The shock a moment's life supplied,
One look he gave-then groan'd, and died.
The battle ceas'd, the cannons' roar
Now died upon the distant shore,
And silence hush'd the tumult loud,
For France to British valour bow'd:
The tempest raging in each breast,
No longer fed, had ebb'd to rest;
But even, in their hour of pride,
For Phelan and his faithful bride,
They deeply mourn; and those who stood
Then foremost in the strife of blood,
Now give their souls to feeling's sway,
And almost weeping turn away.
No aid from grief the dead can find,
Yet one dear pledge remains behind;
Their infant boy, of all bereft,
An orphan to the world is left;
With all the warmth of seaman's breast
A hundred fathers round him press'd,
And vow the tender child to rear,
And, like their own, to hold him dear!
But who the mother's care will give?
Without her aid he cannot live;
The stream of life that gave him breath
Is stain'd by blood, and seal'd in death.
They sigh and gaze, and muse and sigh,
And hope, yet fear the boy must die !
When one with sudden rapture spoke,
("Twas heav'n itself the thought awoke),
"The boy shall yet a mother find-
"A goat that's in the ship confin'd,
"Whose playful kid has chanc'd to die,
"May now the nurse's aid supply."
Joyful they hail the happy thought,
Instant the shaggy nurse is brought:
Oh! wonderful is nature's sway,
The infant, as it smiling lay,
A mother in the goat has found-
The seaman's hope with joy is crown'd.
One grave receives the faithful pair,
Their boy is left their messmate's care;
The nurse now fondly loves the child,
That, like its kid, is sporting wild,
And sternest hearts can gleam with joy
To bless poor Phelan's orphan boy!
FROM THE FRENCH OF PATRIX.
SIGHS, and looks, and soft attentions,
Well a tender flame reveal;
He who least his passion mentions
Oft is found the most to feel.
Though from his lips the fair one hears
No word his wishes to discover,
Yet he who serves, and perseveres,
Plainly proves himself a lover.
*The affecting circumstances recorded by the above simple story actually took place on board the Swallow, in a gallant and sanguinary engagement with a very superior force off Frejus.
WRITTEN FOR A GRAPHICAL DESIGN.
OOR Sarah, ere the day was clos'd, Her half-meal'd infants hush'd to bed, Her aged father too repos'd,
Sat near her wheel, and weeping said"O Nature! spare this aching heart
"The bitterest pang a heart can know; "O spare-lest want's convulsing smart My trembling reason overthrow.
"And yet, ah me!-a drooping sire,
"A husband distant far at sea,
"Children too young to work for hire ;-
"What can betide-but penury?”-
"Avast there! (cried a neighbour-tar
"Who heard this deeply-utter'd moan)
"Here, take my prize-rewards of war,
"Till Dick, your husband, brings his own."
Rescued from all that anxious dread
Which hardly lets the sufferer live,
When infant hunger craves the bread
Which parent love has not to give;
Poor Sarah feels her heart expand
With more than mother's wonted joy,
And blessing oft an unseen hand,
Prompts the same lesson to her boy.
ON MRS. BROOKE, THE MOTHER OF MRS. IRWIN, DUBLIN, 1791.
Low may, from Nature's hand, Affection warm,
The pencil, to depict her daughter, steal;
Revive the charms, peculiar to her form,
Or teach the portrait with her nerve to feel! From chaste Simplicity her manners flow'd,
From dove-ey'd Candour, each unblemish'd thought; To mild Religion, pure content she ow'd,
And Virtue, for its own effulgence sought!
Then drop the purpose-thou! whose busy breast
Swells with a loss, too mighty for thy art:
How lov'd ELIZA was, her lot, how blest!
Ye wives! and parents! if, like her, impart!
SORDID CITIZEN OF THE WORLD.
LIVES there the man, who never sighs
Far off, his natal spot to see?
may be rich-he may be wise
But is, in sooth, no friend to me.
And breathes there one, whose frowns repel
The prattling child, that clasps his knee?
The world his worth may blazon well;
But he is not a friend to me.
And doth he live, who, stern and cold,
His kinsfolk shuns of low degree?
Though on his sideboard glitter gold,
No friend is such a wretch to me!
And, who forsook the dying couch
Of old companion can there be?
His virtues rare may all avouch;
He never was a friend to me.
Such have I seen attract the gaze
Of thousands to their pageantry-
But they and I go different ways-
Avaunt!-they are no friends to me!-
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