XXIII. The shepherdess, whose kindly care Whom time leads calmly down to death. "Oh tell me, parent, if thou art, What is this lovely picture dear? "Ah, youth! to leave thee loth am I, "But it will make thee much bewail, XXIV. The heart that sorrow doom'd to share Its sad impressions learn to bear, But when that seal is first imprest, When the young heart its pain shall try, From the soft, yielding, trembling breast, Oft seems the startled soul to fly: Yet fled not Owen's-wild amaze In paleness clothed, and lifted hands, And horror's dread unmeaning gaze, Mark the poor statue as it stands. The simple guardian of his life Look'd wistful for the tear to glide; But, when she saw his tearless strife, Silent, she lent him one-and died. XXV. "No, I am not a shepherd's boy," Awaking from his dream, he said; “Ah, where is now the promised joy Of this?-for ever, ever fled! "Oh picture dear!-for her loved sake How fondly could my heart bewail! My friendly shepherdess, oh wake, And tell me more of this sad tale: "Oh tell me more of this sad taleNo; 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 fled Earl Barnard's lofty towers appear"Oh! art thou there?" the full heart said, "Oh! art thou there, my parent dear?" Yes, she is there: from idle state Oft has she stole her hour to weep; Now tries his trembling hand to frame XXVII. O'er a fair fountain's smiling side Reclined 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 The hand that bore those lines of love, XXVIII. "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 foundAh 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. ΧΧΙΧ. "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, She saw-and sunk to rise no more. THOMAS PENROSE. [Born, 1743. Died, 1779.1 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 unfortunate 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 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 As mark'd the clouds, black, threatening over head, Full mischief-fraught;-from these in many a peal Growl'd the near thunder-flashed the frequent blaze 76 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 sight of their calamity. Out of Macnamara's 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 500%. 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 thirtysixth year. Of lightning blue.-While round the fretted dome I hear it," cries the proudly gilded casque, "I'm 'waken'd too," Replied the sable helmet, (tenanted "Call armourers, ho! "Soft, my hasty friend," Said the black beaver, "Neither of us twain Shall share the bloody toil-War-worn am I, Oh shield my suffering country!-Shield it," pray'd The agonizing priest. THE FIELD OF BATTLE. FAINTLY bray'd the battle's roar 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, By duty led, for every vein In darkest hours might joy impart; Or soothe her bleeding warrior's smart. She heard, and clasp'd him to her breast, Some flying straggler breathed to tell, She press'd to hear-she caught the taleAt 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— 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'dTo worse than death-and deepest night.* 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 condemned 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, [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 cur ballad strains. The picture in the last stanza but two is very fine: Drear anguish urged her to press.] Reluctant move, with doubtful mind, Companion of my tender age, Then all was joyous, all was young, In frighted streets their orgies hold; Shakspeare no more, thy sylvan son, Pope's heaven-strung lyre, nor Waller's ease, In furs and coifs, around me stand; 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. Oh 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 thee 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 happy 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. L'AMOUR TIMIDE. Ir in that breast, so good, so pure, Pity the sorrows I endure; The cause I must not, dare not tell. The grief that on my quiet preys, That rends my heart, that checks my tongue, I fear will last me all my days, But feel it will not last me long. SONG. CEASE to blame my melancholy, Yet these mournful thoughts possessing, That, could heaven afford relief, My fond heart would scorn the blessing RICHARD JAGO. [Born, 1715. Died, 1781.] THE Rev. Richard Jago, the author of "Edge Hill," a descriptive poem, was vicar of Snitterfield, near Stratford-on-Avon. Shenstone, who knew him at Oxford, where Jago was a sizar, used to visit him privately, it being thought beneath the dignity of a commoner to be intimate with a student of that rank, and continued his friendship for him through life. BETWIXT two sloping verdant hills How blind is man's incurious race To bring her hidden worth to sight, He said and to his favourite son He last invoked the driads' aid, And fringed the borders round with shade. Not distant far below, a mill So strongly, that by friction's power, |