}

In the bright Muse though thousand charms conspire,
Her voice is all these tuneful fools admire;
Who haunt Parnassus but to please the ear,
Not mend their minds; as some to church repair,
Not for the doctrine, but the music there:
These, equal syllables alone require,
Though oft the ear the open vowels tire;
While expletives their feeble aid do join,
And ten low words oft creep in one dull line;
While they ring round the same unvaried chimes,
With sure returns of still-expected rhymes:
Where'er you find " the cooling western breeze,"
In the next line it "whispers through the trees;"
If crystal streams with pleasing murmurs creep,"
The reader's threaten'd-not in vain-with "sleep:"
Then, at the last and only couplet, fraught
With some unmeaning thing they call a thought,
A needless Alexandrine ends the song,

That, like a wounded snake, drags its slow length along

Leave such to tune their own dull rhymes, and know
What's roundly smooth, or languishingly slow;
And praise the easy vigour of a line,

Where Denham's strength and Waller's sweetness join.
True ease in writing comes from art, not chance;
As those move easiest who have learn'd to dance.
'Tis not enough no harshness give offence,
The sound must seem an echo to the sense:
Soft is the strain when zephyr gently blows,
And the smooth stream in smoother numbers flows;
But, when loud surges lash the sounding shore,
The hoarse rough verse should like the torrent roar.
When Ajax strives some rock's vast weight to throw,
The line too labours, and the words move slow;
Not so when swift Camilla scours the plain,

Flies o'er the unbending corn, and skims along the main.

Battle of the Baltic.

Of Nelson and the North,

Sing the glorious day's renown,
When to battle fierce came forth

All the might of Denmark's crown,

And her arms along the deep proudly shone:

Pope.

By each gun the lighted brand
In a bold determined hand,
And the prince of all the land
Led them on.

Like leviathans afloat,

Lay their bulwarks on the brine;
While the sign of battle flew
On the lofty British line:

It was ten of April morn by the chime:
As they drifted on their path,
There was silence deep as death;
And the boldest-held his breath

For a time!

But the might of England flush'd

To anticipate the scene;

And her van the fleeter rush'd

Oer the deadly space

between.

"Hearts of oak.' our captains cried, when each gun

From its adamantine lips

Spread a death-shade round the ships,

Like the hurricane eclipse

Of the sun!

Again! again! again!

And the havoc did not slack,

Till a feeble cheer the Dane

To our cheering sent us back;

Their shots along the deep slowly boom;

Then ceased-and all is wail,

As they strike the shatter'd sail;

Or, in conflagration pale,

Light the gloom!

Out spoke the victor then,

As he hail'd them o'er the wave, "Ye are brothers! ye are men! And we conquer but to save!

So

peace, instead of death, let us bring:

But yield, proud foe, thy fleet,
With the crews, at England's feet,
And make submission meet

To our king."

Then Denmark bless'd our chief,
That he gave her wounds repose;
And the sounds of joy and grief
From her people wildly rose;

As Death withdrew his shades from the day;
While the sun look'd smiling-bright

O'er a wide and woful sight,

Where the fires of funeral light

Died away.

Now joy, old England, raise
For the tidings of thy might,
By the festal cities' blaze,

While the wine-cup shines in light!-
And yet, amidst that joy and uproar,
Let us think of them that sleep,
Full many a fathom deep,

By thy wild and stormy steep,
Elsinore!

Brave hearts! to Britain's pride
Once so faithful and so true,
On the deck of fame that died,
With the gallant-good Riou!

Soft sigh the winds of heaven o'er their grave:
While the billow mournful rolls,

And the mermaid's song condoles,

Singing glory to the souls

Of the brave!

Campbell.

The Ocean.

THERE is a pleasure in the pathless woods;
There is a rapture on the lonely shore;
There is society, when none intrudes
By the deep Sea, and music in its roar:
I love not Man the less, but Nature more,
From these our interviews; in which I steal
From all I may be, or have been before,
To mingle with the Universe, and feel

What I can ne'er express, yet can not all conceal.
Roll on, thou deep and dark-blue ocean-roll!
Ten thousand fleets sweep over thee in vain;
Man marks the earth with ruin-his control
Stops with thy shore;-upon the watery plain

The wrecks are all thy deed, nor doth remain
A shadow of man's ravage, save his own;
When, for a moment, like a drop of rain,
He sinks into thy depths with bubbling groan,
Without a grave, unknell'd, uncoffin'd, and unknown!
His steps are not upon thy paths-thy fields
Are not a spoil for him,-thou dost arise,

And shake him from thee; the vile strength he wields
For earth's destruction thou dost all despise,
Spurning him from thy bosom to the skies,
And send'st him, shivering in thy playful spray
And howling, to his gods, where haply lies
His petty hope in some near port or bay,

And dashest him again to earth:-there let him lay.
The armaments which thunderstrike the walls
Of rock-built cities, bidding nations quake,
And monarchs tremble in their capitals-
The oak leviathans, whose huge ribs make
Their clay creator the vain title take
Of lord of thee, and arbiter of war-
These are thy toys; and, as the snowy flake,
They melt into thy yeast of waves, which mar
Alike the Armada's pride, or spoils of Trafalgar.

Thy shores are empires, changed in all save thee—
Assyria, Greece, Rome, Carthage, what are they?
Thy waters wasted them while they were free,
And many a tyrant since; their shores obey
The stranger, slave, or savage! their decay
Has dried up realms to deserts:-not so thou,
Unchangeable save to thy wild waves' play-
Time writes no wrinkle on thine azure brow-
Such as Creation's dawn beheld, thou rollest now'

Thou glorious mirror, where the Almighty's form
Glasses itself in tempests!-in all time—
Calm or convulsed, in breeze or gale or storm,
Icing the pole, or in the torrid clime

Dark-heaving-boundless, endless, and sublime!
The image of Eternity!-the throne

Of the invisible:-Even from out thy slime
The monsters of the deep are made! Each zone

Obeys thee! Thou goest forth, dread! fathomless! alone!

Byron

The Present Aspect of Greece

HE who hath bent him o'er the dead,
Ere the first day of death is fled--.
The first dark day of nothingness,
The last of danger and distress-
Before Decay's effacing fingers

Have swept the lines where beauty lingers,
And mark'd the mild angelic air,
The rapture of repose that's there—
The fix'd, yet tender traits, that streak
The languor of the placid cheek-
And-but for that sad shrouded eye,
That fires not-wins not-weeps not--now---
And but for that chill changeless brow,
Whose touch thrills with mortality;
And curdles to the gazer's heart,
As if to him it could impart

The doom he dreads, yet dwells upon-
Yes-but for these-and these alone-
Some moments-ay-one treacherous hour,
He still might doubt the tyrant's power,
So fair-so calm-so softly seal'd
The first-last look-by death reveal'd!
Such is the aspect of this shore.

"Tis Greece--but living Greece no more!
So coldly sweet, so deadly fair,
We start for soul is wanting there.
Hers is the loveliness in death,

That parts not quite with parting breath;
But beauty with that fearful bloom,
That hue which haunts it to the tomb-
Expression's last receding ray,

A gilded halo hovering round decay,

The farewell beam of Feeling past away!

Spark of that flame--perchance of heavenly birth-

Which gleams-but warms no more its cherish'd earth!

The Curfew.

THE Curfew tolls-the knell of parting day!
The lowing herd winds slowly o'er the lea;
The ploughman homeward plods his weary way;
And leaves the world to darkness, and to me.-

Byron