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The lapse of time and rivers is the same,
ADDRESSED TO A YOUNG LADY.
Sweet stream, that winds through yonder glade,
SONG ON PEACE.
Air—"My fond shepherds of late," &c.
No longer I follow a sound;
No longer a dream I pursue; O Happiness! not to be found,
Unattainable treasure, adieu!
I have sought thee in splendour and dress,
In the regions of pleasure and taste; I have sought thee, and seem’d to possess,
But have proved thee a vision at last.
An humble ambition and hope
The voice of true Wisdom inspires; 'Tis sufficient, if Peace be the scope
And the summit of all our desires.
Peace may be the lot of the mind
That seeks it in meekness and love: But rapture and bliss are confined
To the glorified spirits above.
Air—“ The Lass of Patie's Mill.”
When all within is
peace, How nature seems to smile! Delights that never cease,
The live-long day beguile. From morn to dewy eve,
With open hand she showers Fresh blessings to deceive
And soothe the silent hours.
It is content of heart
Gives nature power to please; The mind that feels no smart
Enlivens all it sees; Can make a wintry sky
Seem bright as smiling May, And evening's closing eye
As peep of early day.
The vast majestic globe,
So beauteously array'd In nature's various robe,
With wondrous skill display'd, Is to a mourner's heart
A dreary wild at best; It flutters to depart,
And longs to be at rest.
LOSS OF THE ROYAL GEORGE.
WRITTEN WHEN THE NEWS ARRIVED,
To the March in Scipio.
Toll for the brave!
The brave that are no more !
Fast by their native shore !
Eight hundred of the brave,
Whose courage well was tried,
And laid her on her side.
A land breeze shook the shrouds,
And she was overset;
With all her crew complete.
Toll for the brave !
Brave Kempenfelt is gone;
His work of glory done.
It was not in the battle ;
No tempest gave the shock; She sprang no fatal leak;
She ran upon no rock.
His sword was in its sheath;
His fingers held the pen, When Kempenfelt went down,
With twice four bundred men.
Weigh the vessel up,
Once dreaded by our foes ! And mingle with our cup
The tear that England owes.
Her timbers yet are sound,
And she may float again, Full charged with England's thunder,
And plough the distant main.
But Kempenfelt is gone,
His victories are o'er;
Shall plough the wave no more.