A land-breeze shook the shrouds, And she was overset ; Down went The Royal George, 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, His sword was in the sheath, Weigh the vessel up, Once dreaded by our foes, And mingle with your cup The tears 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 WILLIAM Cowper. THE WOODMAN'S DOG SHAGGY, and lean, and shrewd, with pointed ears And tail cropp'd short, half lurcher and half cur— His dog attends him. Close behind his heel Now creeps he slow; and now, with many a frisk Wide-scampering, snatches up the drifted snow With ivory teeth, or ploughs it with his snout; Then shakes his powder'd coat, and barks for joy. WILLIAM COWPER. TOM BOWLING The charm of these fine affectionate and distinctly English verses is chiefly that all the imagery is that of a ship. HERE, a sheer hulk, lies poor Tom Bowling, No more he'll hear the tempest howling, Tom never from his word departed, His friends were many and true-hearted, And then he'd sing so blithe and jolly; But mirth is turned to melancholy, Yet shall poor Tom find pleasant weather, Shall give, to call Life's crew together, Thus Death, who Kings and Tars despatches, For though his body's under hatches, CHARLES DIBDIN. THE PIPER Blake is sometimes a difficult poet-difficult, one may venture to say, because he is so simple. You may love the simplicity without always knowing what it is about, and may wonder why his simplicity is so lovely when that of other writers is often not lovely at all. PIPING down the valleys wild, Piping songs of pleasant glee, Pipe a song about a Lamb! So I piped with merry cheer. "Piper, pipe that song again; So I piped: he wept to hear. "Drop thy pipe, thy happy pipe; While he wept with joy to hear. " Piper, sit thee down and write In a book, that all may read." So he vanish'd from my sight, And I pluck'd a hollow reed, And I made a rural pen, And I stain'd the water clear, And I wrote my happy songs Every child may joy to hear. WILLIAM BLAKE. NIGHT THE sun descending in the west, The moon like a flower, In heaven's high bower, With silent delight Sits and smiles on the night. Farewell, green fields and happy groves, They look in every thoughtless nest. To keep them all from harm. When wolves and tigers howl for prey, And keep them from the sheep. And there the lion's ruddy eyes Saying, "Wrath, by His meekness, Is driven away From our immortal day. "And now beside thee, bleating lamb, Or think on Him who bore thy name, For, wash'd in life's river, WILLIAM BLAKE. |