CXXVIIITHE RETREAT.

How soon doth man decay!When clothes are taken from a chest of sweetsTo swaddle infants, whose young breathScarce knows the way;Those clouts are little winding-sheets,5Which do consign and send them unto death.When boys go first to bed,They step into their voluntary graves;Sleep binds them fast; only their breathMakes them not dead.10Successive nights, like rolling waves,Convey them quickly, who are bound for death.When youth is frank and free,And calls for music, while his veins do swell,All day exchanging mirth and breath15In company;That music summons to the knell,Which shall befriend him at the house of death.When man grows staid and wise,Getting a house and home, where he may move20Within the circle of his breath,Schooling his eyes;That dumb inclosure maketh loveUnto the coffin, that attends his death.When age grows low and weak,25Marking his grave, and thawing every year,Till all do melt, and drown his breath,When he would speak;A chair or litter shows the bierWhich shall convey him to the house of death.30Man, ere he is aware,Hath put together a solemnity,And dressed his hearse, while he has breathAs yet to spare.Yet, Lord, instruct us so to die,35That all these dyings may be life in death.George Herbert.

How soon doth man decay!

When clothes are taken from a chest of sweets

To swaddle infants, whose young breath

Scarce knows the way;

Those clouts are little winding-sheets,5

Which do consign and send them unto death.

When boys go first to bed,They step into their voluntary graves;Sleep binds them fast; only their breathMakes them not dead.10Successive nights, like rolling waves,Convey them quickly, who are bound for death.

When boys go first to bed,

They step into their voluntary graves;

Sleep binds them fast; only their breath

Makes them not dead.10

Successive nights, like rolling waves,

Convey them quickly, who are bound for death.

When youth is frank and free,And calls for music, while his veins do swell,All day exchanging mirth and breath15In company;That music summons to the knell,Which shall befriend him at the house of death.

When youth is frank and free,

And calls for music, while his veins do swell,

All day exchanging mirth and breath15

In company;

That music summons to the knell,

Which shall befriend him at the house of death.

When man grows staid and wise,Getting a house and home, where he may move20Within the circle of his breath,Schooling his eyes;That dumb inclosure maketh loveUnto the coffin, that attends his death.

When man grows staid and wise,

Getting a house and home, where he may move20

Within the circle of his breath,

Schooling his eyes;

That dumb inclosure maketh love

Unto the coffin, that attends his death.

When age grows low and weak,25Marking his grave, and thawing every year,Till all do melt, and drown his breath,When he would speak;A chair or litter shows the bierWhich shall convey him to the house of death.30

When age grows low and weak,25

Marking his grave, and thawing every year,

Till all do melt, and drown his breath,

When he would speak;

A chair or litter shows the bier

Which shall convey him to the house of death.30

Man, ere he is aware,Hath put together a solemnity,And dressed his hearse, while he has breathAs yet to spare.Yet, Lord, instruct us so to die,35That all these dyings may be life in death.George Herbert.

Man, ere he is aware,

Hath put together a solemnity,

And dressed his hearse, while he has breath

As yet to spare.

Yet, Lord, instruct us so to die,35

That all these dyings may be life in death.

George Herbert.

Happy those early days, when IShined in my angel-infancy!Before I understood this placeAppointed for my second race,Or taught my soul to fancy aught5But a white celestial thought;When yet I had not walked aboveA mile or two from my first Love,And looking back, at that short space,Could see a glimpse of his bright face;10When on some gilded cloud or flowerMy gazing soul would dwell an hour,And in those weaker glories spySome shadows of eternity;Before I taught my tongue to wound15My conscience with a sinful sound,Or had the black art to dispenseA several sin to every sense,But felt through all this fleshly dressBright shoots of everlastingness.20Oh how I long to travel back,And tread again that ancient track!That I might once more reach that plainWhere first I left my glorious train;From whence the enlightened spirit sees25That shady City of palm-trees.But ah! my soul with too much stayIs drunk, and staggers in the way!Some men a forward motion love,But I by backward steps would move;30And when this dust falls to the urn,In that state I came return.Henry Vaughan.

Happy those early days, when I

Shined in my angel-infancy!

Before I understood this place

Appointed for my second race,

Or taught my soul to fancy aught5

But a white celestial thought;

When yet I had not walked above

A mile or two from my first Love,

And looking back, at that short space,

Could see a glimpse of his bright face;10

When on some gilded cloud or flower

My gazing soul would dwell an hour,

And in those weaker glories spy

Some shadows of eternity;

Before I taught my tongue to wound15

My conscience with a sinful sound,

Or had the black art to dispense

A several sin to every sense,

But felt through all this fleshly dress

Bright shoots of everlastingness.20

Oh how I long to travel back,

And tread again that ancient track!

That I might once more reach that plain

Where first I left my glorious train;

From whence the enlightened spirit sees25

That shady City of palm-trees.

But ah! my soul with too much stay

Is drunk, and staggers in the way!

Some men a forward motion love,

But I by backward steps would move;30

And when this dust falls to the urn,

In that state I came return.

Henry Vaughan.

See, how the orient dew,Shed from the bosom of the mornInto the blowing roses,Yet careless of its mansion new,For the clear region where ’twas born,5Round in itself incloses,And in its little globe’s extent,Frames, as it can, its native element.How it the purple flower does slight,Scarce touching where it lies;10But gazing back upon the skies,Shines with a mournful light,Like its own tear,Because so long divided from the sphere;Restless it rolls, and unsecure,15Trembling, lest it grow impure;Till the warm sun pities its pain,And to the skies exhales it back again.So the soul, that drop, that ray,Of the clear fountain of eternal day,20Could it within the human flower be seen,Remembering still its former height,Shuns the sweet leaves, the blossoms green;And, recollecting its own light,Does, in its pure and circling thoughts, express25The greater heaven in a heaven less.In how coy a figure wound,Every way it turns away:So the world excluding round,Yet receiving in the day;30Dark beneath, but bright above;Here disdaining, there in love.How loose and easy hence to go;How girt and ready to ascend;Moving but on a point below,35It all about does upward bend.Such did the manna’s sacred dew distil,White and entire, although congealed and chill;Congealed on earth; but does, dissolving, runInto the glories of the almighty Sun.40Andrew Marvell.

See, how the orient dew,

Shed from the bosom of the morn

Into the blowing roses,

Yet careless of its mansion new,

For the clear region where ’twas born,5

Round in itself incloses,

And in its little globe’s extent,

Frames, as it can, its native element.

How it the purple flower does slight,

Scarce touching where it lies;10

But gazing back upon the skies,

Shines with a mournful light,

Like its own tear,

Because so long divided from the sphere;

Restless it rolls, and unsecure,15

Trembling, lest it grow impure;

Till the warm sun pities its pain,

And to the skies exhales it back again.

So the soul, that drop, that ray,

Of the clear fountain of eternal day,20

Could it within the human flower be seen,

Remembering still its former height,

Shuns the sweet leaves, the blossoms green;

And, recollecting its own light,

Does, in its pure and circling thoughts, express25

The greater heaven in a heaven less.

In how coy a figure wound,

Every way it turns away:

So the world excluding round,

Yet receiving in the day;30

Dark beneath, but bright above;

Here disdaining, there in love.

How loose and easy hence to go;

How girt and ready to ascend;

Moving but on a point below,35

It all about does upward bend.

Such did the manna’s sacred dew distil,

White and entire, although congealed and chill;

Congealed on earth; but does, dissolving, run

Into the glories of the almighty Sun.40

Andrew Marvell.

My soul, there is a country,Afar beyond the stars,Where stands a wingèd sentry,All skilful in the wars.There, above noise and danger,5Sweet peace sits crowned with smiles,And One born in a mangerCommands the beauteous files.He is thy gracious friend,And (O my soul, awake!)10Did in pure love descend,To die here for thy sake.If thou canst get but thither,There grows the flower of peace,The rose that cannot wither,15Thy fortress, and thy ease.Leave then thy foolish ranges;For none can thee secure,But One who never changes,Thy God, thy Life, thy Cure.20Henry Vaughan.

My soul, there is a country,

Afar beyond the stars,

Where stands a wingèd sentry,

All skilful in the wars.

There, above noise and danger,5

Sweet peace sits crowned with smiles,

And One born in a manger

Commands the beauteous files.

He is thy gracious friend,

And (O my soul, awake!)10

Did in pure love descend,

To die here for thy sake.

If thou canst get but thither,

There grows the flower of peace,

The rose that cannot wither,15

Thy fortress, and thy ease.

Leave then thy foolish ranges;

For none can thee secure,

But One who never changes,

Thy God, thy Life, thy Cure.20

Henry Vaughan.

The night is come, like to the day;Depart not Thou, great God, away.Let not my sins, black as the night,Eclipse the lustre of thy light.Keep still in my horizon; for to me5The sun makes not the day, but Thee.Thou whose nature cannot sleep,On my temples sentry keep!Guard me ’gainst those watchful foes,Whose eyes are open while mine close;10Let no dreams my head infest,But such as Jacob’s temples blest.While I do rest, my soul advance;Make me to sleep a holy trance.That I may, my rest being wrought,15Awake into some holy thought;And with as active vigour runMy course as doth the nimble sun.Sleep is a death; oh! make me try,By sleeping, what it is to die:20And as gently lay my headOn my grave, as now my bed.Howe’er I rest, great God, let meAwake again at last with Thee.And thus assured, behold I lie25Securely, or to wake or die.These are my drowsy days; in vainI do now wake to sleep again:Oh! come that hour, when I shall neverSleep again, but wake for ever.30Sir Thomas Browne.

The night is come, like to the day;

Depart not Thou, great God, away.

Let not my sins, black as the night,

Eclipse the lustre of thy light.

Keep still in my horizon; for to me5

The sun makes not the day, but Thee.

Thou whose nature cannot sleep,

On my temples sentry keep!

Guard me ’gainst those watchful foes,

Whose eyes are open while mine close;10

Let no dreams my head infest,

But such as Jacob’s temples blest.

While I do rest, my soul advance;

Make me to sleep a holy trance.

That I may, my rest being wrought,15

Awake into some holy thought;

And with as active vigour run

My course as doth the nimble sun.

Sleep is a death; oh! make me try,

By sleeping, what it is to die:20

And as gently lay my head

On my grave, as now my bed.

Howe’er I rest, great God, let me

Awake again at last with Thee.

And thus assured, behold I lie25

Securely, or to wake or die.

These are my drowsy days; in vain

I do now wake to sleep again:

Oh! come that hour, when I shall never

Sleep again, but wake for ever.30

Sir Thomas Browne.

Vain world, what is in thee?What do poor mortals see,Which should esteemèd beWorthy their pleasure?Is it the mother’s womb,5Or sorrows which soon come,Or a dark grave and tomb,Which is their treasure?How dost thou man deceiveBy thy vain glory?10Why do they still believeThy false history?Is it children’s book and rod,The labourer’s heavy load,Poverty undertrod,15The world desireth?Is it distracting cares,Or heart-tormenting fears,Or pining grief and tears,Which man requireth?20Or is it youthful rage,Or childish toying;Or is decrepit ageWorth man’s enjoying?Is it deceitful wealth,25Got by care, fraud, or stealth,Or short uncertain health,Which thus befool men?Or do the serpent’s lies,By the world’s flatteries30And tempting vanities,Still overrule them?Or do they in a dreamSleep out their season?Or borne down by lust’s stream,35Which conquers reason?The silly lambs to-dayPleasantly skip and play,Whom butchers mean to slayPerhaps to-morrow;40In a more brutish sortDo careless sinners sport,Or in dead sleep still snort,As near to sorrow;Till life, not well begun,45Be sadly ended,And the web they have spunCan ne’er be mended.What is the time that’s gone,And what is that to come?50Is it not now as none?The present stays not.Time posteth, oh how fast!Unwelcome death makes haste;None can call back what’s past—55Judgment delays not.Though God bring in the light,Sinners awake not;Because hell’s out of sightThey sin forsake not.60Man walks in a vain show;They know, yet will not know;Sit still, when they should go;But run for shadows;While they might taste and know65The living streams that flow,And crop the flowers that grow,In Christ’s sweet meadows.Life’s better slept awayThan as they use it;70In sin and drunken playVain men abuse it.Malignant world, adieu!Where no foul vice is new—Only to Satan true,75God still offended;Though taught and warned by God,And his chastising rod,Keeps still the way that’s broad,Never amended.80Baptismal vows some make,But ne’er perform them;If angels from heaven spake,’Twould not reform them.They dig for hell beneath,85They labour hard for death,Run themselves out of breathTo overtake it.Hell is not had for naught,Damnation’s dearly bought,90And with great labour sought;They’ll not forsake it.Their souls are Satan’s fee—He’ll not abate it;Grace is refused that’s free,95Mad sinners hate it.Is this the world men choose,For which they heaven refuse,And Christ and grace abuse,And not receive it?100Shall I not guilty beOf this in some degree,If hence God would me free,And I’d not leave it;My soul, from Sodom fly,105Lest wrath there find thee;Thy refuge-rest is nigh;Look not behind thee!There’s none of this ado,110None of the hellish crew;God’s promise is most true,Boldly believe it.My friends are gone before,And I am near the shore;115My soul stands at the door,O Lord, receive it!It trusts Christ and his merits,The dead He raises;Join it with blessed spirits,120Who sing thy praises.Richard Baxter.

Vain world, what is in thee?

What do poor mortals see,

Which should esteemèd be

Worthy their pleasure?

Is it the mother’s womb,5

Or sorrows which soon come,

Or a dark grave and tomb,

Which is their treasure?

How dost thou man deceive

By thy vain glory?10

Why do they still believe

Thy false history?

Is it children’s book and rod,The labourer’s heavy load,Poverty undertrod,15The world desireth?Is it distracting cares,Or heart-tormenting fears,Or pining grief and tears,Which man requireth?20Or is it youthful rage,Or childish toying;Or is decrepit ageWorth man’s enjoying?

Is it children’s book and rod,

The labourer’s heavy load,

Poverty undertrod,15

The world desireth?

Is it distracting cares,

Or heart-tormenting fears,

Or pining grief and tears,

Which man requireth?20

Or is it youthful rage,

Or childish toying;

Or is decrepit age

Worth man’s enjoying?

Is it deceitful wealth,25Got by care, fraud, or stealth,Or short uncertain health,Which thus befool men?Or do the serpent’s lies,By the world’s flatteries30And tempting vanities,Still overrule them?Or do they in a dreamSleep out their season?Or borne down by lust’s stream,35Which conquers reason?

Is it deceitful wealth,25

Got by care, fraud, or stealth,

Or short uncertain health,

Which thus befool men?

Or do the serpent’s lies,

By the world’s flatteries30

And tempting vanities,

Still overrule them?

Or do they in a dream

Sleep out their season?

Or borne down by lust’s stream,35

Which conquers reason?

The silly lambs to-dayPleasantly skip and play,Whom butchers mean to slayPerhaps to-morrow;40In a more brutish sortDo careless sinners sport,Or in dead sleep still snort,As near to sorrow;Till life, not well begun,45Be sadly ended,And the web they have spunCan ne’er be mended.

The silly lambs to-day

Pleasantly skip and play,

Whom butchers mean to slay

Perhaps to-morrow;40

In a more brutish sort

Do careless sinners sport,

Or in dead sleep still snort,

As near to sorrow;

Till life, not well begun,45

Be sadly ended,

And the web they have spun

Can ne’er be mended.

What is the time that’s gone,And what is that to come?50Is it not now as none?The present stays not.Time posteth, oh how fast!Unwelcome death makes haste;None can call back what’s past—55Judgment delays not.Though God bring in the light,Sinners awake not;Because hell’s out of sightThey sin forsake not.60

What is the time that’s gone,

And what is that to come?50

Is it not now as none?

The present stays not.

Time posteth, oh how fast!

Unwelcome death makes haste;

None can call back what’s past—55

Judgment delays not.

Though God bring in the light,

Sinners awake not;

Because hell’s out of sight

They sin forsake not.60

Man walks in a vain show;They know, yet will not know;Sit still, when they should go;But run for shadows;While they might taste and know65The living streams that flow,And crop the flowers that grow,In Christ’s sweet meadows.Life’s better slept awayThan as they use it;70In sin and drunken playVain men abuse it.

Man walks in a vain show;

They know, yet will not know;

Sit still, when they should go;

But run for shadows;

While they might taste and know65

The living streams that flow,

And crop the flowers that grow,

In Christ’s sweet meadows.

Life’s better slept away

Than as they use it;70

In sin and drunken play

Vain men abuse it.

Malignant world, adieu!Where no foul vice is new—Only to Satan true,75God still offended;Though taught and warned by God,And his chastising rod,Keeps still the way that’s broad,Never amended.80Baptismal vows some make,But ne’er perform them;If angels from heaven spake,’Twould not reform them.

Malignant world, adieu!

Where no foul vice is new—

Only to Satan true,75

God still offended;

Though taught and warned by God,

And his chastising rod,

Keeps still the way that’s broad,

Never amended.80

Baptismal vows some make,

But ne’er perform them;

If angels from heaven spake,

’Twould not reform them.

They dig for hell beneath,85They labour hard for death,Run themselves out of breathTo overtake it.Hell is not had for naught,Damnation’s dearly bought,90And with great labour sought;They’ll not forsake it.Their souls are Satan’s fee—He’ll not abate it;Grace is refused that’s free,95Mad sinners hate it.

They dig for hell beneath,85

They labour hard for death,

Run themselves out of breath

To overtake it.

Hell is not had for naught,

Damnation’s dearly bought,90

And with great labour sought;

They’ll not forsake it.

Their souls are Satan’s fee—

He’ll not abate it;

Grace is refused that’s free,95

Mad sinners hate it.

Is this the world men choose,For which they heaven refuse,And Christ and grace abuse,And not receive it?100Shall I not guilty beOf this in some degree,If hence God would me free,And I’d not leave it;My soul, from Sodom fly,105Lest wrath there find thee;Thy refuge-rest is nigh;Look not behind thee!

Is this the world men choose,

For which they heaven refuse,

And Christ and grace abuse,

And not receive it?100

Shall I not guilty be

Of this in some degree,

If hence God would me free,

And I’d not leave it;

My soul, from Sodom fly,105

Lest wrath there find thee;

Thy refuge-rest is nigh;

Look not behind thee!

There’s none of this ado,110None of the hellish crew;God’s promise is most true,Boldly believe it.My friends are gone before,And I am near the shore;115My soul stands at the door,O Lord, receive it!It trusts Christ and his merits,The dead He raises;Join it with blessed spirits,120Who sing thy praises.Richard Baxter.

There’s none of this ado,110

None of the hellish crew;

God’s promise is most true,

Boldly believe it.

My friends are gone before,

And I am near the shore;115

My soul stands at the door,

O Lord, receive it!

It trusts Christ and his merits,

The dead He raises;

Join it with blessed spirits,120

Who sing thy praises.

Richard Baxter.

Lord, come away,Why dost Thou stay?Thy road is ready: and thy paths, made strait,With longing expectation waitThe consecration of thy beauteous feet.5Ride on triumphantly; behold we layOur lusts and proud wills in thy way.Hosanna! welcome to our hearts. Lord, hereThou hast a temple too, and full as dearAs that of Sion; and as full of sin;10Nothing but thieves and robbers dwell therein,Enter, and chase them forth, and cleanse the floor;Crucify them, that they may never moreProfane that holy place,Where Thou hast chose to set thy face.15And then if our stiff tongues shall beMute in the praises of thy Deity,The stones out of the temple wallShall cry aloud, and callHosanna! and thy glorious footsteps greet.20Jeremy Taylor.

Lord, come away,

Why dost Thou stay?

Thy road is ready: and thy paths, made strait,

With longing expectation wait

The consecration of thy beauteous feet.5

Ride on triumphantly; behold we lay

Our lusts and proud wills in thy way.

Hosanna! welcome to our hearts. Lord, here

Thou hast a temple too, and full as dear

As that of Sion; and as full of sin;10

Nothing but thieves and robbers dwell therein,

Enter, and chase them forth, and cleanse the floor;

Crucify them, that they may never more

Profane that holy place,

Where Thou hast chose to set thy face.15

And then if our stiff tongues shall be

Mute in the praises of thy Deity,

The stones out of the temple wall

Shall cry aloud, and call

Hosanna! and thy glorious footsteps greet.20

Jeremy Taylor.

They are all gone into the world of light,And I alone sit lingering here;Their very memory is fair and bright,And my sad thoughts doth clear.It glows and glitters in my cloudy breast,5Like stars upon some gloomy grove,Or those faint beams in which this hill is drest,After the sun’s remove.I see them walking in an air of glory,Whose light doth trample on my days;10My days, which are at best but dull and hoary,Mere glimmering and decays.O holy Hope! and high Humility!High as the heavens above!15These are your walks, and you have showed them meTo kindle my cold love.Dear, beauteous death; the jewel of the just,Shining nowhere but in the dark;What mysteries do, lie beyond thy dust,20Could man outlook that mark!He that hath found some fledged bird’s nest may know,At first sight, if the bird be flown;But what fair dell or grove he sings in now,That is to him unknown.25And yet, as angels in some brighter dreamsCall to the soul when man doth sleep,So some strange thoughts transcend our wonted themes,And into glory peep.If a star were confined into a tomb,30Her captive flames must needs burn there;But when the hand that locked her up gives room,She’ll shine through all the sphere.O Father of eternal life, and allCreated glories under Thee,35Resume thy spirit from this world of thrallInto true liberty.Either disperse these mists, which blot and fillMy pérspective still as they pass;Or else remove me hence unto that hill,40Where I shall need no glass.Henry Vaughan.

They are all gone into the world of light,And I alone sit lingering here;Their very memory is fair and bright,And my sad thoughts doth clear.

They are all gone into the world of light,

And I alone sit lingering here;

Their very memory is fair and bright,

And my sad thoughts doth clear.

It glows and glitters in my cloudy breast,5Like stars upon some gloomy grove,Or those faint beams in which this hill is drest,After the sun’s remove.

It glows and glitters in my cloudy breast,5

Like stars upon some gloomy grove,

Or those faint beams in which this hill is drest,

After the sun’s remove.

I see them walking in an air of glory,Whose light doth trample on my days;10My days, which are at best but dull and hoary,Mere glimmering and decays.

I see them walking in an air of glory,

Whose light doth trample on my days;10

My days, which are at best but dull and hoary,

Mere glimmering and decays.

O holy Hope! and high Humility!High as the heavens above!15These are your walks, and you have showed them meTo kindle my cold love.

O holy Hope! and high Humility!

High as the heavens above!15

These are your walks, and you have showed them me

To kindle my cold love.

Dear, beauteous death; the jewel of the just,Shining nowhere but in the dark;What mysteries do, lie beyond thy dust,20Could man outlook that mark!

Dear, beauteous death; the jewel of the just,

Shining nowhere but in the dark;

What mysteries do, lie beyond thy dust,20

Could man outlook that mark!

He that hath found some fledged bird’s nest may know,At first sight, if the bird be flown;But what fair dell or grove he sings in now,That is to him unknown.25

He that hath found some fledged bird’s nest may know,

At first sight, if the bird be flown;

But what fair dell or grove he sings in now,

That is to him unknown.25

And yet, as angels in some brighter dreamsCall to the soul when man doth sleep,So some strange thoughts transcend our wonted themes,And into glory peep.

And yet, as angels in some brighter dreams

Call to the soul when man doth sleep,

So some strange thoughts transcend our wonted themes,

And into glory peep.

If a star were confined into a tomb,30Her captive flames must needs burn there;But when the hand that locked her up gives room,She’ll shine through all the sphere.

If a star were confined into a tomb,30

Her captive flames must needs burn there;

But when the hand that locked her up gives room,

She’ll shine through all the sphere.

O Father of eternal life, and allCreated glories under Thee,35Resume thy spirit from this world of thrallInto true liberty.

O Father of eternal life, and all

Created glories under Thee,35

Resume thy spirit from this world of thrall

Into true liberty.

Either disperse these mists, which blot and fillMy pérspective still as they pass;Or else remove me hence unto that hill,40Where I shall need no glass.Henry Vaughan.

Either disperse these mists, which blot and fill

My pérspective still as they pass;

Or else remove me hence unto that hill,40

Where I shall need no glass.

Henry Vaughan.

Happy the man, whose wish and careA few paternal acres bound,Content to breathe his native air,In his own ground.Whose herds with milk, whose fields with bread,5Whose flocks supply him with attire;Whose trees in summer yield him shade,In winter fire.Blest, who can unconcern’dly findHours, days, and years slide soft away,10In health of body, peace of mind,Quiet by day,Sound sleep by night; study and ease,Together mixed; sweet recreation,And innocence, which most does please15With meditation.Thus let me live, unseen, unknown;Thus unlamented let me die,Steal from the world, and not a stoneTell where I lie.20Alexander Pope.

Happy the man, whose wish and careA few paternal acres bound,Content to breathe his native air,In his own ground.

Happy the man, whose wish and care

A few paternal acres bound,

Content to breathe his native air,

In his own ground.

Whose herds with milk, whose fields with bread,5Whose flocks supply him with attire;Whose trees in summer yield him shade,In winter fire.

Whose herds with milk, whose fields with bread,5

Whose flocks supply him with attire;

Whose trees in summer yield him shade,

In winter fire.

Blest, who can unconcern’dly findHours, days, and years slide soft away,10In health of body, peace of mind,Quiet by day,

Blest, who can unconcern’dly find

Hours, days, and years slide soft away,10

In health of body, peace of mind,

Quiet by day,

Sound sleep by night; study and ease,Together mixed; sweet recreation,And innocence, which most does please15With meditation.

Sound sleep by night; study and ease,

Together mixed; sweet recreation,

And innocence, which most does please15

With meditation.

Thus let me live, unseen, unknown;Thus unlamented let me die,Steal from the world, and not a stoneTell where I lie.20Alexander Pope.

Thus let me live, unseen, unknown;

Thus unlamented let me die,

Steal from the world, and not a stone

Tell where I lie.20

Alexander Pope.

All travellers at first inclineWhere’er they see the fairest sign;And, if they find the chambers neat,And like the liquor and the meat,Will call again, and recommend5The Angel-inn to every friend.What though the painting grows decayed,The house will never lose its trade:Nay, though the treacherous tapster ThomasHangs a new Angel two doors from us,10As fine as daubers’ hands can make it,In hopes that strangers may mistake it,We think it both a shame and sinTo quit the true old Angel-inn.Now this is Stella’s case in fact,15An angel’s face a little cracked:(Could poets or could painters fixHow angels look at thirty-six:)This drew us in at first to findIn such a form an angel’s mind;20And every virtue now suppliesThe fainting rays of Stella’s eyes.See at her levee crowding swains,Whom Stella freely entertainsWith breeding, humour, wit, and sense;25And puts them but to small expense;Their mind so plentifully fills,And makes such reasonable bills,So little gets for what she gives,We really wonder how she lives;30And, had her stock been less, no doubtShe must have long ago run out.Then who can think we’ll quit the place,When Doll hangs out a newer face?Or stop and light at Chloe’s head,35With scraps and leavings to be fed?Then, Chloe, still go on to prateOf thirty-six and thirty-eight;Pursue your trade of scandal-picking,Your hints that Stella is no chicken;40Your inuendos, when you tell usThat Stella loves to talk with fellows;And let me warn you to believeA truth, for which your soul should grieve;That, should you live to see the day45When Stella’s locks must all be grey,When age must print a furrowed traceOn every feature of her face;Though you, and all your senseless tribe,Could art, or time, or nature bribe,50To make you look like Beauty’s Queen,And hold for ever at fifteen;No bloom of youth can ever blindThe cracks and wrinkles of your mind:All men of sense will pass your door,55And crowd to Stella’s at fourscore.Jonathan Swift.

All travellers at first incline

Where’er they see the fairest sign;

And, if they find the chambers neat,

And like the liquor and the meat,

Will call again, and recommend5

The Angel-inn to every friend.

What though the painting grows decayed,

The house will never lose its trade:

Nay, though the treacherous tapster Thomas

Hangs a new Angel two doors from us,10

As fine as daubers’ hands can make it,

In hopes that strangers may mistake it,

We think it both a shame and sin

To quit the true old Angel-inn.

Now this is Stella’s case in fact,15

An angel’s face a little cracked:

(Could poets or could painters fix

How angels look at thirty-six:)

This drew us in at first to find

In such a form an angel’s mind;20

And every virtue now supplies

The fainting rays of Stella’s eyes.

See at her levee crowding swains,

Whom Stella freely entertains

With breeding, humour, wit, and sense;25

And puts them but to small expense;

Their mind so plentifully fills,

And makes such reasonable bills,

So little gets for what she gives,

We really wonder how she lives;30

And, had her stock been less, no doubt

She must have long ago run out.

Then who can think we’ll quit the place,

When Doll hangs out a newer face?

Or stop and light at Chloe’s head,35

With scraps and leavings to be fed?

Then, Chloe, still go on to prate

Of thirty-six and thirty-eight;

Pursue your trade of scandal-picking,

Your hints that Stella is no chicken;40

Your inuendos, when you tell us

That Stella loves to talk with fellows;

And let me warn you to believe

A truth, for which your soul should grieve;

That, should you live to see the day45

When Stella’s locks must all be grey,

When age must print a furrowed trace

On every feature of her face;

Though you, and all your senseless tribe,

Could art, or time, or nature bribe,50

To make you look like Beauty’s Queen,

And hold for ever at fifteen;

No bloom of youth can ever blind

The cracks and wrinkles of your mind:

All men of sense will pass your door,55

And crowd to Stella’s at fourscore.

Jonathan Swift.

The Muse, disgusted at an age and climeBarren of every glorious theme,In distant lands now waits a better time,Producing subjects worthy fame.In happy climes, where from the genial sun5And virgin earth such scenes ensue,The force of art by nature seems outdone,And fancied beauties by the true.In happy climes, the seat of innocence,Where nature guides, and virtue rules,10Where men shall not impose for truth and senseThe pedantry of courts and schools.There shall be sung another Golden Age,The rise of empire and of arts,The good and great inspiring epic rage,15The wisest heads and noblest hearts:Not such as Europe breeds in her decay;Such as she bred when fresh and young,When heavenly flame did animate her clay,By future poets shall be sung.20Westward the course of empire take its way;The four first acts already past,A fifth shall close the drama with the day;Time’s noblest offspring is the last.George Berkeley.

The Muse, disgusted at an age and climeBarren of every glorious theme,In distant lands now waits a better time,Producing subjects worthy fame.

The Muse, disgusted at an age and clime

Barren of every glorious theme,

In distant lands now waits a better time,

Producing subjects worthy fame.

In happy climes, where from the genial sun5And virgin earth such scenes ensue,The force of art by nature seems outdone,And fancied beauties by the true.

In happy climes, where from the genial sun5

And virgin earth such scenes ensue,

The force of art by nature seems outdone,

And fancied beauties by the true.

In happy climes, the seat of innocence,Where nature guides, and virtue rules,10Where men shall not impose for truth and senseThe pedantry of courts and schools.

In happy climes, the seat of innocence,

Where nature guides, and virtue rules,10

Where men shall not impose for truth and sense

The pedantry of courts and schools.

There shall be sung another Golden Age,The rise of empire and of arts,The good and great inspiring epic rage,15The wisest heads and noblest hearts:

There shall be sung another Golden Age,

The rise of empire and of arts,

The good and great inspiring epic rage,15

The wisest heads and noblest hearts:

Not such as Europe breeds in her decay;Such as she bred when fresh and young,When heavenly flame did animate her clay,By future poets shall be sung.20

Not such as Europe breeds in her decay;

Such as she bred when fresh and young,

When heavenly flame did animate her clay,

By future poets shall be sung.20

Westward the course of empire take its way;The four first acts already past,A fifth shall close the drama with the day;Time’s noblest offspring is the last.George Berkeley.

Westward the course of empire take its way;

The four first acts already past,

A fifth shall close the drama with the day;

Time’s noblest offspring is the last.

George Berkeley.

As, by some tyrant’s stem command,A wretch forsakes his native land,In foreign climes condemned to roam,An endless exile from his home;Pensive he treads the destined way;5And dreads to go; nor dares to stay;Till on some neighbouring mountain’s browHe stops, and turns his eyes below;There, melting at the well-known view,Drops a last tear, and bids adieu:10So I, thus doomed from thee to part,Gay Queen of fancy and of art,Reluctant move, with doubtful mind,Oft stop, and often look behind.Companion of my tender age,15Serenely gay, and sweetly sage,How blithsome were we wont to roveBy verdant hill, or shady grove,Where fervent bees with humming voiceAround the honied oak rejoice,20And agèd elms with awful bendIn long cathedral walks extend!Lulled by the lapse of gliding floods,Cheered by the warbling of the woods,How blest my days, my thoughts how free,25In sweet society with thee!Then all was joyous, all was young,And years unheeded rolled along:But now the pleasing dream is o’er,These scenes must charm me now no more.30Lost to the fields, and torn from you,—Farewell! a long, a last adieu!Me wrangling courts, and stubborn law,To smoke, and crowds, and cities draw:There selfish faction rules the day,35And pride and avarice throng the way;Diseases taint the murky air,And midnight conflagrations glare;Loose revelry, and riot bold,In frighted streets their orgies hold;40Or, where in silence all is drowned,Fell murder walks his lonely round;No room for peace, no room for you;Adieu, celestial Nymph, adieu!Shakspeare no more, thy sylvan son,45Nor all the art of Addison,Pope’s heaven-strung lyre, nor Waller’s ease,Nor Milton’s mighty self, must please:Instead of these a formal band,In furs and coifs, around me stand;50With sounds uncouth and accents dry,That grate the soul of harmony,Each pedant sage unlocks his storeOf mystic, dark, discordant lore;And points with tottering hand the ways55That lead me to the thorny maze.There, in a winding close retreat,Is Justice doomed to fix her seat;There fenced by bulwarks of the law,She keeps the wondering world in awe;60And there, from vulgar sight retired,Like eastern queens, is more admired.O let me pierce the secret shadeWhere dwells the venerable maid!There humbly mark, with reverend awe,65The guardian of Britannia’s law;Unfold with joy her sacred page,The united boast of many an age;Where mixed, yet uniform, appearsThe wisdom of a thousand years;70In that pure spring the bottom view,Clear, deep, and regularly true;And other doctrines thence imbibeThan lurk within the sordid scribe;Observe how parts with parts unite75In one harmonious rule of right;See countless wheels distinctly tendBy various laws to one great end:While mighty Alfred’s piercing soulPervades and regulates the whole.80Then welcome business, welcome strife,Welcome the cares, the thorns of life,The visage wan, the pore-blind sight,The toil by day, the lamp at night,The tedious forms, the solemn prate,85The pert dispute, the dull debate,The drowsy bench, the babbling hall,For thee, fair Justice, welcome all!Thus though my noon of life be passed,Yet let my setting sun, at last,90Find out the still, the rural cell,Where sage Retirement loves to dwell!There let me taste the homefelt blissOf innocence, and inward peace;Untainted by the guilty bribe,95Uncursed amid the harpy tribe;No orphan’s cry to wound my ear;My honour and my conscience clear;Thus may I calmly meet my end,Thus to the grave in peace descend.100Sir William Blackstone.

As, by some tyrant’s stem command,

A wretch forsakes his native land,

In foreign climes condemned to roam,

An endless exile from his home;

Pensive he treads the destined way;5

And dreads to go; nor dares to stay;

Till on some neighbouring mountain’s brow

He stops, and turns his eyes below;

There, melting at the well-known view,

Drops a last tear, and bids adieu:10

So I, thus doomed from thee to part,

Gay Queen of fancy and of art,

Reluctant move, with doubtful mind,

Oft stop, and often look behind.

Companion of my tender age,15

Serenely gay, and sweetly sage,

How blithsome were we wont to rove

By verdant hill, or shady grove,

Where fervent bees with humming voice

Around the honied oak rejoice,20

And agèd elms with awful bend

In long cathedral walks extend!

Lulled by the lapse of gliding floods,

Cheered by the warbling of the woods,

How blest my days, my thoughts how free,25

In sweet society with thee!

Then all was joyous, all was young,

And years unheeded rolled along:

But now the pleasing dream is o’er,

These scenes must charm me now no more.30

Lost to the fields, and torn from you,—

Farewell! a long, a last adieu!

Me wrangling courts, and stubborn law,

To smoke, and crowds, and cities draw:

There selfish faction rules the day,35

And pride and avarice throng the way;

Diseases taint the murky air,

And midnight conflagrations glare;

Loose revelry, and riot bold,

In frighted streets their orgies hold;40

Or, where in silence all is drowned,

Fell murder walks his lonely round;

No room for peace, no room for you;

Adieu, celestial Nymph, adieu!

Shakspeare no more, thy sylvan son,45

Nor all the art of Addison,

Pope’s heaven-strung lyre, nor Waller’s ease,

Nor Milton’s mighty self, must please:

Instead of these a formal band,

In furs and coifs, around me stand;50

With sounds uncouth and accents dry,

That grate the soul of harmony,

Each pedant sage unlocks his store

Of mystic, dark, discordant lore;

And points with tottering hand the ways55

That lead me to the thorny maze.

There, in a winding close retreat,

Is Justice doomed to fix her seat;

There fenced by bulwarks of the law,

She keeps the wondering world in awe;60

And there, from vulgar sight retired,

Like eastern queens, is more admired.

O let me pierce the secret shade

Where dwells the venerable maid!

There humbly mark, with reverend awe,65

The guardian of Britannia’s law;

Unfold with joy her sacred page,

The united boast of many an age;

Where mixed, yet uniform, appears

The wisdom of a thousand years;70

In that pure spring the bottom view,

Clear, deep, and regularly true;

And other doctrines thence imbibe

Than lurk within the sordid scribe;

Observe how parts with parts unite75

In one harmonious rule of right;

See countless wheels distinctly tend

By various laws to one great end:

While mighty Alfred’s piercing soul

Pervades and regulates the whole.80

Then welcome business, welcome strife,

Welcome the cares, the thorns of life,

The visage wan, the pore-blind sight,

The toil by day, the lamp at night,

The tedious forms, the solemn prate,85

The pert dispute, the dull debate,

The drowsy bench, the babbling hall,

For thee, fair Justice, welcome all!

Thus though my noon of life be passed,

Yet let my setting sun, at last,90

Find out the still, the rural cell,

Where sage Retirement loves to dwell!

There let me taste the homefelt bliss

Of innocence, and inward peace;

Untainted by the guilty bribe,95

Uncursed amid the harpy tribe;

No orphan’s cry to wound my ear;

My honour and my conscience clear;

Thus may I calmly meet my end,

Thus to the grave in peace descend.100

Sir William Blackstone.

A Juggler long through all the townHad rais’d his fortune and renown;You’d think (so far his art transcends)The devil at his fingers’ ends.Vice heard his fame, she read his bill;5Convinced of his inferior skill,She sought his booth, and from the crowdDefied the man of art aloud.‘Is this then he so famed for sleight?Can this slow bungler cheat your sight?10Dares he with me dispute the prize?I leave it to impartial eyes.’Provoked, the Juggler cried, ’Tis done;In science I submit to none.’Thus said, the cups and balls he played;15By turns this here, that there, conveyed.The cards, obedient to his words,Are by a fillip turned to birds.His little boxes change the grain:Trick after trick deludes the train.20He shakes his bag, he shows all fair;His fingers spread, and nothing there;Then bids it rain with showers of gold;And now his ivory eggs are told;But, when from thence the hen he draws,25Amazed spectators hum applause.Vice now stept forth, and took the place,With all the forms of his grimace.‘This magic looking-glass,’ she cries,‘(There, hand it round) will charm your eyes.’30Each eager eye the sight desired,And every man himself admired.Next, to a senator addressing,‘See this bank-note; observe the blessing.Breathe on the bill. Heigh, pass! ’tis gone.’35Upon his lips a padlock shown.A second puff the magic broke;The padlock vanished, and he spoke.Twelve bottles ranged upon the board,All full, with heady liquor stored,40By clean conveyance disappear,And now two bloody swords are there.A purse she to a thief exposed;At once his ready fingers closed.He opes his fist, the treasure’s fled:45He sees a halter in its stead.She bids Ambition hold a wand;He grasps a hatchet in his hand.A box of charity she shows.‘Blow here;’ and a churchwarden blows.50’Tis vanish’d with conveyance neat,And on the table smokes a treat.She shakes the dice, the board she knocks,And from all pockets fills her box.A counter, in a miser’s hand,55Grew twenty guineas at command.She bids his heir the sum retain,And ’tis a counter now again.A guinea with her touch you seeTake every shape but Charity;60And not one thing you saw, or drew,But changed from what was first in view.The Juggler now, in grief of heart,With this submission owned her art:‘Can I such matchless sleight withstand?65How practice hath improved your hand!But now and then I cheat the throng;You every day, and all day long.’John Gay.

A Juggler long through all the town

Had rais’d his fortune and renown;

You’d think (so far his art transcends)

The devil at his fingers’ ends.

Vice heard his fame, she read his bill;5

Convinced of his inferior skill,

She sought his booth, and from the crowd

Defied the man of art aloud.

‘Is this then he so famed for sleight?

Can this slow bungler cheat your sight?10

Dares he with me dispute the prize?

I leave it to impartial eyes.’

Provoked, the Juggler cried, ’Tis done;

In science I submit to none.’

Thus said, the cups and balls he played;15

By turns this here, that there, conveyed.

The cards, obedient to his words,

Are by a fillip turned to birds.

His little boxes change the grain:

Trick after trick deludes the train.20

He shakes his bag, he shows all fair;

His fingers spread, and nothing there;

Then bids it rain with showers of gold;

And now his ivory eggs are told;

But, when from thence the hen he draws,25

Amazed spectators hum applause.

Vice now stept forth, and took the place,

With all the forms of his grimace.

‘This magic looking-glass,’ she cries,

‘(There, hand it round) will charm your eyes.’30

Each eager eye the sight desired,

And every man himself admired.

Next, to a senator addressing,

‘See this bank-note; observe the blessing.

Breathe on the bill. Heigh, pass! ’tis gone.’35

Upon his lips a padlock shown.

A second puff the magic broke;

The padlock vanished, and he spoke.

Twelve bottles ranged upon the board,

All full, with heady liquor stored,40

By clean conveyance disappear,

And now two bloody swords are there.

A purse she to a thief exposed;

At once his ready fingers closed.

He opes his fist, the treasure’s fled:45

He sees a halter in its stead.

She bids Ambition hold a wand;

He grasps a hatchet in his hand.

A box of charity she shows.

‘Blow here;’ and a churchwarden blows.50

’Tis vanish’d with conveyance neat,

And on the table smokes a treat.

She shakes the dice, the board she knocks,

And from all pockets fills her box.

A counter, in a miser’s hand,55

Grew twenty guineas at command.

She bids his heir the sum retain,

And ’tis a counter now again.

A guinea with her touch you see

Take every shape but Charity;60

And not one thing you saw, or drew,

But changed from what was first in view.

The Juggler now, in grief of heart,

With this submission owned her art:

‘Can I such matchless sleight withstand?65

How practice hath improved your hand!

But now and then I cheat the throng;

You every day, and all day long.’

John Gay.

When Britain first at Heaven’s commandArose from out the azure main,This was the charter of her land,And guardian angels sung the strain:Rule Britannia! Britannia rules the waves!5Britons never shall be slaves.The nations not so blest as theeMust in their turn to tyrants fall,Whilst thou shalt flourish great and free,The dread and envy of them all.10Still more majestic shalt thou rise,More dreadful from each foreign stroke;As the loud blast that tears the skiesServes but to root thy native oak.Thee haughty tyrants ne’er shall tame;15All their attempts to bend thee downWill but arouse thy generous flame,And work their woe and thy renown.To thee belongs the rural reign;Thy cities shall with commerce shine;20All thine shall be the subject main,And every shore it circles thine!The Muses, still with Freedom found,Shall to thy happy coast repair;Blest Isle, with matchless beauty crowned,25And manly hearts to guard the fair:—Rule Britannia! Britannia rules the waves!Britons never shall be slaves!James Thomson.

When Britain first at Heaven’s command

Arose from out the azure main,

This was the charter of her land,

And guardian angels sung the strain:

Rule Britannia! Britannia rules the waves!5

Britons never shall be slaves.

The nations not so blest as theeMust in their turn to tyrants fall,Whilst thou shalt flourish great and free,The dread and envy of them all.10

The nations not so blest as thee

Must in their turn to tyrants fall,

Whilst thou shalt flourish great and free,

The dread and envy of them all.10

Still more majestic shalt thou rise,More dreadful from each foreign stroke;As the loud blast that tears the skiesServes but to root thy native oak.

Still more majestic shalt thou rise,

More dreadful from each foreign stroke;

As the loud blast that tears the skies

Serves but to root thy native oak.

Thee haughty tyrants ne’er shall tame;15All their attempts to bend thee downWill but arouse thy generous flame,And work their woe and thy renown.

Thee haughty tyrants ne’er shall tame;15

All their attempts to bend thee down

Will but arouse thy generous flame,

And work their woe and thy renown.

To thee belongs the rural reign;Thy cities shall with commerce shine;20All thine shall be the subject main,And every shore it circles thine!

To thee belongs the rural reign;

Thy cities shall with commerce shine;20

All thine shall be the subject main,

And every shore it circles thine!

The Muses, still with Freedom found,Shall to thy happy coast repair;Blest Isle, with matchless beauty crowned,25And manly hearts to guard the fair:—Rule Britannia! Britannia rules the waves!Britons never shall be slaves!James Thomson.

The Muses, still with Freedom found,

Shall to thy happy coast repair;

Blest Isle, with matchless beauty crowned,25

And manly hearts to guard the fair:—

Rule Britannia! Britannia rules the waves!

Britons never shall be slaves!

James Thomson.

ON THE TAKING OF PORTO-BELLO BY ADMIRAL VERNON. NOV. 22, 1739.

As near Porto-Bello lyingOn the gently swelling flood,At midnight with streamers flyingOur triumphant navy rode:There while Vernon sat all-glorious5From the Spaniards’ late defeat;And his crews, with shouts victorious,Drank success to England’s fleet;On a sudden, shrilly sounding,Hideous yells and shrieks were heard;10Then each heart with fear confounding,A sad troop of ghosts appeared,All in dreary hammocks shrouded,Which for winding-sheets they wore,And with looks by sorrow clouded,15Frowning on that hostile shore.On them gleamed the moon’s wan lustre,When the shade of Hosier braveHis pale bands was seen to muster,Rising from their watery grave:20O’er the glimmering wave he hied him,Where the Burford reared her sail,With three thousand ghosts beside him,And in groans did Vernon hail:‘Heed, O heed, our fatal story.25I am Hosier’s injured ghost,You, who now have purchased gloryAt this place where I was lost;Though in Porto-Bello’s ruinYou now triumph free from fears,30When you think on our undoing,You will mix your joy with tears.‘See these mournful spectres, sweepingGhastly o’er this hated wave,Whose wan cheeks are stained with weeping;35These were English captains brave:Mark those numbers pale and horrid,Those were once my sailors bold,Lo! each hangs his drooping forehead,While his dismal tale is told.40‘I, by twenty sail attended,Did this Spanish town affright:Nothing then its wealth defendedBut my orders not to fight:Oh! that in this rolling ocean45I had cast them with disdain,And obeyed my heart’s warm motion,To have quelled the pride of Spain.‘For resistance I could fear none,But with twenty ships had done50What thou, brave and happy Vernon,Hast achieved with six alone.Then the Bastimentos neverHad our foul dishonour seen,Nor the sea the sad receiver55Of this gallant train had been.‘Thus, like thee, proud Spain dismaying,And her galleons leading home,Though condemned for disobeying,I had met a traitor’s doom;60To have fall’n, my country cryingHe has played an English part,Had been better far than dyingOf a grieved and broken heart.‘Unrepining at thy glory,65Thy successful arms we hail;But remember our sad story,And let Hosier’s wrongs prevail;Sent in this foul clime to languish,Think what thousands fell in vain,70Wasted with disease and anguish,Not in glorious battle slain.‘Hence, with all my train attendingFrom their oozy tombs below,Through the hoary foam ascending,75Here I feed my constant woe:Here the Bastimentos viewing,We recall our shameful doom,And our plaintive cries renewing,Wander through the midnight gloom.80‘O’er these waves for ever mourningShall we roam, deprived of rest,If to Britain’s shores returning,You neglect my just request.After this proud foe subduing,85When your patriot friends you see,Think on vengeance for my ruin,And for England shamed in me.’Richard Glover.

As near Porto-Bello lying

On the gently swelling flood,

At midnight with streamers flying

Our triumphant navy rode:

There while Vernon sat all-glorious5

From the Spaniards’ late defeat;

And his crews, with shouts victorious,

Drank success to England’s fleet;

On a sudden, shrilly sounding,Hideous yells and shrieks were heard;10Then each heart with fear confounding,A sad troop of ghosts appeared,All in dreary hammocks shrouded,Which for winding-sheets they wore,And with looks by sorrow clouded,15Frowning on that hostile shore.

On a sudden, shrilly sounding,

Hideous yells and shrieks were heard;10

Then each heart with fear confounding,

A sad troop of ghosts appeared,

All in dreary hammocks shrouded,

Which for winding-sheets they wore,

And with looks by sorrow clouded,15

Frowning on that hostile shore.

On them gleamed the moon’s wan lustre,When the shade of Hosier braveHis pale bands was seen to muster,Rising from their watery grave:20O’er the glimmering wave he hied him,Where the Burford reared her sail,With three thousand ghosts beside him,And in groans did Vernon hail:

On them gleamed the moon’s wan lustre,

When the shade of Hosier brave

His pale bands was seen to muster,

Rising from their watery grave:20

O’er the glimmering wave he hied him,

Where the Burford reared her sail,

With three thousand ghosts beside him,

And in groans did Vernon hail:

‘Heed, O heed, our fatal story.25I am Hosier’s injured ghost,You, who now have purchased gloryAt this place where I was lost;Though in Porto-Bello’s ruinYou now triumph free from fears,30When you think on our undoing,You will mix your joy with tears.

‘Heed, O heed, our fatal story.25

I am Hosier’s injured ghost,

You, who now have purchased glory

At this place where I was lost;

Though in Porto-Bello’s ruin

You now triumph free from fears,30

When you think on our undoing,

You will mix your joy with tears.

‘See these mournful spectres, sweepingGhastly o’er this hated wave,Whose wan cheeks are stained with weeping;35These were English captains brave:Mark those numbers pale and horrid,Those were once my sailors bold,Lo! each hangs his drooping forehead,While his dismal tale is told.40

‘See these mournful spectres, sweeping

Ghastly o’er this hated wave,

Whose wan cheeks are stained with weeping;35

These were English captains brave:

Mark those numbers pale and horrid,

Those were once my sailors bold,

Lo! each hangs his drooping forehead,

While his dismal tale is told.40

‘I, by twenty sail attended,Did this Spanish town affright:Nothing then its wealth defendedBut my orders not to fight:Oh! that in this rolling ocean45I had cast them with disdain,And obeyed my heart’s warm motion,To have quelled the pride of Spain.

‘I, by twenty sail attended,

Did this Spanish town affright:

Nothing then its wealth defended

But my orders not to fight:

Oh! that in this rolling ocean45

I had cast them with disdain,

And obeyed my heart’s warm motion,

To have quelled the pride of Spain.

‘For resistance I could fear none,But with twenty ships had done50What thou, brave and happy Vernon,Hast achieved with six alone.Then the Bastimentos neverHad our foul dishonour seen,Nor the sea the sad receiver55Of this gallant train had been.

‘For resistance I could fear none,

But with twenty ships had done50

What thou, brave and happy Vernon,

Hast achieved with six alone.

Then the Bastimentos never

Had our foul dishonour seen,

Nor the sea the sad receiver55

Of this gallant train had been.

‘Thus, like thee, proud Spain dismaying,And her galleons leading home,Though condemned for disobeying,I had met a traitor’s doom;60To have fall’n, my country cryingHe has played an English part,Had been better far than dyingOf a grieved and broken heart.

‘Thus, like thee, proud Spain dismaying,

And her galleons leading home,

Though condemned for disobeying,

I had met a traitor’s doom;60

To have fall’n, my country crying

He has played an English part,

Had been better far than dying

Of a grieved and broken heart.

‘Unrepining at thy glory,65Thy successful arms we hail;But remember our sad story,And let Hosier’s wrongs prevail;Sent in this foul clime to languish,Think what thousands fell in vain,70Wasted with disease and anguish,Not in glorious battle slain.

‘Unrepining at thy glory,65

Thy successful arms we hail;

But remember our sad story,

And let Hosier’s wrongs prevail;

Sent in this foul clime to languish,

Think what thousands fell in vain,70

Wasted with disease and anguish,

Not in glorious battle slain.

‘Hence, with all my train attendingFrom their oozy tombs below,Through the hoary foam ascending,75Here I feed my constant woe:Here the Bastimentos viewing,We recall our shameful doom,And our plaintive cries renewing,Wander through the midnight gloom.80

‘Hence, with all my train attending

From their oozy tombs below,

Through the hoary foam ascending,75

Here I feed my constant woe:

Here the Bastimentos viewing,

We recall our shameful doom,

And our plaintive cries renewing,

Wander through the midnight gloom.80

‘O’er these waves for ever mourningShall we roam, deprived of rest,If to Britain’s shores returning,You neglect my just request.After this proud foe subduing,85When your patriot friends you see,Think on vengeance for my ruin,And for England shamed in me.’Richard Glover.

‘O’er these waves for ever mourning

Shall we roam, deprived of rest,

If to Britain’s shores returning,

You neglect my just request.

After this proud foe subduing,85

When your patriot friends you see,

Think on vengeance for my ruin,

And for England shamed in me.’

Richard Glover.

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