CAPTAIN EDWARD THOMPSON was a native of Hull, and went to sea so early in life as to be precluded from the advantages of a liberal education. At the age of nineteen, he acted as lieutenant on board the Jason, in the engagement off Ushant, between Hawke and Conflans. Coming to London, after the peace, he resided, for some time, in Kew-lane, where he wrote some light pieces for the stage, and some licentious poems; the titles of which need not be revived. At the breaking out of the American war, Garrick's interest obtained promotion for him in his own profession; and he was appointed to the command of the Hyæna frigate, and made his fortune by the single capture of a French

East Indiaman. He was afterwards in Rodney's action off Cape St. Vincent, and brought home the tidings of the victory. His death was occasioned by a fever, which he caught on board the Grampus, while he commanded that vessel, off the coast of Africa. Though a dissolute man, he had the character of an able and humane commander.

A few of his sea songs are entitled to remembrance. Besides his poems and dramatic pieces, he published "Letters of a Sailor;" and edited the works of John Oldham, P. Whitehead, and Andrew Marvell. For the last of those tasks he was grossly unqualified.

THE SAILOR'S FAREWELL.

THE topsails shiver in the wind,

The ship she casts to sea;

But yet my soul, my heart, my mind,
Are, Mary, moor'd by thee:
For though thy sailor's bound afar,
Still love shall be his leading star.

Should landmen flatter when we're sail'd,
O doubt their artful tales;
No gallant sailor ever fail'd,

If Cupid fill'd his sails :
Thou art the compass of my soul,
Which steers my heart from pole to pole.

Sirens in ev'ry port we meet,

More fell than rocks and waves; But sailors of the British fleet

Are lovers, and not slaves: No foes our courage shall subdue, Although we've left our hearts with you.

These are our cares; but if you're kind,

We'll scorn the dashing main, The rocks, the billows, and the wind,

The powers of France and Spain. Now Britain's glory rests with you, Our sails are full-sweet girls, adieu !

SONG.

BEHOLD upon the swelling wave,
With streaming pendants gay,
Our gallant ship invites the brave,
While glory leads the way;

And a cruising we will go.

Whene'er Monsieur comes in view,
From India richly fraught,
To gain the prize we're firm and true,
And fire as quick as thought.

With hearts of oak we ply each gun,
Nor fear the least dismay;
We either take, or sink, or burn,
Or make them run away.

The lovely maids of Britain's isle
We sailors ne'er despise ;
Our courage rises with each smile,
For them we take each prize.

The wind sets fair, the vessel's trim,
Then let us boldly go;

Old Neptune guides us while we swim,
To check the haughty foe.

United let each Briton join,

Courageously advance, We'll baffle every vain design, And check the pride of France.

SONG.

LOOSE every sail to the breeze,

The course of my vessel improve; I've done with the toils of the seas, Ye sailors, I'm bound to my love.

Since Emma is true as she's fair,

My griefs I fling all to the wind : 'Tis a pleasing return for my care, My mistress is constant and kind.

My sails are all fill'd to my dear; What tropic bird swifter can move? Who, cruel, shall hold his career

That returns to the nest of his love!

Hoist every sail to the breeze,

Come, shipmates, and join in the song; Let's drink, while the ship cuts the seas, To the gale that may drive her along.

HENRY HEADLEY, whose uncommon talents were lost to the world at the age of twenty-two, was born at Irstead, in Norfolk. He received his education at the grammar-school of Norwich, under Dr. Parr; and, at the age of sixteen, was admitted a member of Trinity college, Oxford. There the example of Thomas Warton, the senior of his college, led him to explore the beauties of our elder poets. About the age of twenty he published some pieces of verse, which exhibit no very remarkable promise; but his "Select Beauties of the Ancient English Poets," which appeared in the following year, were accompanied with critical observations, that showed an unparalleled ripeness of mind for his years. On leaving the university, after a residence of four years, he married, and retired to Matlock, in Derbyshire. His matrimonial choice is said to have been hastily formed, amidst the anguish of disappointment in a previous attachment. But

short as his life was, he survived the lady whom he married.

The symptoms of consumption having appeared in his constitution, he was advised to try the benefit of a warmer climate; and he took the resolution of repairing to Lisbon, unattended by a single friend. On landing at Lisbon, far from feeling any relief from the climate, he found himself oppressed by its sultriness; and in this forlorn state, was on the point of expiring, when Mr. De Vismes, to whom he had received a letter of introduction from the late Mr. Windham, conveyed him to his healthful villa, near Cintra,¦ allotted spacious apartments for his use, procured for him the ablest medical assistance, and treated him with every kindness and amusement that could console his sickly existence. But his malady proved incurable; and, returning to England at the end of a few months, he expired at Norwich.

CHILD of the potent spell and nimble eye,
Young Fancy, oft in rainbow vest array'd,
Points to new scenes that in succession pass
Across the wond'rous mirror that she bears,
And bids thy unsated soul and wandering eye
A wider range o'er all her prospects take ;
Lo, at her call, New Zealand's wastes arise !
Casting their shadows far along the main,
Whose brows, cloud-capp'd in joyless majesty,
No human foot hath trod since time began ;
Here death-like silence ever-brooding dwells,
Save when the watching sailor startled hears,
Far from his native land at darksome night,
The shrill-toned petrel, or the penguin's voice,
That skim their trackless flight on lonely wing,
Through the bleak regions of a nameless main :
Here danger stalks, and drinks with glutted ear
The wearied sailor's moan, and fruitless sigh,
Who, as he slowly cuts his daring way,
Affrighted drops his axe, and stops awhile,
To hear the jarring echoes lengthen'd din,
That fling from pathless cliffs their sullen sound:
Oft here the fiend his grisly visage shows,
His limbs, of giant form, in vesture clad

Of drear collected ice and stiffen'd snow,
The same he wore a thousand years ago,
That thwarts the sunbeam, and endures the day.
'Tis thus, by Fancy shown, thou kenn'st en-
tranced

Long tangled woods, and ever stagnant lakes,
That know no zephyr pure, or temperate gale,
By baneful Tigris banks, where, oft they say,
As late in sullen march for prey he prowls,
The tawny lion sees his shadow'd form,
At silent midnight by the moon's pale gleam,
On the broad surface of the dark deep wave;
Here, parch'd at mid-day, oft the passenger
Invokes with lingering hope the tardy breeze,
And oft with silent anguish thinks in vain
On Europe's milder air and silver springs.

Thou, unappall'd, canst view astounding fear
With ghastly visions wild, and train unbless'd
Of ashy fiends, at dead of murky night,
Who catch the fleeting soul, and slowly pace,
With visage dimly seen, and beckoning hand,
Of shadowy forms, that, ever on the wing,
Flit by the tedious couch of wan despair.
Methinks I hear him, with impatient tongue,
The lagging minutes chide, whilst sad he sits

And notes their secret lapse with shaking head.
See, see,
with tearless glance they mark his fall,
And close his beamless eye, who, trembling, meets
A late repentance, and an early grave.

Safe in the lowly vale of letter'd ease, From all the dull buffoonery of life,

Thy sacred influence grateful may I own;

Hid in some cavern, shrouds its ruffled plumes, And through the long, long night, regardless hears The wild wind's keenest blast and dashing rain.

mature rather in genius than in years, Russell holds no humble place. Mr. Southey has numbered five, and Russell is among them-Chatterton, Bruce, Russell, Bampfylde, and Kirke White.]

TO VALCLUSA.

WHAT though, Valclusa, the fond bard be fled,
That woo'd his fair in thy sequester'd bowers,
Long loved her living, long bemoan'd her dead,
And hung her visionary shrine with flowers!
What though no more he teach thy shades to mourn
The hapless chances that to love belong,
As erst when drooping o'er her turf forlorn,
He charm'd wild Echo with his plaintive song.
Yet still, enamour'd of the tender tale,
Pale Passion haunts thy grove's romantic gloom,
Yet still soft music breathes in every gale,
Still undecay'd the fairy garlands bloom,
Still heavenly incense fills each fragrant vale,
Still Petrarch's Genius weeps o'er Laura's tomb.

SUPPOSED TO BE WRITTEN AT LEMNOS.

On this lone isle, whose rugged rocks affright
The cautious pilot, ten revolving years
Great Pæon's son, unwonted erst to tears,
Wept o'er his wound: alike each rolling light
Of heaven he watch'd,and blamed its lingering flight:
By day the sea-mew, screaming round his cave,
Drove slumber from his eyes, the chiding wave,
And savage howlings chased his dreams by night.
Hope still was his; in each low breeze that sigh'd
Through his rude grot, he heard a coming oar:
In each white cloud a coming sail he spied;
Nor seldom listen'd to the fancied roar
Of Eta's torrents, or the hoarser tide
That parts famed Trachis from th' Euboic shore.

JOHN LOGAN was the son of a farmer, in the parish of Fala, and county of Mid-Lothian, Scotland. He was educated for the church, at the university of Edinburgh. There he contracted an intimacy with Dr. Robertson, who was then a student of his own standing; and he was indebted to that eminent character for many friendly offices in the course of his life. After finishing his theological studies, he lived for some time in the family of Mr. Sinclair, of Ulbster, as tutor to the late Sir John Sinclair. In his twenty-fifth

year, he was ordained one of the ministers of Leith; and had a principal share in the scheme for revising the psalmody of the Scottish church, under the authority of the General Assembly. He contributed to this undertaking several scriptural translations, and paraphrases, of his own composition. About the same time, he delivered, during two successive seasons, in Edinburgh, Lectures on History, which were attended with so much approbation, that he was brought forward as a candidate for the Professorship of History in the

His poems, which had hitherto been only circulated in MS. or printed in a desultory manner, were collected and published in 1781. The favourable reception which they met with, encouraged him to attempt the composition of a tragedy, and he chose the charter of Runnymede for his subject. This innocent drama was sent to the manager of Covent Garden, by whom it was accepted, and even put into rehearsal; but, on some groundless rumour of its containing dangerous political matter, the Lord Chamberlain thought fit to prohibit its representation. It was, however, acted on the Edinburgh boards, and afterwards published; though without exhibiting in its contents anything calculated to agitate either poetical or political feelings.

In the meantime our author unhappily drew on himself the displeasure of his parishioners. His connexion with the stage was deemed improper in a clergyman. His literary pursuits interfered with his pastoral diligence; and, what

was worse, he was constitutionally subject to fits of depression, from which he took refuge in inebriety. Whatever his irregularities were, (for they have been differently described,) he was obliged to compound for them, by resigning his flock, and retiring upon a small annuity. He came to London, where his principal literary employments were, furnishing articles for the English Review, and writing in vindication of Warren Hastings. He died at the age of forty, at his lodgings, in Marlborough-street. His Sermons, which were published two years after his death, have obtained considerable popularity.

His "Ode to the Cuckoo" is the most agreeable effusion of his fancy. Burke was so much pleased with it, that, when he came to Edinburgh, he made himself acquainted with its author. His claim to this piece has indeed been disputed by the relatives of Michael Bruce; and it is certain, that when Bruce's poems were sent to Logan, be published them intermixed with his own, without any marks to discriminate the respective authors. He is farther accused of having refused to restore the MSS. But as the charge of stealing the Cuckoo from Bruce was not brought against Logan in his life-time, it cannot, in charity, stand against his memory on the bare assertion of his

accusers.

ODE TO THE CUCKOO.

HAIL, beauteous stranger of the grove!
Thou messenger of Spring!
Now Heaven repairs thy rural seat,
And woods thy welcome sing.

What time the daisy decks the green,
Thy certain voice we hear;

Hast thou a star to guide thy path,
Or mark the rolling year?

Delightful visitant! with thee

I hail the time of flowers,
And hear the sound of music sweet
From birds among the bowers.

The schoolboy, wandering through the wood
To pull the primrose gay,

Starts, the new voice of Spring to hear,
And imitates thy lay.

What time the pea puts on the bloom,
Thou fliest thy vocal vale,

An annual guest in other lands,
Another Spring to hail.

Sweet bird thy bower is ever green,

Thy sky is ever clear;

Thou hast no sorrow in thy song,

No winter in thy year!

O could I fly, I'd fly with thee! We'd make, with joyful wing, Our annual visit o'er the globe, Companions of the Spring.

THE LOVERS.

Har. "Tis midnight dark: 'tis silence deep, My father's house is hush'd in sleep; In dreams the lover meets his bride, She sees her lover at her side;

The mourner's voice is now suppress'd,

A while the weary are at rest:

"Tis midnight dark; 'tis silence deep;

I only wake, and wake to weep.

The window's drawn, the ladder waits,

I spy no watchman at the gates;
No tread re-echoes through the hall,
No shadow moves along the wall.

I am alone. "'Tis dreary night,

O come, thou partner of my flight!
Shield me from darkness, from alarms;
O take me trembling to thine arms!

[* Because some pieces which are printed among the remains of poor Michael Bruce, have been ascribed to Logan, Mr. Chalmers has not thought it proper to admit Bruce's poems into his collection.-SOUTHEY, Quar. Rev. vol. xi. p. 501.]

Har. Still beats my bosom with alarms :
I tremble while I'm in thy arms!
What will impassion'd lovers do?
What have I done-to follow you?
I leave a father torn with fears;
I leave a mother bathed in tears;
A brother, girding on his sword,
Against my life, against my lord.

Now, without father, mother, friend,
On thee my future days depend;
Wilt thou, for ever true to love,
A father, mother, brother prove?
O Henry!- -to thy arms I fall,
My friend my husband! and my all!
Alas! what hazards may I run?
Shouldst thou forsake me-I'm undone.

Hen. My Harriet, dissipate thy fears,
And let a husband wipe thy tears;
For ever join'd our fates combine,
And I am yours, and you are mine.
The fires the firmament that rend,
On this devoted head descend,

If e'er in thought from thee I rove,
Or love thee less than now I love!

Although our fathers have been foes,
From hatred stronger, love arose ;

From adverse briars that threat'ning stood,
And threw a horror o'er the wood,
Two lovely roses met on high,
Transplanted to a better sky;
And, grafted in one stock, they grow,
In union spring, in beauty blow.

Har. My heart believes my love; but still My boding mind presages ill :

For luckless ever was our love,
Dark as the sky that hung above.
While we embraced, we shook with fears,
And with our kisses mingled tears;
We met with murmurs and with sighs,
And parted still with watery eyes.

An unforeseen and fatal hand

Cross'd all the measures love had plann'd;
Intrusion marr'd the tender hour,

A demon started in the bower;
If, like the past, the future run,

And my dark day is but begun,

What clouds may hang above my head? What tears may I have yet to shed?

Hen. O do not wound that gentle breast, Nor sink, with fancied ills opprest; For softness, sweetness, all, thou art, And love is virtue in thy heart. That bosom ne'er shall heave again But to the poet's tender strain ; And never more these eyes o'erflow But for a hapless lover's woe.

Long on the ocean tempest-tost,
At last we gain the happy coast;
And safe recount upon the shore
Our sufferings past, and dangers o'er :
Past scenes; the woes we wept erewhile
Will make our future minutes smile:
When sudden joy from sorrow springs,
How the heart thrills through all its strings!

Har. My father's castle springs to sight; Ye towers that gave me to the light! O hills! O vales! where I have play'd; Ye woods, that wrap me in your shade! O scenes I've often wander'd o'er! O scenes I shall behold no more! I take a long, last, lingering view: Adieu! my native land, adieu !

O father, mother, brother dear!
O names still utter'd with a tear!
Upon whose knees I've sat and smiled,
Whose griefs my blandishments beguiled;
Whom I forsake in sorrows old,
Whom I shall never more behold!
Farewell, my friends, a long farewell,
Till time shall toll the funeral knell.