ON THE LOSS OF THE ROYAL GEORGE. TOLL for the brave! To the march in "Scipio." The brave that are no more! All sunk beneath the wave, Fast by their native shore ! 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, Toll for the brave! Brave Kempenfelt is gone; It was not in the battle; Sept. 1782. She sprang no fatal leak; His sword was in its sheath; Weigh the vessel up, Once dreaded by our foes! And mingle with our cup The tears 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 But they clatter and rattle, and make such a rout! 3. SHE. "Well! now I protest it is charming; HE. "Pshaw! never mind, 'Tis not in the wind, We are travelling south and shall leave it behind." You'll not be the last that will set a foot there." We never shall know, if we never should try." 7. SHE. "But should we get there, how shall we get home? What a terrible deal of bad road we have past Slipping and sliding; and if we should come O this lane! Now it is plain That struggling and striving is labour in vain." 8. HE. "Stick fast there while I go and look—” SHE. "Don't go away, for fear I should fall!" HE. I have examined it every nook, And what you have here is a sample of all. The dirt we have found Would be an estate at a farthing a pound." ! 9. Now, sister Anne, the guitar you must take, Which critics won't blame, For the sense and the sound, they say, should be the same. IN BREVITATEM VITE SPATII HOMINIBUS CONCESSI. BY DR. JORTIN. HEI mihi! Lege ratâ sol occidit atque resurgit, Rursus nocte vigent. Humiles telluris alumni, ON THE SHORTNESS OF HUMAN LIFE. Jan. 1784. TRANSLATION OF THE FOREGOING. SUNS that set, and moons that wane, Stars that orient day subdues, Night at her return renews. Herbs and flowers, the beauteous birth THE VALEDICTION. FAREWELL, false hearts! whose best affections fail, I bid you both a long and last adieu, Cold in my turn, and unconcerned like you. First, farewell Niger! whom, now duly proved, I disregard as much as once I loved. Your brain well furnished, and your tongue well taught Sound sense, intrepid spirit, manly grace, Your sullen silence serves at least to tell Your altered heart; and so, my lord, farewell! Terentius, once my friend, farewell to thee! In thee some virtuous qualities combine To fit thee for a nobler part than thine, Who, born a gentleman, hast stooped too low, Thy schoolfellow, and partner of thy plays, Where Nichol swung the birch and twined the bays, And having known thee bearded, and full grown, The weekly censor of a laughing town, I thought the volume I presumed to send, Graced with the name of a long-absent friend, But thou, it seems, (what cannot grandeur do, |