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.

IN SUBMERSIONEM NAVIGII, CUI GEORGIUS REGALE NOMEN, INDITUM.

PLANGIMUS fortes. Periêre fortes,
Patrium propter periêre littus
Bis quatèr centum; subitò sub alto
Æquore mersi.

Navis, innitens lateri, jacebat,
Malus ad summas trepidabat undas,
Cùm levis, funes quatiens, ad imum
Depulit aura.

Plangimus fortes. Nimis, heu, caducam
Fortibus vitam voluêre Parcæ,

Nec sinunt ultrà tibi nos recentes
Nectere laurus.

Magne, qui nomen, licèt incanorum,
Traditum ex multis atavis tulisti!
At tuos olim memorabit ævum
Omne triumphos.

Non hyems illos furibunda mersit,
Non mari in clauso scopuli latentes,
Fissa non rimis abies, nec atrox
Abstulit ensis.

Navitæ sed tum nimium jocosi
Voce fallebant hilari laborem,
Et quiescebat, calamoque dextram im.
pleverat heros.

Ves, quibus cordi est grave opus piumque,
Humidum ex alto spolium levate,
Et putrescentes sub aquis amicos
Reddite amicis !

Hi quidem (sic Dis placuit) fuêre:
Sed ratis, nondùm putris, ire possit
Rursùs in bellum, Britonumque nomen
Tollere ad astra.

ON PEACE.

WRITTEN IN THE SUMMER OF 1783, AT THE REQUEST OF LADY AUSTEN, WHO GAVE THE SENTIMENT.

Air-"My fond shepherds of late," &c.

No longer I follow a sound;

No longer a dream I pursue;
O happiness! not to be found,
Unattainable treasure, adieu!

I have sought thee in splendour and dress,
In the regions of pleasure and taste;
I have sought thee, and seem'd to possess,
But have proved thee a vision at last.

A humble ambition and hope

The voice of true wisdom inspires ; 'Tis sufficient, if Peace be the scope, And the summit of all our desires.

Peace may be the lot of the mind

That seeks it in meekness and love
But rapture and bliss are confined
To the glorified spirits above.

SONG.

ALSO WRITTEN AT THE REQUEST OF LADY AUSTEN.

Air-"The Lass of Pattie's Mill.”

WHEN all within is peace,

How nature seems to smile!
Delights that never cease,
The livelong 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.

THE DISTRESSED TRAVELLERS;

OR, LABOUR IN VAIN.

A New Song to a Tune never sung before.

I SING of a journey to Clifton,

We would have perform'd if we could,
Without cart or barrow to lift on

Poor Mary and me through the mud.
Slee sla slud,

Stuck in the mud,

Oh it is pretty to wade through a flood!

So away we went, slipping and sliding,
Hop, hop, à la mode de deux frogs,
'Tis near as good walking as riding,
When ladies are dress'd in their clogs.
Wheels, no doubt,

Go briskly about,

But they clatter and rattle, and make such a rout!

SHE.

"Well! now I protest it is charming;
How finely the weather improves!
That cloud, though 'tis rather alarming,
How slowly and stately it moves!"

HE.

"Pshaw! never mind,

"Tis not in the wind,

We are travelling south, and shall leave it behind."

SHE.

"I am glad we are come for an airing,
For folks may be pounded and penn'd
Until they grow rusty, not caring
To stir half a mile to an end."

The longer we stay,

The longer we may;

It's a folly to think about weather or way."

SHE.

"But now I begin to be frighted,
If I fall, what a way I should roll!
I am glad that the bridge was indicted,-
Stay! stop! I am sunk in a hole!"

You'll not be the last that will set a foot there."

SHE.

"Let me breathe now a little, and ponder
On what it were better to do;

That terrible lane I see yonder,

I think we shall never get through."

HE.

"So think I:

But by the by,

We never shall know, if we never should try."

SHE.

"But should we get there, how shall we get home?
What a terrible deal of bad road we have past!
Slipping and sliding: and if we should come
To a difficult stile, I am ruin'd at last!
Oh this lane!

Now it is plain

That struggling and striving is labour in vain."

$6

HE.

'Stick fast there while I go and look—”

SHE.

'Don't go away, for fear I should fall!"

HE.

I have examin'd it every nook,

And what you see here is a sample of all.
Come, wheel round,

The dirt we have found

Would be an estate at a farthing a pound."