54. LOSS OF THE ROYAL GEORGE. TOLL for the brave; The brave that are no more! All sunk beneath the wave Fast by their native shore! Eight hundred of the brave A land-breeze shook the shrouds Down went the Royal George, Toll for the brave! Brave Kempenfelt is gone; It was not in the battle; His sword was in its sheath, When Kempenfelt went down Weigh the vessel up Once dreaded by our foes! And mingle with the cup Her timbers yet are sound, Full charged with England's thunder, But Kempenfelt is gone, His victories are o'er; And he and his eight hundred Shall plough the wave no more. Cowper. 55. — LITTLE THINGS. HEARTS good and true, In narrow circles bounded; And hope that lives, On what God gives, Small things are best, Grief and un-rest, With wealth and rank are given, But little things, On little wings, Bear little souls to heaven. Faber. 56.-YOUNG ROMILLY; OR BOLTON PRIORY. "WHAT is good for a bootless bene?" With these dark words begins my tale; And their meaning is, whence can comfort spring When Prayer is of no avail? "What is good for a bootless bene?" The Falconer to the Lady said; And she made answer "endless sorrow ! She knew it by the Falconer's words, Young Romilly through Barden woods And holds a greyhound in a leash, The pair have reached that fearful chasm, How tempting to bestride! For lordly Wharf is there pent in With rocks on either side. The striding-place is called The Strid, A thousand years hath it borne that name, And hither is young Romilly come, And what may now forbid That he, perhaps for the hundredth time, Shall bound across The Strid ? He sprang in glee, for what cared he That the river was strong, and the rocks were steep? But the greyhound in the leash hung back, And checked him in his leap. The boy is in the arms of Wharf, And strangled by a merciless force; For never more was young Romilly seen Till he rose a lifeless corse. Now there is stillness in the vale, And long, unspeaking sorrow: Wharf shall be to pitying hearts If for a lover the lady wept, A solace she might borrow From death and from the passion of death:- She weeps not for the wedding day Her hope was a further looking hope, He was a tree that stood alone, And proudly did its branches wave; Long, long in darkness did she sit, And her first words were, "Let there be "In Bolton, on the field of Wharf, "A stately Priory!" The stately Priory was reared; And Wharf, as he moved along, To matins joined a mournful voice, And the lady prayed in heaviness That looked not for relief! But slowly did her succour come, Oh! there is never sorrow of heart Wordsworth. 57. THE BATTLE OF HOHENLINDEN. ON Linden, when the sun was low, But Linden saw another sight, By torch and trumpet fast array'd, Then shook the hills with thunder riven! But redder yet that light shall glow 'Tis morn, but scarce yon level sun Shout in their sulphurous canopy! The combat deepens. On, ye brave, And charge with all thy chivalry!— |