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XXIX.

'Tis o'er-those locks that waved in gold, That waved adown those cheeks so fair, Wreathed 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 he drew-
"Know'st thou these-Ellen of the vale ?"
The pictured 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.

THOMAS PENROSE.

[Born, 1743. Died, 1779.]

the enemy strike his colours, the Lord Clive was found to be on fire; and the same moment which discovered the flames showed the impossibility of extinguishing them. A dreadful spectacle was then exhibited. Men, who had, the instant before, assured themselves of wealth and conquest, were seen crowding to the sides of the ship, with the dreadful alternative of perishing by fire or water. The enemy's fire was redoubled at the

THE history of Penrose displays a dash of warlike adventure, which has seldom enlivened the biography of our poets. He was not led to the profession of arms, like Gascoigne, by his poverty, or like Quarles, Davenant, and Waller, by political circumstances; but, in a mere fit of juvenile ardour, gave up his studies at Oxford, where he was preparing to become a clergyman, and left the banners of the church for those of the battle. This was in the summer of 1762, when the unfor-sight of their calamity. Out of Macnamara's tunate expedition against Buenos Ayres sailed under the command of Captain Macnamara. It consisted of three ships: the Lord Clive, of 64 guns; the Ambuscade of 40, on board of which Penrose acted as lieutenant of marines; the Gloria, of 38; and some inferior vessels. Preparatory to an attack on Buenos Ayres, it was deemed necessary to begin with the capture of Nova Colonia, and the ships approached closely to the fortress of that settlement. The men were in high spirits; military music sounded on board; while the new uniforms and polished arms of the marines gave a splendid appearance to the scene. Penrose, the night before, had written and despatched to his mistress in England a poetical address, which evinced at once the affection and serenity of his heart, on the eve of danger. The gay preparative was followed by a heavy fire of several hours, at the end of which, when the Spanish batteries were almost silenced, and our countrymen in immediate expectation of seeing

crew, of 340 men, only 78 were saved. Penrose escaped with his life on board the Ambuscade, but received a wound in the action; and the subsequent hardships which he underwent, in a prize-sloop, in which he was stationed, ruined the strength of his constitution. He returned to England; resumed his studies at Oxford; and having taken orders, accepted of the curacy of Newbury, in Berkshire, of which his father was the rector. He resided there for nine years, having married the lady already alluded to, whose name was Mary Slocock. A friend at last rescued him from this obscure situation, by presenting him with the rectory of Beckington and Standerwick, in Somersetshire, worth about 5001. a year. But he came to his preferment too late to enjoy it. His health having never recovered from the shock of his American service, obliged him, as a last remedy, to try the hot wells at Bristol, at which place he expired, in his thirty-sixth year.

THE HELMETS. A FRAGMENT.

'Twas midnight-every mortal eye was closed Through the whole mansion-save an antique crone's,

That o'er the dying embers faintly watch'd
The broken sleep (fell harbinger of death,)
Of a sick boteler.-Above indeed,
In a drear gallery (lighted by one lamp
Whose wick the poor departing Seneschal
Did closely imitate), paced slow and sad

The village curate, waiting late to shrive
The penitent when 'wake. Scarce show'd the ray
To fancy's eye, the portray'd characters
That graced the wall-On this and t' other side
Suspended, nodded o'er the steepy stair,
In many a trophy form'd, the knightly group
Of helms and targets, gauntlets, maces strong,
And horses' furniture-brave monuments
Of ancient chivalry.-Through the stain'd pane

Low gleam'd the moon-not bright--but of such

power

As mark'd the clouds, black, threatening over head,
Full mischief-fraught ;-from these in many a peal
Growl'd the near thunder-flash'd the frequent blaze
Of lightning blue.-While round the fretted dome
The wind sung surly with unusual clank
The armour shook tremendous:-On a couch
Placed in the oriel, sunk the churchman down :
For who, alone, at that dread hour of night,
Could bear portentous prodigy ?-

"I hear it," cries the proudly gilded casque, (Fill'd by the soul of one, who erst took joy In slaught'rous deeds,) “ I hear amidst the gale The hostile spirit shouting-once---once more In the thick harvest of the spears we'll shineThere will be work anon."

"I'm 'waken'd too,"

Replied the sable helmet (tenanted

By a like inmate), " Hark !—I hear the voice
Of the impatient ghosts, who straggling range
Yon summit (crown'd with ruin'd battlements
The fruits of civil discord,) to the din
The spirits, wand'ring round this Gothic pile,
All join their yell-the song is war and death-
There will be work anon.'

"Call armourers, ho!

Furbish my vizor-close my rivets up-
I brook no dallying"-

"Soft, my hasty friend,"

Said the black beaver, "Neither of us twain
Shall share the bloody toil-War-worn am I,
Bored by a happier mace, I let in fate
To my once master, since unsought, unused,
Pensile I'm fix'd—yet too your gaudy pride
Has nought to boast,-the fashion of the fight
Has thrown your gilt and shady plumes aside
For modern foppery ;-still do not frown,
Nor lower indignantly your steely brows,
We've comfort left enough-The bookman's lore
Shall trace our sometime merit ;-in the eye
Of antiquary taste we long shall shine:
And as the scholar marks our rugged front,
He'll say, this Cressy saw, that Agincourt:
Thus dwelling on the prowess of his fathers,
He'll venerate their shell.-Yet, more than this,
From our inactive station we shall hear

The groans of butcher'd brothers, shrieking plaints
Of ravish'd maids, and matrons' frantic howls;
Already hovering o'er the threaten'd lands
The famish'd raven snuffs the promised feast,
And hoarselier croaks for blood-'twill flow."
"Forbid it, Heaven!

O shield my suffering country!-Shield it," pray'd
The agonising priest.

THE FIELD OF BATTLE.

FAINTLY bray'd the battle's roar
Distant down the hollow wind;

Panting Terror fled before,

Wounds and death were left behind.

The war-fiend cursed the sunken day,
That check'd his fierce pursuit too soon;
While, scarcely lighting to the prey,
Low hung, and lour'd the bloody moon.
The field, so late the hero's pride,
Was now with various carnage spread;
And floated with a crimson tide,

That drench'd the dying and the dead.
O'er the sad scene of dreariest view,
Abandon'd all to horrors wild,
With frantic step Maria flew,

Maria, Sorrow's early child;

By duty led, for every vein

Was warm'd by Hymen's purest flame; With Edgar o'er the wint'ry main

She, lovely, faithful wanderer, came.
For well she thought, a friend so dear

In darkest hours might joy impart ;
Her warrior, faint with toil, might cheer,
Or soothe her bleeding warrior's smart.
Though look'd for long-in chill affright,
(The torrent bursting from her eye,)
She heard the signal for the fight—

While her soul trembled in a sigh-
She heard, and clasp'd him to her breast,
Yet scarce could urge th' inglorious stay;
His manly heart the charm confess'd-
Then broke the charm,-and rush'd away.
Too soon in few-but deadly words,

Some flying straggler breathed to tell,
That in the foremost strife of swords
The young, the gallant Edgar fell.
She press'd to hear-she caught the tale-
At every sound her blood congeal'd ;-
With terror bold-with terror pale,

She sprung to search the fatal field.
O'er the sad scene in dire amaze

She went-with courage not her ownOn many a corpse she cast her gazeAnd turn'd her ear to many a groan.

Drear anguish urged her to press

Full many a hand, as wild she mourn'd ;-Of comfort glad, the drear caress

The damp, chill, dying hand return'd.
Her ghastly hope was well nigh fled
When late pale Edgar's form she found,
Half-buried with the hostile dead,

And gored with many a grisly wound.

She knew she sunk-the night-bird scream'd, -The moon withdrew her troubled light, And left the fair,—though fall'n she seem'd— To worse than death-and deepest night.

[* Mr. Campbell, in his Adelgitha, and above all in his Wounded Hussar, has given a vigorous echo of this poem of Penrose's, which wants little to rank it high among our ballad strains. The picture in the last stanza but two is very fine:

Drear anguish urged her to press.]

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SIR WILLIAM BLACKSTONE.

[Born, 1723. Died, 1780.]

THE LAWYER'S FAREWELL TO HIS MUSE.

As, by some tyrant's stern command,

A wretch forsakes his native land,

In foreign climes condemn'd to roam

An endless exile from his home;
Pensive he treads the destined way,
And dreads to go; nor dares to stay ;
Till on some neighbouring mountain's brow
He stops, and turns his eyes below;
There, melting at the well-known view,
Drops a last tear, and bids adieu :
So I, thus doom'd from thee to part,
Gay queen of Fancy, and of Art,
Reluctant move, with doubtful mind,
Oft stop, and often look behind.

Companion of my tender age,
Serenely gay, and sweetly sage,
How blithsome were we wont to rove
By verdant hill, or shady grove,
Where fervent bees, with humming voice,
Around the honey'd oak rejoice,
And aged elms with awful bend
In long cathedral walks extend !
Lull'd by the lapse of gliding floods,
Cheer'd by the warbling of the woods,
How bless'd my days, my thoughts how free,
In sweet society with thee!

Then all was joyous, all was young,
And years unheeded roll'd along:
But now the pleasing dream is o'er,

These scenes must charm me now no more.
Lost to the fields, and torn from you,—
Farewell!-a long, a last adieu.
Me wrangling courts, and stubborn law,
To smoke, and crowds, and cities draw:
There selfish faction rules the day,
And pride and avarice throng the way;
Diseases taint the murky air,
Aud midnight conflagrations glare;
Loose Revelry, and Riot bold
In frighted streets their orgies hold;
Or, where in silence all is drown'd,
Fell Murder walks his lonely round;
No room for peace, no room for you,
Adieu, celestial nymph, adieu !

Shakspeare no more, thy sylvan son,
Nor all the art of Addison,

Pope's heaven-strung lyre, nor Waller's ease,
Nor Milton's mighty self, must please :
Instead of these a formal band,

In furs and coifs, around me stand;

With sounds uncouth and accents dry,

That grate the soul of harmony,
Each pedant sage unlocks his store

Of mystic, dark, discordant lore;

And points with tottering hand the ways
That lead me to the thorny maze.

There, in a winding close retreat,
Is justice doom'd to fix her seat;
There, fenced by bulwarks of the law,
She keeps the wondering world in awe ;
And there, from vulgar sight retired,
Like eastern queens, is more admired.

O let me pierce the secret shade
Where dwells the venerable maid!
There humbly mark, with reverent awe,
The guardian of Britannia's law;
Unfold with joy her sacred page,
The united boast of many an age;
Where mix'd, yet uniform, appears
The wisdom of a thousand years.
In that pure spring the bottom view,
Clear, deep, and regularly true;
And other doctrines thence imbibe
Than lurk within the sordid scribe;
Observe how parts with parts unite
In one harmonious rule of right;
See countless wheels distinctly tend
By various laws to one great end:
While mighty Alfred's piercing soul
Pervades, and regulates the whole.

Then welcome business, welcome strife,
Welcome the cares, the thorns of life,
The visage wan, the pore-blind sight,
The toil by day, the lamp at night,
The tedious forms, the solemn prate,
The pert dispute, the dull debate,
The drowsy bench, the babbling Hall,
For thee, fair Justice, welcome all!
Thus though my noon of life be pass'd,
Yet let my setting sun, at last,
Find out the still, the rural cell,
Where sage Retirement loves to dwell!
There let me taste the homefelt bliss
Of innocence, and inward peace;
Untainted by the guilty bribe,
Uncursed amid the harpy tribe;
No orphan's cry to wound my ear;
My honour, and my conscience clear;
Thus may I calmly meet my end,
Thus to the grave in peace descend.

SIR JOHN HENRY MOORE, BART.

[Born, 1756. Died, 1780.]

THIS interesting and promising young man died of a decline, in his twenty-fourth year.

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LABOUR AND GENIUS; OR, THE MILL-STREAM AND THE CASCADE.

BETWIXT two sloping verdant hills

A current pour'd its careless rills,
Which unambitious crept along,

With weeds and matted grass o'erhung.
Till Rural Genius, on a day,
Chancing along its banks to stray,
Remark'd, with penetrating look,
The latent merits of the brook,
Much grieved to see such talents hid,
And thus the dull by-standers chid.

How blind is man's incurious race
The scope of nature's plans to trace ?
How do ye mangle half her charms,
And fright her hourly with alarms?
Disfigure now her swelling mounds,
And now contract her spacious bounds?
Fritter her fairest lawns to alleys,

Bare her green hills, and hide her valleys?
Confine her streams with rule and line,
And counteract her whole design?
Neglecting, where she points the way,
Her easy dictates to obey ?

A FABLE.

To bring her hidden worth to sight, And place her charms in fairest light?

He said and to his favourite son
Consign'd the task, and will'd it done.
Damon his counsel wisely weigh'd,
And carefully the scene survey'd.
And, though it seems he said but little,
He took his meaning to a tittle.
And first, his purpose to befriend,
A bank he raised at th' upper end:
Compact and close its outward side,
To stay and swell the gathering tide :
But on its inner, rough and tall,
A ragged cliff, a rocky wall.
The channel next he oped to view,
And from its course the rubbish drew.
Enlarged it now, and now with line
Oblique pursued his fair design.
Preparing here the mazy way,
And there the fall for sportive play;
The precipice abrupt and steep,
The pebbled road, and cavern deep;

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The rooty seat, where best to view The fairy scene, at distance due. He last invoked the dryads' aid,

And fringed the borders round with shade.
Tapestry, by Nature's fingers wove,
No mimic, but a real grove:
Part hiding, part admitting day,
The scene to grace the future play.

Damon perceives, with ravish'd eyes,
The beautiful enchantment rise.
Sees sweetly blended shade and light;
Sees every part with each unite;
Sees each, as he directs, assume
A livelier dye, or deeper gloom :
So fashion'd by the painter's skill,
New forms the glowing canvas fill:
So to the summer's sun the rose
And jessamin their charms disclose.

Not distant far below, a mill Was built upon a neighb'ring rill : Whose pent-up stream, whene'er let loose, Impell'd a wheel, close at its sluice, So strongly, that by friction's power, "Twould grind the firmest grain to flour. Or, by a correspondence new, With hammers, and their clatt'ring crew, Would so bestir her active stumps, On iron blocks, though arrant lumps, That in a trice she'd manage matters, To make 'em all as smooth as platters. Or slit a bar to rods quite taper, With as much ease as you'd cut paper. For, though the lever gave the blow, Yet it was lifted from below; And would for ever have lain still, But for the bustling of the rill ; Who, from her stately pool or ocean, Put all the wheels and logs in motion; Things in their nature very quiet, Though making all this noise and riot. This stream that could in toil excel, Began with foolish pride to swell : Piqued at her neighbour's reputation, And thus express'd her indignation: "Madam! methinks you're vastly proud, You wasn't used to talk so loud. Nor cut such capers in your pace, Marry! what antics, what grimace! For shame! don't give yourself such airs, In flaunting down those hideous stairs." Nor put yourself in such a flutter, Whate'er you do, you dirty gutter! I'd have you know, you upstart minx ! Ere you were form'd, with all your sinks, A lake I was, compared with which, Your stream is but a paltry ditch: And still, on honest labour bent, I ne'er a single flash mispent.

And yet no folks of high degree
Would e'er vouchsafe to visit me,
As in their coaches by they rattle,
Forsooth! to hear your idle prattle.
Though half the business of my flooding
Is to provide them cakes and pudding:
Or furnish stuff for many a trinket,

Which, though so fine, you scarce would think it,
When Boulton's skill has fix'd their beauty,
To my rough toil first owed their duty.
But I'm plain Goody of the mill,
And you are-Madam Cascadille !"

"Dear Coz," replied the beauteous torrent,
"Pray do not discompose your current.
That we all from one fountain flow,
Hath been agreed on long ago.
Varying our talents and our tides,
As chance or education guides.
That I have either note, or name,
I owe to him who gives me fame.
Who teaches all our kind to flow,
Or gaily swift, or gravely slow.
Now in the lake, with glassy face,
Now moving light, with dimpled grace,
Now gleaming from the rocky height,
Now, in rough eddies, foaming white.
Nor envy me the gay, or great,
That visit my obscure retreat.
None wonders that a clown can dig,
But 'tis some art to dance a jig.
Your talents are employ'd for use,
Mine to give pleasure, and amuse.
And though, dear Coz, no folks of taste
Their idle hours with you will waste,
Yet many a grist comes to your mill,
Which helps your master's bags to fill.
While I, with all my notes and trilling,
For Damon never got a shilling.
Then, gentle Coz, forbear your clamours,
Enjoy your hoppers, and your hammers:
We gain our ends by different ways,
And you get bread, and I get-praise."

ABSENCE.

WITH leaden foot Time creeps along,
While Delia is away,
With her, nor plaintive was the song.
Nor tedious was the day.

Ah! envious power! reverse my doom,
Now double thy career;
Strain every nerve, stretch every plume,
And rest them when she's here.

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