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“Weep no more, lady, weep no more ; “O, stay me not, thou holy friar,
Thy sorrow is in vain :

O stay me not, I pray;
For violets plucked, the sweetest shower No drizzly rain that falls on me
Will ne'er make grow again.

Can wash my fault away.”
“Our joys as wingéd dreams do fly; Yet stay, fair lady, turn again,
Why then should sorrow last ?

And dry those pearly tears; Since grief but aggravates thy loss, For see, beneath this gown of gray Grieve not for what is past."

Thy own true-love appears. “O, say not so, thou holy friar!

“Here, forced by grief and lopeless love, I pray thee say not so ;

These holy weeds I sought;
For since my true love died for me, And here, amid these lonely walls,

"T is meet my tears should flow. To end my days I thought. “And will he never come again?

“ But haply, for my year of grace Will he ne'er come again?

Is not yet passed away,



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."

But Kempenfelt is gone,

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

Shall plough the wave no more.



O that those lips had language! Life

has passed

With me but roughly since I heard thee WILLIAM COWPER.


Those lips are thine, thy own sweet (1731 - 1800.)

smile I see,

The same that oft in childhood solaced LOSS OF THE ROYAL GEORGE.


Voice only fails, else how distinct they say, Toll for the brave!

“Grieve not, my child; chase all thy The brave that are no more!

fears away!" All sunk beneath the wave

The meek intelligence of those dear eyes Fast by their native shore !

(Blest be the art that can immortalize,

The art that baffles time's tyrannic claim Eight hundred of the brave,

To quench it !) here shines on me still the Whose courage well was tried, Had macie the vessel heel,

Faithful remembrancer of one so dear, And laid her on her side.

O welcome guest, though unexpected here !

Who bid'st me honor with an artless song, A land-breeze shook the shrouds

Affectionate, a mother lost so long.
And she was overset;

I will obey, not willingly alone,
Down went the Royal George,

But gladly, as the precept were her own; With all her crew complete.

And, while that face renews my filialgrief,

Fancy shall weave a charm for my relief, Toll for the brave!

Shall steep me in Elysian revery,
Brave Kempenfelt is gone;

A momentary dream that thou art she. His last sea-light is fought,

My mother! when I learned that thou His work of glory done.

wast dead,

Say, wast thou conscious of the tears 1 It was not in the battle;

shed? No tempest gave the shock; Hovered thy spirit o'er thy sorrowing son, She sprang no fatal leak,

Wretch even then, life's journey just She ran upon no rock.

begun ?

Perhaps thou gav'st me, though unfelt, a His sword was in its sheath,

kiss; His fingers held the pen,

Perhaps a tear, if souls can weep in bliss When Kempenfelt went down Ah, that maternal smile! it answers With twice four hundred men.


I heard the bell tolled on thy burial day, Weigh the vessel up,

I saw the hearse that bore thee slow away, Once dreaded by our foes !

And, turning from my nursery window, And mingle with our cup

drew The tear that England owes. A long, long sigh, and wept a last adieu

But was it such? It was. Where thou Her timbers yet are sound, And she may float again,

Adieusand farewells are a sound unknown. Full charged with England's thunder, May I but meet thee on that peaceful And plough the distant main.


art gone,

no more,

our own.

The parting words shall pass my lips no i (And thou wast happier than myself the more!

while, Thy maidens, grieved themselves at my Wouldst softly speak, and stroke my concern,

head, and smile,) Oft gave me promise of thy quick return; Could those few pleasant days again apWhat ardently I wished I long believed, pear, And, disappointed still, was stilldeceived; Might one wish bring them, would I wish By expectation every day beguiled,

them here? Dupe of to-morrow even from a child. I would not trust my heart, — the dear Thus many a sad to-morrow came and delight went,

Seems so to be desired, perhaps I might. Till, all my stock of infant sorrows spent, But no, - what here we call our life is I learned at last submission to my lot;

such, But, though I less deplored thee, ne'er So little to be loved, and thou so much, forgot.

That I should ill requite thee to conWhere once we dwelt our name is heard


Thy unbound spirit into bonds again. Children not thine have trod my nursery Thou, as a gallant bark from Albion's floor;

coast And where the gardener Robin, day by day, (The storms all weathered and the ocean Drew me to school along the public way, crossed) Delighted with my baw ble coach, and Shoots into port at some well-havened wrapped

isle, In scarlet mantle warm, and velvet capped, Where spices breathe and brighter sea"T is now become a history little known, sons smile; That once we called the pastoral house There sits quiescent on the floods, that

show Short-lived possession ! but the record fair, | Her beauteous form reflected clear be. That memory keeps of all thy kindness low, there,

While airs impregnated with incense Still outlives many a storm that has play effaced

Around her, fanning light her streamers A thousand other themes less deeply gay, traced.

So thou, with sails how swift! hast Thy nightly visits to my chamber made, reached the shore, That thou mightst know me safe and Where tempests never beat, nor billow's warmly laid,

roar ; All this, and, more endearing still than And thy loved consort, on the dangerous all,

tide Thy constant flow of love, that knew no of life, long since has anchored by thy fall,

side. Ne'er roughened by those cataracts and But me, scarce hoping to attain that rest, breaks

Always from port withheld, always disThat humor interposed toooften makes,

tressed, All this, still legible in memory's page, Me howling blasts drive devious, temAnd still to be so to my latest age,

pest-tossed, Adds joy to duty, makes me glad to pay Sails ripped, seams opening wide, and Such honors to thee as my numbers may;

compass lost; Perhaps a frail memorial, but sincere, And day by day some current's thwarting Not scorned in heaven, thongh little no

force ticed here,

Sets me more distant from a prosperous Could Time, his flight reversed, restore the hours

Yet 0, the thought that thou art safe, When, playing with thy vesture's tissued and he! flowers,

That thought is joy, arrive what may to The violet, the pink, and jessamine, I pricked them into paper with a pin, My boast is not that I deduce my birth



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