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CHARLES DIBDIN.

CHARLES DIBDIN was born at Southampton | in 1745. His mother was fifty years old at the time of his birth, and he was her eighteenth child. He was educated at Winchester, and at the age of sixteen wrote "The Shepherd's Artifice," an opera, which was brought out at Covent Garden. In 1778, having been on the boards as an actor in some of his own pieces, he became musical manager at that theatre, and a few years later he built the Surrey. In 1788 he published his "Musical Tour," and in 1789 he originated an entertainment which he called "The Whim of the Moment"-a series of concerts in which he alone was author, composer, and performer. This was very successful; his

"Poor Jack" especially caught the ear of the public; yet when he retired from the stage, in 1805, owing to various misfortunes, he was quite poor, and the government gave him a pension of £200. He died in 1814. Dibdin is especially noted for his sea-songs, of which he is said to have written twelve hundred. They are standard favorites with the British tars, and have been sometimes quoted with good effect in time of mutiny. "Poor Tom Bowling" was written as a dirge for his brother, who was captain of an East Indiaman. An illustrated edition of the songs, with a memoir, was published in 1850. Dibdin also wrote about fifty dramas.

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D'ye mind me, a sailor should be every inch
All as one as a piece of the ship,
And with her brave the world without offering
to flinch,

From the moment the anchor 's a-trip.

As for me, in all weathers, all times, sides, and ends,

Naught's a trouble from duty that springs, For my heart is my Poll's, and my rhino's my friend's,

And as for my life, 'tis the king's:

Even when my time comes, ne'er believe me so soft

As for grief to be taken aback,

For the same little cherub that sits up aloft
Will look out a good berth for poor Jack.

THE TAR FOR ALL WEATHERS.

I SAILED from the Downs in the Nancy,
My jib how she smacked through the breeze!
She's a vessel as tight to my fancy

As ever sailed on the salt seas.
So adieu to the white cliffs of Dover,

Our girls and our dear native shore!
For if some hard rock we should split on,
We shall never see them any more.
But sailors were born for all weathers,
Great guns let it blow high or low,
Our duty keeps us to our tethers,

And where the gale drives we must go.

When we entered the Gut of Gibraltar,
I verily thought she'd have sunk,
For the wind so began for to alter,

She yaw'd just as thof she was drunk.
The squail tore the mainsail to shivers,

Helm a-weather the hoarse boatswain cries: Brace the foresail athwart; see she quivers, As through the rough tempest she flies. But sailors, &c.

The storm came on thicker and faster,
As black just as pitch was the sky,
When truly a doleful disaster

Befell three poor sailors and I.

Ben Buntline, Sam Shroud, and Dick Handsail,
By a blast that came furious and hard,
Just while we were furling the mainsail,
Were every soul swept from the yard.
But sailors, &c.

Poor Ben, Sam, and Dick cried peccavi;
As for I, at the risk of my neck,
While they sank down in peace to old Davy,
Caught a rope and so landed on deck.

Well, what would you have? We were stranded,
And out of a fine jolly crew

Of three hundred that sailed, never landed
But I and, I think, twenty-two.
But sailors, &c.

After thus we at sea had miscarried,
Another guess way set the wind,
For homeward I came and got married
To a lass that was comely and kind.
But whether for joy or vexation,

We know not for what we were born,

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In either eye a lingering tear,

His love and duty well to prove,
Jack left his wife and children dear,
Impelled by honor and by love;
And as he loitered, wrapped in care,
A sapling in his hand he bore,
Curiously carved, in letters fair-
"Love me; ah, love me, evermore!"

At leisure to behold his worth,

Tokens, and rings, and broken gold, He plunged the sapling firm in earth,

And o'er and o'er his treasure told; The letters spelt, the kindness traced,

And all affection's precious store, Each with the favorite motto graced"Love me; ah, love me, evermore!"

While on this anxious task employed,
Tender remembrance all his care,
His ears are suddenly annoyed,

The boatswain's whistle cleaves the air.
'Tis duty calls, his nerves are braced,
He rushes to the crowded shore,
Leaving the sapling in his haste,

That bids him love for evermore.

The magic branch thus unreclaimed,
Far off at sea, no comfort near,
His thoughtless haste he loudly blamed
With many a sigh and many a tear;

THE STANDING TOAST.

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SIR WILLIAM JONES.

WILLIAM JONES was born in London, Sep-| tember 28, 1746. At Harrow he surpassed all his schoolmates in classical scholarship, and at Oxford he became proficient in Oriental languages. But without taking a degree he left the university in 1765, and became a private tutor. In 1770 he published a Life of Nadir Shah," which, at the request of the King of Denmark, he had translated from Persian into French. This was followed by a Persian grammar and "Commentaries on Asiatic Poetry." In 1780 he published a translation of seven Arabic poems, under the collective title of Moallákat, so called from their being suspended in the temple at Mecca. Meanwhile he studied law, mingled unsuccessfully in politics, wrote a law treatise, and published a few odes. In 1783 he was appointed a judge in the Supreme

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Court at Bengal. He married Miss Shipley, daughter of the Bishop of St. Asaph, was knighted, and sailed for India. He gave himself anew to the study of Eastern languages, founded the Asiatic Society, and wrote much on legal, philosophical, and historical themes. He published a story in verse, entitled "The Enchanted Fruit, or the Hindu Wife," and translated an ancient Indian drama called "Sacontala, or the Fatal Ring.' He was at work on a digest of the Hindu and Mohammedan laws, when he suddenly died, April 27, 1794. Sir William Jones was the first Oriental scholar of his time, was familiar with sixteen languages, and was no inconsiderable poet; but most of his poems require such long prose prefaces to make them intelligible, that they afford little pleasure to the general reader.

AN ODE IN IMITATION OF ALCÆUS.

Ον λιθοι, ουδε ξυλα, ουδε
Τεχνη τεκτονων αἱ πόλεις εισιν
Αλλ' όπου ποτ' αν ωσιν ΑΝΔΡΕΣ
Αὐτους σωζειν ειδότες,

Ενταυθα τείχη και πόλεις.

Alc. quoted by Aristides.

WHAT Constitutes a state?

Not high-raised battlement or labored mound,
Thick wall, or moated gate;

Not cities proud with spires and turrets crowned;
Not bays and broad armed ports,
Where, laughing at the storm, rich navies ride;
Not starred and spangled courts,

Where low-brow'd baseness wafts perfume to pride.

No!-Men, high-minded men,

With powers as far above dull brutes endued

In forest, brake, or den,

As beasts excel cold rocks and brambles rude; Men, who their duties know,

But know their rights, and knowing, dare maintain,

· Prevent the long-aimed blow,

And crush the tyrant while they rend the chain: These constitute a state;

And sovereign law, that state's collected will, O'er thrones and globes elate

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Hides his faint rays, and at her bidding shrinks.

Such was this heaven-loved isle,

Than Lesbos fairer and the Cretan shore !
No more shall freedom smile?

Shall Britons languish, and be men no more?
Since all must life resign,

Those sweet rewards, which decorate the brave, 'Tis folly to decline,

And steal inglorious to the silent grave.

A CHINESE ODE, PARAPHRASED.

BEHOLD, where yon blue rivulet glides Along the laughing dale;

Light reeds bedeck its verdant sides,
And frolic in the gale.

So shines our prince! In bright array
The virtues round him wait;
And sweetly smiled th' auspicious day
That raised him o'er our state.

As pliant hands, in shapes refined,
Rich ivory carve and smooth,
His laws thus mould each ductile mind,
And every passion soothe.

As gems are taught by patient art
In sparkling ranks to beam,
With manners thus he forms the heart,
And spreads a general gleam.

What soft, yet awful dignity!

What meek, yet manly grace!

What sweetness dances in his eye,

And blossoms in his face!

So shines our prince! A sky-born crowd
Of virtues round him blaze:
Ne'er shall oblivion's murky cloud
Obscure his deathless praise.

THE VERBAL TRANSLATION.

BEHOLD yon reach of the river Ki; Its green reeds how luxuriant! how luxuriant! Thus is our prince adorned with virtues; As a carver, as a filer of ivory,

As a cutter, as a polisher of gems,

Oh how elate and sagacious! Oh how dauntless and composed!

How worthy of fame! How worthy of reverence!

We have a prince adorned with virtues,
Whom to the end of time we cannot forget.

HYMN TO CAMDEO.

THE Hindoo god to whom the following poem is addressed appears evidently the same with the Grecian Eros and the Roman Cupido; but the Indian description of his person and arms, his family, attendants, and attributes, has new and peculiar beauties.

WHAT potent god from Agra's orient bowers
Floats through the lucid air, whilst living flowers
With sunny twine the vocal arbours wreathe
And gales enamored heavenly fragrance breathe?
Hail, power unknown! for at thy beck
Vales and groves their bosoms deck,
And every laughing blossom dresses
With gems of dew his musky tresses.
I feel, I feel thy genial flame divine,
And hallow thee, and kiss thy shrine.
"Know'st thou not me?"

Celestial sounds I

hear! "Know'st thou not me?" Ah, spare a mortal ear!

"Behold "-My swimming eyes entranced I raise,
But oh! they sink before the excessive blaze.
Yes, son of Maya, yes I know
Thy bloomy shafts and cany bow,
Cheeks with youthful glory beaming,
Locks in braids ethereal streaming,
Thy scaly standard, thy mysterious arms,
And all thy pains and all thy charms.

God of each lovely sight, each lovely sound,
Soul-kindling, world-inflaming, starry-crown'd,
Eternal Cama! Or doth Smara bright,
Or proud Ananga give thée more delight?
Whate'er thy seat, whate'er thy name,
Seas, earth, and air, thy reign proclaim:

Wreathy smiles and roseate pleasures Are thy richest, sweetest treasures. All animals to thee their tribute bring, And hail thee universal king.

Thy consort mild, Affection ever true,
Graces thy side, her vest of glowing hue;
And in her train twelve blooming girls advance,
Touch golden strings, and knit the mirthful
dance.

Thy dreaded implements they bear,
And wave them in the scented air,
Each with pearls her neck adorning,
Brighter than the tears of morning.
Thy crimson ensign which before them flies,
Decks with new stars the sapphire skies.

God of the flowery shafts and flowery bow,
Delight of all above and all below!
Thy loved companion, constant from his birth,
In heaven clep'd Bessent, and gay Spring on
earth,

Weaves thy green robe and flaunting bowers,
And from thy clouds draws balmy showers,
He with fresh arrows fills thy quiver,
(Sweet the gift, and sweet the giver !)
And bids the many-plumed warbling throng
Burst the pent blossoms with their song.

He bends the luscious cane, and twists the string. With bees, how sweet! but ah, how keen their sting!

He with five flowerets tips thy ruthless darts, Which through five senses pierce enraptured hearts:

Strong Chumpa, rich in odorous gold,
Warm Amer, nursed in heavenly mould,
Dry Nagkeser, in silver smiling,

Hot Kiticum our sense beguiling,

And last, to kindle fierce the scorching flame, Love-shaft, which gods bright Bela name.

Can men resist thy power, when Krishen yields,
Krishen, who still in Matra's holy fields
Tunes harps immortal, and to strains divine
Dances by moonlight with the Gopia nine?
But, when thy daring arm untamed
At Mahadeo a love-shaft aimed,

Heaven shook, and, smit with stony wonder, Told his deep dread in bursts of thunder, Whilst on thy beauteous limbs an azure fire Blazed forth, which never must expire.

O thou for ages born, yet ever young,
For ages may thy Brahmin's lay be sung!
And, when thy lory spreads his emerald wings
To waft thee high above the towers of kings,
Whilst o'er thy throne the moon's pale light
Pours her soft radiance through the night,
And to each floating cloud discovers
The haunts of blessed or joyless lovers,
Thy mildest influence to thy bard impart,
To warm, but not consume, his heart.

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