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I knew not why in slumber
His heart should tremble so; Or lock'd in love's embraces,
How doubt and fear could grow. Till o'er the bounding billow
The angry chieftains came; They seized my wretched lover,
They mock'd my anguish'd claim; In iron bands then bound him,
I flew his fate to share ;
And threw me to despair.
So far to cross the sea; Their chieftain's wrongs revenging,
To tear my love from me? Are Otaheitan bosoms
No refuge for the brave; Can exile nor repentance
A wretched lover save?
No more the Heiva's dancing
My mournful steps will suit ; As when to the torchlight glancing,
And beating to the flute. No more my braided tresses
With smiling flowers shall bloom; Nor blossom rich in beauty
Shall lend its sweet perfume.
All by the sounding ocean
I sit me down and mourn, In hopes his chiefs may pardon him,
And speed my love's return.
Can he forget his Peggy,
That soothed his cares to rest? Can he forget the baby
That smiles upon her breast? I wish the fearful warning
Would bind my woes in sleep! And I were a little bird to chase
My lover o'er the deep! Or if my wounded spirit
In the death canoe would rove, I'd bribe the wind and pitying wave To speed me to my love!
P. M. JAMES.
AN ENGLISHMAN'S LAMENT FOR THE LOSS OF HIS
YE brave enduring Englishmen,
Who dash through fire and flood,
Your money and your blood,
When ye lay,
Night and day,
Your gallant host set sail
And vigour in the gale:
The Frenchman dropp'd his laughter,
As ye came
In your fame
But foul delays encompass'd ye,
More dangerous than the foe, As Antwerp's town and its guarded fleet
Too well for Britons know; One spot alone ye conquer'd, With hosts unknown of yore,
And your might,
Day and night,
Mourn'd every moment lost,
In flame to the hostile coast;
And your fame
Sunk with shame
Of the battle-shaken flood,
In the mingle of brave blood;
Pierced with scorn,
No ship came o'er to bring relief,
No orders came to save;
Still counting for the grave.
And the waves
Pierced their graves
Ye ne'er shall thrive again
Of mercenary men:
Where the deep,
To their sleep,
THE OLDE AND NEW BARONNE*.
in his pate,
A BROTHER bard, I trow, who has mickle witte
[waste were great; Has sung of a worshipful squire, whose means and He lived in golden daies when Elizabeth ruled
the state, And kept a noble house at the olde bountiful rate.
Like an olde courtier of the queen's,
* See the Olde and Young Courtier.-Reliques Anc. Poel. Vol. ii. VOL. III,
But, lest our sonnes should say 'past times were
better than these,' [reader please, We'll look still further backe, if the courteous A hundred years or twain after William crossed the seas,
[and little ease. When our fathers lived, I guesse, in great fear
Like olde villaines of their lorde,
The baronne, proud and fierce, then kept his castle wa',
(see nothing at a' From whence, though high and steep, ye could But a danke and dismalle moore, and a wide bridge made to draw
[faugh! Over a moate so green, and so stinking, ye cried
Like an old baronne of the lande,
His chambers large and dimme, with gaudy paint
ing dight, But like no earthly thing e'er seen of mortal wight, With chimnies black with smoke, and windows of
greate height, That let in store of winde,but marvellous little light.
Like an old baronne of the lande,
And the lande's olde baronne. There in a hall so wide, and colde as any stone, He fed, in freezing state, idle fellows a hundred
[armour on, With black and bushy beards and bloode red Who, when he gives the worde, to rapine and
slaughter are gone.
Like an olde baronne of the lande,