Full on my soul the dreadful scene display,

And give its latent horrors to the day.

I shall add to this the character of 'Arion,' in which the poet himself is designed,

To Rodmond, next in order of command,
Succeeds the youngest of our naval band:
But what avails it to record a name

That courts no rank among the sons of fame;
Whose vital spring had just began to bloom,
When o'er it sorrow spread her sickening gloom?
While yet a stripling, oft with fond alarms
His bosom danced to Nature's boundless charms;
On him fair science dawn'd in happier hour,
Awakening into bloom young Fancy's flower :
But soon Adversity, with freezing blast,
The blossom wither'd, and the dawn o'ercast.
Forlorn of heart, and by severe decree
Condemn'd reluctant to the faithless sea,
With long farewell he left the laurel grove,
Where science, and the tuneful sisters rove.
Hither he wander'd, anxious to explore
Antiquities of nations now no more;

To penetrate each distant realm unknown,
And range excursive o'er the untravell❜d zone:
In vain for rude adversity's command
Still on the margin of each famous land,
With unrelenting ire his steps opposed,
And every gate of hope against him closed.
Permit my verse, ye blest Pierian train!
To call Arion this ill-fated swain :
For like that bard unhappy, on his head
Malignant stars their hostile influence shed:
Both, in lamenting numbers, o'er the deep

With conscious anguish taught the harp to weep;
And both the raging surge in safety bore
Amid destruction, panting to the shore :
This last, our tragic story from the wave
Of dark oblivion, haply, yet may save:
With genuine sympathy may yet complain,
While sad remembrance bleeds at every vein.

Of Falconer's minor poems, it is not necessary to say much; they can do no honour to the author of the Shipwreck. The poem Sacred to the Memory of the Prince of Wales is written in the following style; which may be called the OldElegeiac.

Oh! bear me to some awful silent glade
Where cedars form an unremitting shade;
Where never track of human feet was known,
Where never cheerful light of Phœbus shone;
Where chirping linnets warble tales of love,

And hoarser winds howl murmuring through the grove.
Where some unhappy wretch aye moans his doom,
Deep melancholy wandering through the gloom;
Where solitude and meditation roam,

And where no dawning glimpse of hope can come ;
Place me in such an unfrequented shade,
To speak to none-but with the mighty dead :
To assist the pouring rains with brimful eyes,
And aid hoarse howling Boreas with my sighs.

Ye powers, and must a prince so noble die?
Whose equal breathes not under the ambient sky.

The poem called the Demagogue is filled with

abuse of Lord Chatham in most virulent and unmeasured terms; the language is in many parts inflated, in others, mean and prosaic; of the former the following lines will be an example:

Methinks I hear the bellowing Demagogue
Dumb-sounding declamations disembogue;
Expressions of immeasurable length,

Whose pompous jargon fills the place of strength.
Where fulminating rumbling eloquence

With loud theatric rage, bombards the sense,

And words deep ranked in horrible array,

Exasperated metaphors convey.

And these again sink into such couplets as the following,

But all the events collected to relate,

Let us his actions recapitulate.

The ballad of the Fond Lover' is the most

pleasing of his minor productions.

THE DIRGE OF POOR * ARION.

WHAT pale and bleeding youth (while the fell Blast
Howls o'er the wreck, and fainter sinks the cry
Of struggling wretches ere o'erwhelmed they die)
Yet floats upborne upon the driving mast?

O poor Arion! has thy sweetest strain,

That charm'd old Ocean's wildest solitude,

At this dread hour his waves' dark might subdued?
Let Sea-Maids thy reclining head sustain ;
And wipe the blood, and briny drops, that soil

Thy locks, and give once more thy wreathed shell
To ring with melody :-Oh fruitless Toil!
Hark! o'er thy head again the tempests swell;
Hark! hark again the storm's black demons yell

More loud; the bellowing deep reclaims his spoil!
Peace! and may weeping Sea-Maids sing the knell.
W. L. BOWLES.

1803.

FAREWELL, poor FALCONER! when the dark Sea
Bursts like despair, I shall remember thee;
Nor ever from the sounding beach depart
Without thy music stealing on my heart,
And thinking still I hear dread Ocean say,
Thou hast declared my might, be thou my prey!
W. L. BOWLES.

Written on the platform at Portsmouth, April 16,