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It was not in the battle ;
No tempest gave the shock;
sprang no fatal leak;
His sword was in its sheath;
His fingers held the pen,
With twice four hundred men.
25 Weigh the vessel up,
Once dreaded by our foes !
The tear that England owes.
Her timbers yet are sound,
And plough the distant main.
But Kempenfelt is gone,
His victories are o'er;
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.
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.
That sages have seen in thy face?
Than reign in this horrible place.
I am out of humanity's reach,
I must finish my journey alone,
I start at the sound of my own.
My form with indifference see ;
Their tameness is shocking to me.
Society, friendship, and love,
Divinely bestow'd upon man,
How soon would I taste you again!
1. Selkirk is generally supposed to have been the actual shipwrecked Englishman whose narrative gave birth to Robinson Crusoe.
My sorrows I then might assuage
In the ways of religion and truth, Might learn from the wisdom of age,
And be cheer'd by the sallies of youth.
25 Religion ! what treasure untold
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 36 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,
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.
But the seafowl is gone to her nest,
The beast is laid down in his lair
Even here is a season of rest,
And I to my cabin repair. There's mercy in every place,
And mercy, encouraging thought! 5 Gives even affliction a grace,
And reconciles man to his lot.
EPITAPH ON A HARE.
HERE lies, whom hound did ne'er pursue,
Nor swifter greyhound follow, Whose foot ne'er tainted morning dew,
Nor e'er heard huntsman's halloo;
• Old Tiney, surliest of his kind,
Who, nursed with tender care, And to domestic bounds confined,
Was still a wild Jack hare.
Though duly from my hand he took
His pittance every night, He did it with a jealous look,
And, when he could, would bite.
His diet was of wheaten bread,
And milk, and oats, and straw; 15 Thistles, or lettuces instead,
With sand to scour his maw.
On twigs of hawthorn he regaled,
On pippins' russet peel,
Sliced carrot pleased him well.
A Turkey carpet was his lawn,
Whereon he loved to bound,