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Mark those numbers pale and horrid,
Those were once my sailors bold,
Lo! each hangs his drooping forehead,
While his dismal tale is told.
"I, by twenty sail attended,
Did this Spanish town affright; Nothing then its wealth defended
But my orders not to fight:
O! that in this rolling ocean
I had cast them with disdain,
And obey'd my heart's warm motion,
To have quell'd the pride of Spain.
"For resistance I could fear none,
But with twenty ships had done
What thou, brave and happy Vernon,
Hast achiev'd with six alone.
Then the Bastimentos never
Had our foul dishonour seen, Nor the sea the sad receiver
Of this gallant train had been.
"Thus, like thee, proud Spain dismaying,
And her galleons leading home,
Though condemn'd for disobeying,
I had met a traitor's doom;
To have fall'n, my country crying
He has play'd an English part,
Had been better far than dying
Of a griev'd and broken heart.
"Unrepining at thy glory,
Thy successful arms we hail;
But remember our sad story,
And let Hosier's wrongs prevail.
Sent in this foul clime to languish,
Think what thousands fell in vain,
Wasted with disease and anguish,
Not in glorious battle slain.
"Hence, with all my train attending
From their oozy tombs below,
Through the hoary foam ascending,
Here I feed my constant woe:
Here the Bastimentos viewing,
We recal our shameful doom, And our plaintive cries renewing, Wander through the midnight gloom.
"O'er these waves for ever mourning Shall we roam depriv'd of rest, If to Britain's shores returning,
You neglect my just request.
After this proud foe subduing,
When your patriot friends you see,
Think on vengeance for
And for England sham'd in me."
JOHN HALL STEPHENSON.
BORN 1718.-died 1785.
I HAVE met with no account of this writer's life, nor have I been very anxious to seek for it, as a volume of poems, which bears his name, is disgraced by obscenity.
In concert with the curfew bell,
An Owl was chaunting vespers in his cell;
Upon the outside of the wall,
A Blackbird, famous in that age,
From a bow-window in the hall,
Hung dangling in a wicker cage;
Instead of psalmody and pray'rs,
Like those good children of St. Francis,
He secularized all his airs,
And took delight in wanton fancies.
Whilst the bell toll'd, and the Owl chaunted,
Every thing was calm and still;
All nature seem'd rapt and enchanted,
Except the querulous, unthankful rill;
Unawed by this imposing scene,
Our Blackbird the enchantment broke;
Flourish'd a sprightly air between,
And whistled the Black Joke.
This lively unexpected motion
Set nature in a gayer light;
Quite overturn'd the monks' devotion,
And scatter'd all the gloom of night.
I have been taught in early youth,
By an expert metaphysician,
That ridicule's the test of truth,
And only match for superstition.
Imposing rogues, with looks demure,
At Rome keep all the world in awe;
Wit is profane, learning impure,
And reasoning against the law.
Between two tapers and a book,
Upon a dresser clean and neat,
Behold a sacerdotal cook,
Cooking a dish of heavenly meat!
How fine he curtsies! Make your bow;
Thump your breast soundly, beat your poll; Lo! he has toss'd up a ragout,
To fill the belly of your soul.
Even here there are some holy men
Would fain lead people by the nose;
Did not a Blackbird, now and then,
My good Lord Bishop, Mr. Dean,
You shall get nothing by your spite;
Tristram shall whistle at your spleen,
And put Hypocrisy to flight.
THANKS to your wiles, deceitful fair, The gods, so long in vain implor'd, At last have heard a wretch's prayer; At last I find myself restor❜d,
From thy bewitching snares and thee: I feel for once this is no dream;
I feel my captive soul is free;
And I am truly what I seem.
Without a blush
your name I hear,
No transient glow my bosom heats;
And, when I meet your eye, my dear,
My fluttering heart no longer beats.
I dream, but I no longer find
Your form still present to my view;
I wake, but now my vacant mind
No longer waking dreams of you.
I meet you now without alarms,
Nor longer fearful to displease,
I talk with ease about your charms,
E'en with my rival talk with ease.