His sword was in its sheath,
His fingers held the pen,
When Kempenfelt went down
With twice four hundred 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;

And he and his eight hundred

Shall plough the wave no more.

XXXV

BOADICEA

WHEN the British warrior queen,
Bleeding from the Roman rods,
Sought with an indignant mien
Counsel of her country's gods,

Sage beneath the spreading oak
Sat the Druid, hoary chief,
Every burning word he spoke

Full of rage, and full of grief:

'Princess! if our aged eyes

Weep upon thy matchless wrongs, 'Tis because resentment ties

All the terrors of our tongues.

Rome shall perish,—write that word
In the blood that she has spilt;
Perish hopeless and abhorred,
Deep in ruin as in guilt.

Rome, for empire far renowned,
Tramples on a thousand states;
Soon her pride shall kiss the ground,
Hark! the Gaul is at her gates!

Other Romans shall arise

Heedless of a soldier's name; Sounds, not arms, shall win the prize, Harmony the path to fame.

Then the progeny that springs

From the forests of our land, Armed with thunder, clad with wings,

Shall a wider world command.

Regions Cæsar never knew

Thy posterity shall sway;
Where his eagles never flew,
None invincible as they.'

Such the bard's prophetic words,
Pregnant with celestial fire,
Bending as he swept the chords

Of his sweet but awful lyre.

She with all a monarch's pride
Felt them in her bosom glow,
Rushed to battle, fought, and died,
Dying, hurled them at the foe:

'Ruffians, pitiless as proud,

Heaven awards the vengeance due;

Empire is on us bestowed,

Shame and ruin wait for you.'

Cowper.

XXXVI

TO HIS LADY

IF doughty deeds my lady please
Right soon I'll mount my steed;
And strong his arm, and fast his seat
That bears frae me the meed.
I'll wear thy colours in my cap
Thy picture at my heart;

And he that bends not to thine eye

Shall rue it to his smart!

Then tell me how to woo thee, Love;

O tell me how to woo thee!

For thy dear sake, nae care I'll take,
Tho' ne'er another trow me.

If gay attire delight thine eye

I'll dight me in array;

I'll tend thy chamber door all night,

And squire thee all the day.

If sweetest sounds can win thine ear

These sounds I'll strive to catch; Thy voice I'll steal to woo thysell, That voice that nane can match.

But if fond love thy heart can gain,
I never broke a vow;

Nae maiden lays her skaith to me,
I never loved but you.

For you alone I ride the ring,
For you I wear the blue;
For you alone I strive to sing,

O tell me how to woo!

Then tell me how to woo thee, Love;

O tell me how to woo thee!

For thy dear sake, nae care I'll take,
Tho' ne'er another trow me.

Graham of Gartmore.

XXXVII

CONSTANCY

BLOW high, blow low, let tempests tear
The mainmast by the board;

My heart, with thoughts of thee, my dear,
And love well stored,

Shall brave all danger, scorn all fear,
The roaring winds, the raging sea,
In hopes on shore to be once more
Safe moored with thee!

Aloft while mountains high we go,
The whistling winds that scud along,
And surges roaring from below,

Shall my signal be to think on thee,
And this shall be my song:

Blow high, blow low

And on that night, when all the crew,
The memory of their former lives
O'er flowing cans of flip renew,

And drink their sweethearts and their wives,
I'll heave a sigh and think on thee,
And, as the ship rolls through the sea,
The burden of my song shall be:

Blow high, blow low

XXXVIII

THE PERFECT SAILOR

HERE, a sheer hulk, lies poor Tom Bowling,
The darling of our crew;

No more he'll hear the tempest howling,
For death has broached him to.
His form was of the manliest beauty,
His heart was kind and soft,
Faithful, below, he did his duty,

But now he's gone aloft.

Tom never from his word departed,

His virtues were so rare,

His friends were many and true-hearted,
His Poll was kind and fair;