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Whether in
angry mood you rise,
Or sweetly sit with placid guile,
Vain is the lightning of your eyes,
And vainer still your gilded smile.

Loves, in your smiles, no longer play;
Your lips, your tongue have lost their art;
Those eyes have now forgot the way
That led directly to my heart.

Hear me; and judge if I'm sincere;
That you are beauteous still I swear;
But oh! no longer you appear

The fairest, and the only fair.

Hear me; but let not truth offend,
In that fine form, in many places,
I now spy faults, my lovely friend,
Which I mistook before for graces.

And yet, though free, I thought at first,
With shame my weakness I confess,
My agonizing heart would burst,
The agonies of death are less.

The little songster thus you see
Caught in the cruel schoolboy's toils,

Struggling for life, at last, like me, Escapes, and leaves his feather'd spoils.

His plumage soon resumes its gloss,

His little heart soon waxes gay;
Nor falls, grown cautious from his loss,
To artifice again a prey.

It is not love, it is not pique,

That gives my whole discourse this cast; 'Tis nature, that delights to speak Eternally of dangers past.

Carousing o'er the midnight bowl

The soldier never ceasing prates, Shews every scar to every soul,

And every hair-breadth 'scape relates.

Which of us has most cause to grieve?
Which situation would you choose?
I, a capricious tyrant leave,
And you, a faithful lover lose.

I can find maids in every rout,
With smiles as false, and forms as fine;
But you must search the world throughout,
To find a heart as true as mine.

BORN 1738.-DIED 1786.

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 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:

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


BEHOLD upon the swelling wave,

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

And a cruizing 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
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 sits fair, the vessel's trim,
Then let us boldly go;

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