The float of the Inchcape Bell was seen,
A darker speck, on the ocean green;
Sir RALPH, the Rover, walk'd his deck,
And he fix'd his eye on the darker speck.
He felt the cbearing power of spring;
It made him whistle, it made him sing:
His heart was mirthful, to excess-
But the Rover's mirth was wickedness.
His eye was on the bell and float-
Quoth he, my men, put out the boat;
And row me to the Inchcape Rock,
And I'll plague the Priest of Aberbrothok.
The boat is lower'd, the boatmen row,
And to the Inchcape Rock they go;
Sir RALPH bent over from the boat,
And cut the warning bell from the float.
Down sunk the bell, with a gurgling sound;
The bubbles rose, and burst around.
Quoth Sir RALPH, the next who comes to the Rock,
Will not bless the Priest of Aberbrothok.
Sir RALPH, the Rover, sail'd away;
He scour'd the seas for many a day;
And now, grown rich, with plunder'd store,
He steers his course to Scotland's shore.
So thick a haze o'erspreads the sky,
They could not see the sun on high;
The wind hath blown a gale all day;
At evening it hath died away.
On the deck the Rover takes his stand,
So dark it is, they see no land;
Quoth Sir RALPH, it will be lighter soon
For there is the dawn of the rising moon.
Canst hear, said one, the breakers roar;
For yonder, methinks, should be the shore.
Now, where we are I cannot tell,
But I wish we could hear the Inchcape Bell.
They hear no sound, the swell is strong,
Tho' the wind hath fallen they drift along;
"Till the vessel strikes with a shiv'ring shock-
Oh, CHRIST! it is the Inchcape Rock!
Sir RALPH, the Rover, tore his hair;
He curst himself in his despair:
The waves rush in on every side,
The ship is sinking beneath the tide.
But even in his dying fear
One dreadful sound could the Rover hear;
A sound as if with the Inchcape bell,
The devil below was ringing his knell.
On a Lady who beat her Husband.
COME hither, Sir John, my picture is here,
What think you, my love, don't it strike
I can't say it does, just at present, my dear,
But I think it soon will, it's so like you.
STANZAS TO A CANARY BIRD.
BY THE LATE C. LEFTLY, ESQ.
DELIGHTFUL Bird, whose little throat
Resounded joyous through the Hall,
What means that melancholy note?
Or wherefore was that dying fall?
Thy ruffled plume, thy head reclin'd,
Thy swelling breast, and tremulous strain,
Betray the fever of the mind,
As hot as burns a lover's brain.
Say, hath thy faithless mistress fled,
And left thy tender soul to wail?
Or does that hand, whose bounty fed,
Reward some flattering rival's tale?
Like thee, sweet Bird, allur'd and bound,
I mourn a wretched captive here;
Like thine, too late, my bonds are found,
Though gilded, yet the most severe.
Yet were I free as thought to rove,
To wear her chains I still would fly;
Live in the maddening breath of love,
Or frozen by her coldness die.
Soon as the Deluge ceas'd to pour
The flood of Death from shore to shore,
And verdure smil'd again;
Hatch'd amidst elemental strife,
I sought the upper realms of life,
The Tyrant of the plain.
On India's shores my dwelling lay,
Gigantic, as I roam'd for prey,
All Nature took to flight!
At my approach the lofty woods
Submissive bow'd-the trembling floods
Drew backward with affright.
Creation felt a general shock:
The screaming Eagle sought the rock,
The Elephant was slain;
Affrighted, Men to caves retreat-
Tygers and Leopards lick'd my feet,
And own'd my lordly reign.
Thus many moons my course I ran,
The general foe of beast and man,
Till on one fatal day,
The Lion led the bestial train,
And I, alas! was quickly slain,
As gorged with food I lay.
With lightening's speed the rumour spread; Rejoice! Rejoice! the Mammoth's dead," Resounds from shore to shore.
Pomona, Ceres, thrive again,
And laughing join the choral strain, "The Mammoth is no more."
In Earth's deep caverns long immur'd,
My Skeleton from view secur'd,
In dull oblivion lay;
Till late, with industry and toil,
A Youth subdu'd the stubborn soil,
And dragg'd me forth to day.
In London now my body's shown,
And while the crowd o'er every bone
Incline the curious head;
They view my form with wond'ring eye,
And pleas'd, in fancied safety cry,
"Thank Heaven, the Monster's dead!"
Oh mortals, blind to future ill,
My Race yet lives, it prospers still;
Nay-start not with surprize:
Behold from Corsica's small isle,
Twin-born in cruelty and guile,
A second Mammoth rise!
He seeks, on fortune's billows born,
A land by revolutions torn,
A prey to civil hate;
And, seizing on a lucky time,
Of Gallic frenzy, Gallic crime,
Assumes the regal state.
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