CCX. THOMAS WARTON, 1728-1790.

SONG OF THE CRUSADERS ON COMING NEAR TO JERUSALEM,

"Lo, the toilsome voyage past,
Heaven's favoured hills appear at last!
Object of our holy vow,

We tread the Tyrian valleys now.
From Carmel's almond-shaded steep
We feel the cheering fragrance creep:
O'er Engaddi's shrubs of balm,
Waves the date-empurpled palm;
See Lebanon's aspiring head
Wide his immortal umbrage spread!
Hail, Calvary, the mountain hoar,
Wet with our Redeemer's gore!
Ye trampled tombs, ye fanes forlorn,
Ye stones, by tears of pilgrims worn,
Your ravished honours to restore,
Fearless we climb this hostile shore!
And thou, the sepulchre of God,
By mocking pagans rudely trod,
Bereft of every awful rite,

And quenched thy lamps that beamed so brigh,
For thee, from Britain's distant coast,

Lo, Richard leads his faithful host!

Aloft in his heroic hand,

Blazing like the be icon's brand,
O'er the far-affrighted fields,
Resistless Kaliburn he wields.

Proud Saracen, pollute no more

The shrines by martyrs built of yore!

From each wild mountain's trackless crown

In vain thy gloomy castles frown;

Thy battering-engines, huge and high,
In vain our steel-clad steeds defy:
And, rolling in terrific state,

On giant-wheels harsh thunders grate
When eve has hush'd the buzzing camp,
Amid the moonlight's vapours damp,
Thy necromantic forms, in vain,
Haunt us on the tented plain :

We did those spectre-shapes avaunt,
Ashtaroth and Termagaunt!
With many a demon, pale of hue,
Doomed to drink the bitter dew
That drops from Macon's sooty tree,
'Mid the dread grove of ebony.
Nor magic charms, nor fiends of hell,
The Christian's holy courage quell.
Salem, in ancient majesty,

Arise, and lift thee to the sky!
Soon on thy battlements divine
Shall wave the badge of Constantine.

Ye barons, to the sun unfold

Our cross with crimsom wove, and gold!"

CCXI. JOHN CUNNINGHAM, 1729-1773.
CONTENT, A PASTORAL.

O'er moorlands and mountains, rude, barren, and bare,
As wildered and wearied I roam,

A gentle young shepherdess sees my despair,
And leads me o'er lawns to her home.

Yellow sheaves from rich Ceres her cottage had crowned,
Green rushes were strewed on her floor,

Her casement sweet woodbines crept wantonly round,
And decked the sod seats at her door.

We sat ourselves down to a cooling repast,
Fresh fruits, and she culled me the best,
While thrown from my guard by some glances she cast,
Love slily stole into my breast!

I told my soft wishes; she sweetly replied,
(Ye virgins, her voice was divine!)

"I've rich ones rejected, and great ones denied,
But take me, fond shepherd-I'm thine."

Her air was so modest, her aspect so meek,
So simple, yet sweet were her charms!

I kissed the ripe roses that glowed on her cheek,
And locked the loved maid in my arms.
Now jocund together we tend a few sheep,
And if, by yon prattler, the stream,

Reclined on her bosom, I sink into sleep.

Her image still softens my dream.

Together we range o'er the slow-rising hills,
Delighted with pastoral views,

Or rest on the rock whence the streamlet distils,
And point out new themes for my muse.
To pomp or proud titles she ne'er did aspire,
The damsel's of humble descent;

The cottager Peace is well-known for ber sire,
And shepherds have named her Content.

CCXII. GEORGE KEATE, 1729-1797.

ON THE DEATH OF A LINNET.

Beneath this fragrant woodbine's shade
A little songster's bones are laid;
Who, ever innocent and gay,

Felt all his hours glide smooth away ;
No guilty passion tore his breast,
No dream of greatness broke his rest;
He with a cheerful, patient mind
Played well that part the gods assigned;
Nor matters it, when this be done,
How soon the thread of life is spun!
Ye warbling tenants of the grove,
Approach this spot and mark your love.
Light hovering round on airy wing
Soft notes of plaintive friendship sing.
So may no prying eye pervade

The hedge-rows where your young are laid,
Nor cruel hand of wanton boy

Your dwellings plunder or destroy:

Far may you bend your flight from where
The artful fowler spreads his snare,

And live from ev'ry danger free,
Enjoying still sweet liberty!

CCXIII. WILLIAM FALCONER, 1730-1769.

THE MOMENT OF SHIPWRECK.

The moment fraught with fate approaches fast! While thronging sailors climb each quivering mast; The ship no longer now must stem the land, And "hard a starboard!" is the last command: While every suppliant voice to Heaven applies, The prow swift-wheeling to the westward flies;