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"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."

Robert Stephen Hawker.

Burton Pynsent.

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.

Henry Alford.

Butleigh.

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.

Robert Southey.

Buxton.

WRITTEN AT BUXTON IN A RAINY SEASON.

ROM these wild heights, where oft the mists descend

FROM

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.

Anna Seward.

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