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Voice only fails, else how distinct they say, “ Grieve not, my child, chase all thy fears away!
!" The meek intelligence of those dear eyes (Bless'd 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,
a charm for my relief,
My mother! when I learn'd that thou wast dead, Say, wast thou conscious of the tears I shed ? Hover'd thy spirit o'er thy sorrowing son, Wretch even then, life's journey just begun ? Perhaps thou gav'st me, though unfelt, a kiss ; Perhaps a tear, if souls can weep in bliss : Ah, that maternal smile! it answers-Yes. I heard the bell tolld on thy burial day; I saw the hearse, that bore thee slow away; And, turning from my nurs'ry window, drew A long, long sigh, and wept a last adieu ! But was it such ? It was. Where thou art gone, Adieus and farewells are a sound unknown. May I but meet thee on that peaceful shore, The parting words shall pass my lips no more! Thy maidens, grieved themselves at my concern, Oft gave me promise of thy quick return. What ardently I wish'd, 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 sorrow spent,
I learn'd at last submission to my lot,
Where once we dwelt our name is heard no more,
ON THE LOSS OF THE ROYAL GEORGS.
Toll for the brave !
The brave that are no more!
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;
With all her crew complete.
Brave Kempenfelt is gone ; His last seafight is fought ;
His work of glory done. It was not in the battle,
No tempest gave the shock ;
She ran upon no rock.
His fingers held the pen,
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.
His victories are o'er;
Shall plough the wave no more.
THE TASK." HARK! 'tis the twanging horn o'er yonder bridge, That with its wearisome but needful length Bestrides the wintry flood, in which the moon Sees her unwrinkled face reflected bright; He comes, the herald of a noisy world,
[locks; With spatter'd boots, strapp'd waist, and frozen News from all nations lumb’ring at his back. True to his charge, the close pack'd load behind, Yet careless what he brings, his one concern Is to conduct it to the destined inn; And, having dropp'd th' expected bag, pass on. He whistles as he goes, light-hearted wretch, Cold and yet cheerful: messenger of grief Perhaps to thousands, and of joy to some ; To him indiff'rent whether grief or joy. Houses in ashes, and the fall of stocks, Births, deaths, and marriages, epistles wet With tears, that trickled down the writer's cheeks Fast as the periods from his fluent quill, Or charged with am'rous sighs of absent swains, Or nymphs responsive, equally affect His horse and him, unconscious of them all. But oh th' important budget! usher'd in With such heart-shaking music, who can say What are its tidings ? have our troops awaked ? Or do they still, as if with opium drugg'd, Snore to the murmurs of th Atlantic wave ? Is India free? and does she wear her plumed And jewell'd turban with a smile of peace, Or do we grind her still? The grand debate, The popular harangue, the tart reply, The logic, and the wisdom, and the wit, And the loud laugh—1 long to know them all; I burn to set th' imprison'd wranglers free, And give them voice and utt’rance once again.
Now stir the fire, and close the shutters fast,
Let fall the curtains, wheel the sofa round,