Little native of the skies!
Lovely Penitent, arise!

Calm thy bosom, clear thy brow,
Virtue is thy sister now.

More delightful are thy woes
Than the rapture pleasure knows ;
Richer far the weeds I bring,
Than the robes that grace a king.
On my wars of shortest date,
Crowns of endless triumph wait;
On my cares, a period blest,
On my toils, eternal rest.
Come with virtue at thy side;
Come, be every bar defied;
Till we gain our native shore,
Sister! come and turn no more.

2. MODESTY.

The maid who modestly conceals
Her beauties, while she hides, reveals:
Give but a glimpse, and fancy draws
Whate'er the Grecian Venus was.
3. JEALOUSY.

Can't I another's face commend,
And to her virtues prove a friend,
But instantly your forehead lours,
As if her merit lessen'd yours.

CLXXVII. RICHARD GLOVER, 1712-1785. 1. LEONIDAS.

He alone

Remains unshaken. Rising, he displays

His godlike presence. Dignity and grace
Adorn his frame, and manly beauty, joined
With strength Herculean. On his aspect shines
Sublimest virtue and desire of fame,

Where justice gives the laurel; in his eye
The inextinguishable spark, which fires
The souls of patriots; while his brow supports
Undaunted valour, and contempt of death.

Serene he rose, and thus addressed the throng:
“Why this astonishment on every face,
Ye men of Sparta? Does the name of death
Create this fear and wonder? O my friends!
Why do we labour through the arduous paths
Which lead to virtue? Fruitless were the toil.
Above the reach of human feet were placed
The distant summit, if the fear of death
Could intercept our passage. But in vain
His blackest frowns and terrors he assumes
To shake the firmness of the mind which knows
That, wanting virtue, life is pain and woe;
That, wanting liberty, e'en virtue mourns,
And looks around for happiness in vain.
Then speak, O Sparta! and demand my life;
My heart, exulting, answers to thy call,
And smiles on glorious fate. To live with fame
The gods allow to many; but to die
With equal lustre is a blessing Heaven
Selects from all the choicest boons of fate,
And with a sparing hand on few bestows.'
Salvation thus to Sparta he proclaimed.
Joy, wrapt awhile in admiration, paused,
Suspending praise; nor praise at last resounds
In high acclaim to rend the arch of heaven;
A reverential murmur breathes applause.

2. ADMIRAL HOSIER'S GHOST.

As near Portobello lying

On the gentle-swelling flood,
At midnight, with streamers flying,
Our triumphant navy rode;
There while Vernon sat all glorious
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;
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,
Frowning on that hostile shore.

On them gleamed the moon's wan lustre,
When the shade of Hosier brave
His pale bands were seen to muster,
Rising from their watery grave:
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, oh, heed our fatal story!
I am Hosier's injured ghost;
You who now have purchased glory
At this place where I was lost:
Though in Portobello's ruin,

You now triumph free from fears,
When you think on my undoing,

You will mix your joys with tears. See these mournful spectres sweeping Ghastly o'er this hated wave,

Whose wan cheeks are stained with weeping;

These were English captains brave.

Mark those numbers, pale and horrid,
Who were once my sailors bold;
Lo! each hangs his drooping forehead,
While his dismal tale is told.

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 ocean
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 done

What thou, brave and happy Vernon
Hast achieved with six alone.

Then the Bastimentos never
Had our foul dishonour seen,
Nor the seas the sad receiver
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,
To have fallen, 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,
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,
Wasted with disease and anguish,
Not in glorious battle slain.
Hence with all my train attending,
From their oozy tombs below,
Through the hoary foam ascending,
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
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,
When your patriot foes you see,
Think on vengeance for my ruin,

And for England-shamed in me."

CLXXVIIJ WILLIAM SHENSTONE, 1714-1763.

1. ABSENCE.

Ye shepherds so cheerful and gay,
Whose flocks never carelessly roam:
Should Corydon's happen to stray,
Oh, call the poor wanderers home.
Allow me to muse and to sigh,

Nor talk of the change that ye find;
None, once, was so watchful as I;

I have left my dear Phyllis behind.
Now I know what it is to have strove

With the torture of doubt and desire;
What it is to admire and to love,

And to leave her we love and admire.
Ah, lead forth my flock in the morn,
And the damps of each evening repel;
Alas! I am faint and forlorn;

I have bade my dear Phyllis farewell.
Since Phyllis vouchsafed me a look,
I never once dreamt of my vine;
May I lose both my pipe and my crook,
If I knew of a kid that was mine.

I prized every hour that went by,

Beyond all that had pleased me before,
But now they are pass'd and I sigh,

And I grieve that I prized them no more.

But why do I languish in vain?

Why wander thus pensively here ?
O, why did I come from the plain,
Where I fed on the smiles of my dear?
They tell me, my favourite maid,
The pride of that valley, is flown!
Alas! where with her I have strayed,
I could wander with pleasure, alone.
When forced the fair nymph to forego,
What anguish I felt at my heart!
Yet I thought but it might not be so-
'Twas with pain that she saw me depart.