With borrow'd beams they shine. The gales that

breathe

Now landward, and the current's force beneath,
Have borne them nearer: and the nearer sight,
Advantaged more, contemplates them aright.
Their lofty summits crested high they show,
With mingled sleet, and long-incumbent snow.
The rest is ice. Far hence, where, most severe,
Bleak winter well nigh saddens all the year,
Their infant growth began. He bade arise
Their uncouth forms, portentous in our eyes.
Oft as dissolved by transient suns, the snow
Left the tall cliff, to join the flood below;
He caught, and curdled with a freezing blast
The current, ere it reach'd the boundless waste.
By slow degrees uprose the wondrous pile,
And long successive ages roll'd the while;
Till, ceaseless in its growth, it claim'd to stand,
Tall as its rival mountains on the land.
Thus stood, and, unremovable by skill

Or force of man, had stood the structure still,
But that, though firmly fix'd, supplanted yet
By pressure of its own enormous weight,
It left the shelving beach-and, with a sound
That shook the bellowing waves and rocks around,
Self-launch'd, and swiftly, to the briny wave,
As if instinct with strong desire to lave,
Down went the ponderous mass. So bards of old
How Delos swam the Ægean deep have told.

But not of ice was Delos. Delos bore

.

Herb, fruit, and flower. She, crown'd with laurel,

wore,

E'en under wintry skies, a summer smile;
And Delos was Apollo's favourite isle.
But, horrid wanderers of the deep, to you
He deems Cimmerian darkness only due.
Your hated birth he deign'd not to survey,
But, scornful, turn'd his glorious eyes away.
Hence, seek your home, nor longer rashly dare
The darts of Phoebus and a softer air;
Lest ye regret, too late, your native coast,
In no congenial gulf for ever lost!

March 19, 1799.

MONUMENTAL INSCRIPTION TO WILLIAM
NORTHCOT.

Hic sepultus est
Inter suorum lacrymas

GULIELMUS NORTHCOT,
GULIELMI et MARIE filius

Unicus, unicé dilectus,

Qui floris ritu succisus est semihiantis,
Aprilis die septimo,

1780. Æt. 10.

Care, vale! Sed non æternùm, care, valeto!
Namque iterùm tecum, sim modò dignus, ero.
Tum nihil amplexus poterit divellere nostros,
Nec tu marcesces, nec lacrymabor ego.

VOL. VIII.

E E

TRANSLATION.

FAREWELL!" But not for ever," Hope replies, Trace but his steps and meet him in the skies! There nothing shall renew our parting pain, Thou shalt not wither, nor I weep again.

IN SEDITIONEM HORRENDAM,

CORRUPTELIS GALLICIS, UT FERTUR, LONDINI NUPER
EXORTAM.

PERFIDA, crudelis, victa et lymphata furore,
Non armis, laurum Gallia fraude petit.
Venalem pretio plebem conducit, et urit
Undique privatas patriciasque domcs.
Nequicquàm conata suâ, fœdissima sperat

Posse tamen nostrâ nos superare manu.

Gallia, vana struis! Precibus nunc utere! Vinces Nam mites timidis, supplicibusque sumus.

TRANSLATION.

FALSE, cruel, disappointed, stung to the heart, France quits the warrior's for the assassin's part, To dirty hands a dirty bribe conveys,

Bids the low street and lofty palace blaze.

Her sons too weak to vanquish us alone,

She hires the worst and basest of our own.
Kneel, France! a suppliant conquers us with ease,
We always spare a coward on his knees.

QUÆ lenta accedit, quam velox præterit hora!
Ut capias, patiens esto, sed esto vigil !

Slow comes the hour; its passing speed how great!
Waiting to seize it▬▬▬vigilantly wait!

A SIMILE LATINIZED.

Sors adversa gerit stimulum, sed tendit et alas : Pungit api similis, sed velut ista fugit.

ON THE LOSS OF THE ROYAL GEORGE.

WRITTEN WHEN THE NEWS ARRIVED.

TO THE MARCH IN SCIPIO.

TOLL for the brave!

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,
And she was overset ;

Down went the Royal George,
With all her crew complete.

Toll for the brave!

Brave Kempenfelt is gone;
His last sea-fight is fought;
His work of glory done.

It was not in the battle;

No tempest gave the shock ;

She sprang no fatal leak;
She ran upon no rock.

His sword was in its sheath;
His fingers held the pen,

When Kempenfelt went down

With twice four hundred men.

Weigh the vessel up,

Once dreaded by our foes!

And mingle with our cup

The tear that England owes.

Her timbers yet are sound,

And she may float again

Full charged with England's thunder,

And plough the distant main.