Some foe to his upright intent But Pleasure wins his heart. "Tis here the folly of the wise Bound on a voyage of awful length But oars alone can ne'er prevail, To reach the distant coast; The breath of Heaven must swell the sail, A COMPARISON. THE lapse of time and rivers is the same, And a wide ocean swallows both at last. ANOTHER. ADDRESSED TO A YOUNG LADY, SWEET stream, that winds through yonder glade, SONG ON PEACE. Air-" My fond shepherds of late," &c. No longer I follow a sound; I have sought thee in splendour and dress, An 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. Air-" The Lass of Patie's Mill." WHEN all within is peace, How nature seems to smile! With open hand she showers And sooth 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 The vast majestic globe, So beauteously array'd A dreary wild at best; It flutters to depart, And longs to be at rest. ON THE LOSS OF THE ROYAL GEORGE. WRITTEN WHEN THE NEWS ARRIVED. SEPT. 1782. To the March in Scipio. TOLL for the brave! The brave that are no more! Eight hundred of the brave, And laid her on her side. A land breeze shook the shrouds, Down went the Royal George, Toll for the brave! Brave Kempenfelt is gone; It was not in the battle; She ran upon no rock. His sword was in its sheath; Weigh the vessel up, Once dreaded by our foes, And mingle with our cup The tear that England owes. Her timbers yet are sound, Full charged with England's thunder, But Kempenfelt is gone, His victories are o'er; And he and his eight hundred EE |