ON THE

LOSS OF THE ROYAL GEORGE.

Written when the news arrived.

1782.

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 fces!
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.

ANSWER TO STANZAS,

Addressed to Lady Hesketh, by Miss Catharine Fanshawe, in returning a Poem of Mr. Cowper's, lent to her on condition she should neiter show it, nor take a copy. 1793.

To be remember'd thus is fame,
And in the first degree,

And did the few like her the same,
The press might sleep for me.

So Homer in the mem'ry stcred
Of many a Grecian belle,
Was once preserv'd-a richer hoard
But never lodged so well.

SUNSET AND SUNRISE.

CONTEMPLATE, when the sun declines,
Thy death with deep reflection!
And when again he rising shines,
Thy day of resurrection!

ON AN OLD MAID.

FOR threescore years, this life; Cleora led:
At morn she rose, at night she went to bed.

TO THE

SPANISH ADMIRAL, COUNT GRAVINA.

ON HIS TRANSLATING THE AUTHOR'S SONG ON THE ROSE INTO ITALIAN VERSE.

1793.

My rose, Gravina, blooms anew,
And, steep'd not now in rain,
But in Castilian streams by you,
Will never fade again.

ON MR. CHESTER, OF CHICHELY.

TEARS flow, and cease not, wthere the good man lies,
Till all who know him follow to the skies.

Tears therefore fall where Chester's ashes sleep,
Him, wite, friends, brothers, children, servants, weep-
And justly-few shall ever him transcend
As husband, parent, brother, master, friend.

ON AN INFANT.

BEWAIL not much my parents! me, the prey
Of ruthless odes, and sepulchred here.
An infant, in my fifth scarce finish'd year,
He found all-sportive, innocent, and gay,
Your young Callimachus; and if I knew
Not many joys, my griefs were also few.

ON A PLANT OF VIRGIN'S BOWER.

DESIGNED TO COVER A GARDEN SEAT.

(Spring of 1793.)

THRIVE gentle plant! and weave a bower
For Mary and for me.

And deck with many a flower

Thy foliage large and free.

ON THE SHORTNESS OF HUMAN LIFE. 429

Thou cam'st from Eartham, and will shade

(If truly I divine,)

Some future day th' illustrious head

Of him who made thee mine.

Should Daphne show a jealous frown,
And envy seize the bay,
Affirming none so fit to crown
Such honour'd brows as they.

Thy cause with zeal we shall defend,
And with convincing power;

For why should not the virgin's friend
Be crowned with virgin's bower.

ON THE SHORTNESS OF HUMAN LIFE.

SUNS that set, and moons that wane,

Rise, and are restor'd again;

Stars that orient day subdues,

Night at her return renews.

Herbs and flowers, the beauteous birth
Of the genial womb of earth,
Suffer but a transient death,
From the winters cruel breath
Zephyr speaks; serener skies
Warm the glebe, and they arise.
We, alas! earth's haughty kings,
We, that promise mighty things,
Losing soon life's happy prime,
Droop, and fade in little time.
Spring returns, but not our bloom,
Still 'tis winter in the tomb.