"Ho! gossip! for Bude Haven: There be corpses six or eight. Cawk! cawk! the crew and skipper Are wallowing in the sea: So there's a savory supper For my old dame and me.'
"Cawk! gaffer! thou art dreaming, The shore hath wreckers bold; Would rend the yelling seamen, From the clutching billows hold. Cawk! cawk! they'd bound for booty Into the dragon's den:
And shout, for 'death or duty,' If the prey were drowning men."
Loud laughed the listening surges
At the guess our grandame gave: You might call them Boanerges, From the thunder of their wave. And mockery followed after
The sea-bird's jeering brood:
That filled the skies with laughter, From Lundy Light to Bude.
"Cawk! cawk!" then said the raven, "I am fourscore years and ten, Yet never in Bude Haven
Did I croak for rescued men. They will save the captain's girdle, And shirt, if shirt there be; But leave their blood to curdle For my old dame and me.”
So said the rushing raven Unto his hungry mate,
"Ho! gossip! for Bude Haven: There be corpses six or eight. Cawk! cawk! the crew and skipper Are wallowing in the sea:
O, what a savory supper For my old dame and me."
SUNSET AT BURTON PYNSENT, SOMERSET.
OW bare and bright thou sinkest to thy rest
How Over the burnished line of the Severn sea!
While somewhat of thy power thou buriest In ruddy mists, that we may look on thee. And while we stand and wonder, we may see
Far mountain-tops in visible glory drest, Where 'twixt yon purple hills the sight is free To search the regions of the dim northwest. But shadowy bars have crossed thee, - suddenly Thou 'rt fallen among strange clouds; yet not the less Thy presence know we, by the radiancy
That doth thy shroud with golden fringes dress; Even as hidden love to faithful eye
Brightens the edges of obscure distress.
EPITAPH IN BUTLEIGH CHURCH.
DIVIDED far by death were they whose names,
honor here united as in birth,
This monumental verse records. They drew In Dorset's healthy vales their natal breath, And from these shores beheld the ocean first, Whereon in early youth, with one accord, They chose their way of fortune; to that course By Hood and Bridport's bright example drawn, Their kinsmen, children of this place, and sons Of one who in his faithful ministry Inculcated within these hallowed walls
The truths in mercy to mankind revealed. Worthy were these three brethren each to add New honors to the already honored name;
But Arthur, in the morning of his day,
Perished amid the Caribbean Sea,
When the Pomona, by a hurricane
Whirled, riven, and overwhelmed, with all her crew
Into the deep went down. A longer date To Alexander was assigned, for hope,
For fair ambition, and for fond regret, Alas, how short! for duty, for desert, Sufficing; and, while Time preserves the roll Of Britain's naval feats, for good report.
A boy, with Cooke he rounded the great globe; A youth, in many a celebrated fight
With Rodney had his part; and having reached Life's middle stage, engaging ship to ship, When the French Hercules, a gallant foe, Struck to the British Mars his three-striped flag, He fell, in the moment of his victory. Here his remains, in sure and certain hope, Are laid, until the hour when earth and sea Shall render up their dead. One brother yet Survived, with Keppel and with Rodney trained In battles, with the Lord of Nile approved, Ere in command he worthily upheld Old England's high prerogative. In the East, The West, the Baltic and the Midland Seas, Yea, wheresoever hostile fleets have ploughed The ensanguined deep,—his thunders have been heard, His flag in brave defiance hath been seen; And bravest enemies at Sir Samuel's name Felt fatal presage, in their inmost heart, Of unavertible defeat foredoomed
Thus in the path of glory he rode on, Victorious alway, adding praise to praise, Till, full of honors, not of years, beneath The venom of the infected clime he sunk, On Coromandel's coast, completing there His service, only when his life was spent.
To the three brethren, Alexander's son, (Sole scion he in whom their line survived,) With English feeling, and the deeper sense Of filial duty, consecrates this tomb.
WRITTEN AT BUXTON IN A RAINY SEASON.
ROM these wild heights, where oft the mists descend
In rains that shroud the sun and chill the gale, Each transient gleaming interval we hail,
And rove the naked valleys, and extend
Our gaze around where yon vast mountains blend With billowy clouds that o'er their summits sail, Pondering how little Nature's charms befriend The barren scene, monotonous and pale. Yet solemn when the darkening shadows fleet Successive o'er the wide and silent hills, Gilded by watery sunbeams: then we meet Peculiar pomp of vision. Fancy thrills; And owns there is no scene so rude and bare But nature sheds or grace or grandeur there.
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