It was not in the battle; His sword was in its sheath; 25 Weigh the vessel up, 30 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; 35 And he and his eight hundred Shall plough the waves no more. 36. After the disaster many of the guns were fished up, but no attempt was made to raise the ship. In 1817 divers made a fresh examination, but the ship could not be raised. In 1839 the hulk was blown up by gunpowder, and the harbor cleared of the obstruction. VERSES SUPPOSED TO BE WRITTEN BY ALEXANDER SELKIRK, DURING HIS SOLITARY ABODE IN THE ISLAND OF JUAN FERNANDEZ. I AM monarch of all I survey, My right there is none to dispute; I am lord of the fowl and the brute. 10 That sages have seen in thy face? I am out of humanity's reach, I must finish my journey alone, 20 Society, friendship, and love, Oh, had I the wings of a dove, How soon would I taste you again! 1. Selkirk is generally supposed to have been the actual ship wrecked Englishman whose narrative gave birth to Robinson Crusoe. My sorrows I then might assuage 25 Religion! what treasure untold 30 Resides in that heavenly word! More precious than silver and gold, Or all that this earth can afford; But the sound of the church-going bell These valleys and rocks never heard, Never sigh'd at the sound of a knell, Or smil'd when a sabbath appear'd. Ye winds, that have made me your sport, Convey to this desolate shore 35 Some cordial endearing report Of a land I shall visit no more. My friends, do they now and then send A wish or a thought after me? O tell me I yet have a friend, 40 Though a friend I am never to see. How fleet is a glance of the mind! Compared with the speed of its flight, The tempest itself lags behind, And the swift-winged arrows of light. 45 When I think of my own native land, In a moment I seem to be there; But alas! recollection at hand Soon hurries me back to despair. 50 But the seafowl is gone to her nest, Even here is a season of rest, And I to my cabin repair. There's mercy in every place, And mercy, encouraging thought! 55 Gives even affliction a grace, And reconciles man to his lot. 10 EPITAPH ON A HARE. HERE lies, whom hound did ne'er pursue, Old Tiney, surliest of his kind, Though duly from my hand he took He did it with a jealous look, And, when he could, would bite. His diet was of wheaten bread, 15 Thistles, or lettuces instead, 20 With sand to scour his maw. On twigs of hawthorn he regaled, And, when his juicy salads fail'd, A Turkey carpet was his lawn, |