERIES OF PROVIDENCE.

Gop moves in a mysterious way

His wonders to perform; He plants his footsteps in the sea, And rides upon the storm.

Deep in unfathomable mines
Of never-failing skill,

He treasures up his bright designs,
And works his sovereign will.

Ye fearful saints, fresh courage take!
The clouds ye so much dread
Are big with mercy, and shall break
In blessings on your head.

Judge not the Lord by feeble sense,
But trust him for his grace;
Behind a frowning providence
He hides a smiling face.

His purposes will ripen fast,
Unfolding every hour;

The bud may have a bitter taste,
But sweet will be the flower.

Blind unbelief is sure to err, And scan his works in vain; God is his own interpreter, And he will make it plain.

JEAN ADAM.

[1710-1765.]

THE MARINER'S WIFE.

AND are ye sure the news is true?
And are ye sure he's weel?
Is this a time to think o' wark?

71

Mak haste, lay by your wheel;
Is this the time to spin a thread,
When Colin's at the door?
Reach down my cloak, I'll to the quay,
And see him come ashore.

For there's nae luck about the house,
There's nae luck at a';
There's little pleasure in the house
When our gudeman's awa'.

And gie to me my bigonet,

My bishop's satin gown;
For I maun tell the baillie's wife

That Colin 's in the town.
My Turkey slippers maun gae on,
My stockings pearly blue;
It's a' to pleasure our gudeman,
For he's baith leal and true.

Rise, lass, and mak a clean fireside,
Put on the muckle pot;

Gie little Kate her button gown,
And Jock his Sunday coat;
And mak their shoon as black as slaes,
Their hose as white as snaw;
It's a' to please my ain gudeman,
For he 's been lang awa'.

There's twa fat hens upo' the coop,

Been fed this month and mair; Mak haste and thraw their necks about, That Colin weel may fare;

And mak our table neat and clean,

Let everything look braw,

For wha can tell how Colin fared
When he was far awa'?

Sae true his heart, sae smooth his speech,
His breath like caller air;
His very foot has music in 't

As he comes up the stair.
And will I see his face again?

And will I hear him speak?
I m downright dizzy wi' the thought,
In troth I'm like to greet!

The cauld blasts o' the winter wind,
That thirled through my heart,