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The simple guardian of his life

Look'd wistful for the tear to glide; But, when she saw his tearless strife,

Silent, she leut him one,--and died.

XXV. *No, I am not a shepherd's boy,'

Awaking from his dream, he said,
*Ah! where is now the promis'd joy

Of this l--for ever, ever fled!
O picture dear !---for ber lov'd sake

How Adly could my heart bewail! My friendly shepherdess, O wake,

And tell me more of this sad tale. .O tell me more of this sad tale

No; thou enjoy thy gentle sleep! And I will go to Lothian's vale,

And more than all her waters weep.'

XXVI. Owen to Lothian's vale is filed...

Earl Barnard's lofty towers appear... *O! art thou there;' the full heart said,

"O! art thou there, my parent dear?' Yes, she is there : from idle state

Oft has she stole her hour to weep; Think how she by thy cradle sate,'

And how she ‘fondly saw thee sleep.' Now tries his trembling band to frame

Full many a tender line of love ; And still he blots the parent's name,

For that, he fears, might fatal prove.

O'er a fair fountain's smiling side

Reclin'd a dim tower, clad with moss, Where every bird was wont to bide,

That languish'd for its partner's loss :

This scene he chose, this scene assign'd

A parent's first embrace to wait,
And many a soft fear fill'd his mind,

Anxious for his fond letter's fate.
The hand that bore those lines of love,

The well-informing bracelet bore.
Ah! may they not unprosperous prove!
Ah! safely pass yon dangerous door!

"She comes not;...can she then delay?

Cried the fair youth, and dropt a tear• Whatever filial love could say,

To her I said, and call'd her dear. • She comes--Oh! no encircled round

'Tis some rude chief with many a spear: My hapless tale that earl has found

Ah me! my heart !---for her I fear.' His tender tale that earl had read,

Or ere it reach'd his lady's eye, His dark brow wears a cloud of red, In rage he deems a rival nigh.

XXIX. 'Tis o'er those locks that wav'd in gold,

That wav'd adown those cheeks so fair, Wreath'd in the gloomy tyrant's hold,

Hang from the sever'd head in air ; That streaming head he joys to bear

In horrid guise to Lothian's halls ; Bids his grim ruffians place it there,

Erect upon the frowning walls. The fatal tokens forth le drew...

• Kpow'st thou these - Ellen of the vale?' The pictur'd bracelet soon she knew,

And soon her lovely cheek grew pale.... The trembling victim straight he led,

Ere yet her soul's first fear was o'er : He pointed to the ghastly head

She saw and sunk, to rise no more.




Written on board the Ambuscade, Jan. 6th. 1763, a short time before the attack of Nova Colonia do

Sacramento, in the river of Plate. THE Fates ordain, we must obey;

This, this is doom'd to be the day ;

The hour of war draws near: The eager crew with busy care Their instruments of death prepare,

And banish every fear.

The martial trumpets call to arms,
Each breast with such an ardour warms,

As Britons only know:
The flag of battle waving high,
Attracts with joy each Briton's eye;

With terror strikes the foe.

Amidst this nobly awful scene,
Ere yet fell slaughter's rage begin,

Ere Death his conquests swell;
Let me to Love this tribute pay,
For Polly frame the parting lay;

Perhaps, my last farewell :

For since, full low among the dead,
Must many a gallant youth be laid,

Ere this day's work be o'er;
Perhaps e'en I, with joyful eyes
Who saw this morning's sun arise,

Shall see it set no more.

My love, that ever burnt so true,
That but for thee no wishes knew;

My heart's fond, best desire!
Shall be remember'd e'en in death,
And only with my latest breath,

With life's last pang expire.

And when, dear maid, my fate you hear, (Sure love like mine demands one tear,

Demands one heart-felt sigh) My past sad errors, O forgive! Let my few virtues only live,

My follies with me die.

But hark! the voice of battle calls;
Loud thundering from the towery walls

Now roars the hostile gun ;
Adieu, dear maid !-with ready feet,
I go prepar'd the worst to meet,

Thy will, O God, be done!


After the unsuccessful attack of Nova Colonia do Sacra-

mento, by the Lord Clive of 64 guns, the Ambuscade
of 40, and the Gloria of 38, in which the former was
unfortunately burned, with the greatest part of her
crew; and the two latter obliged to retire in a very
shattered condition.
HILE the torn vessel stems her labouring way,

Ere yon blue hills sink ever from my view;
Let me to sorrow raise the tribute-lay ;

And take of them my long, my last adieu !
Adieu! ye walls; thou fatal stream farewell;

By war's sad chance beneath whose nuddy wave
Full many a gallant youth untimely fell,
Full many a Briton found an early grave.
* Out of 340 persons on board, only 78 escaped,

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Beneath thy tide, ah! silent now they roll,

Or strew with mangled limbs thy sandy shore; The trumpet's call no more awakes their soul!

The battle's voice they now shall hear no more! In vain the constant wife and feeble sire,

Expectant, wish their lov'd return to see ; In vain their infant's lisping tongues inquire,

And wait the story on their father's knee.

Ah! nought avails their anxious, busy care ;

Far, far they lie, on hostile seas they fell; The wife's, sire's, infant's joy, no more to share,

The tale of glorious deeds no more to tell.

Learn then, ye Fair, for others' woes to feel,

Let the soft tear bedew the sparkling eye; When the brave perish for their country's weal,

'Tis pity's debt to heave the heartfelt sigh. Ah! glorious Drake! far other lot was thine,

Fate gave to thee to quell the hostile pride; To seize the treasures of Potosi's mine,

And sail triumphant o'er La Plata's tide. But Providence, on secret wonders bent,

Conceals its purposes from mortal view; And Heaven, no doubt with some all-wise intent,

Denied to numbers what it gave to few.

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