ON HIS MAJESTY'S RETURN TO WINDSOR
By the Rev. W. Lisle Bowles.
NOT that thy name, illustrious dome, recalls
The pomp of chivalry in banner'd halls,
The blaze of beauty, and the gorgeous sights
Of heralds, trophies, steeds, and crested knights;
Not that young Surrey there beguil'd the hour
With "eyes upturn'd unto the maiden's tower;"
Oh! not for these, the muse officious brings
Her gratulations to the best of Kings ;
But that from cities and from crowds withdrawn,
Calm peace may meet him on the twilight lawn-
That here, among these grey primeval trees,
He may inhale health's animating breeze
That these old oaks, which far their shadow cast,
May sooth him, while they whisper of the past;
And when from that proud Terrace he surveys
Slow Thames devolving his majestic maze,
(Now lost on the horizon's verge, now seen
Winding through lawns, and woods, and pastures green)
May he reflect upon the waves that roll,
Bearing a nation's wealth from pole to pole,
And own (ambition's proudest boast above)
A King's best glory is his country's Love.
By N. T. Carrington, Author of "Dartmoor."
[Sir Cloudesley Shovel's ship, the Association, struck upon the Gilstone, off Scilly, with so much violence, that in about two minutes the vessel went down, and every soul on board, but one, perished. This man saved himself on a piece of timber, which floated to a rock called the Hellweathers, where he was compelled to remain some days before he could receive any assistance. Besides the Association, the Eagle, of 70, and the Romney, of 50 guns, perished, with all their crews. The Firebrand, fireship, was also lost, but most of her men were saved. Many persons of rank, and about 2000 seamen perished on this occasion.
DREW'S HISTORY OF CORNWALL.]
THE blue wave roll'd away before the breeze
Of evening, and that gallant fleet was seen
Darting across the waters; ship on ship
Following in eager rivalry, for home
Lay on the welcome lee. The sun went down
Amid a thousand glorious hues that liv'd
But in his presence; and the giant clouds
Mov'd on in beauty and in power before
The day-god's burning throne. But soon was o'er
The pomp celestial, and the gold-fring'd cloud
Grew dark and darker, and the Elysian tints
Evanish'd swift; the clear, bright azure chang'd
To blackness, and with twilight came the shriek
Of the pursuing winds. Anon on high,
Seen dimly through the shadowy eve, the Chief
Threw out the wary signal, and they paus'd
Awhile upon the deep.* Again they gave
Their sails to the fresh gale-again the surge
Swept foaming by, and every daring prow
Pointed to England ;-England! that should greet
With her green hills, and long-lost vales, their eyes
On the sweet morrow. Beautiful is morn,
But, oh, how beautiful the morn that breaks
On the returning wanderer, doom'd no more
To live on fancy's visions of that spot
Beyond all others lov'd;—that very spot
Now rising from the broad, blue waters, dear
To him as Heav'n.
With fatal speed they flew
Through the wide-parting foam. Again the deck
Slop'd to the billow, and the groaning mast
Bent to the rising gale; yet on that night
The voice of the loud ocean rose to them
In music, for the winds that hurry'd by
A few hours before the ships struck, Sir Cloudesley Shovel hove out the signal to lie to, in order to ascertain the situation of the fleet.
So fierce and swift, but heralded the way
To the lov'd island-strand. The jaws of death
Were round them, and they knew it not, until
Chilling the life-blood of the bravest, burst
The everlasting cry of waves and rocks
From stern Cornubia's isles. Alas, to them-
The lost, there blaz'd no friendly Pharos' fire,
No star gleam'd from the heav'n. The sailor heard
The roar of the huge cliff, and on his brow
Fell the cold dew of horror. On they came
Those gallant barks, fate driv'n-on they came→→
Borne on the wings of the wild wind, to rush
In darkness on the black and bellowing reef
Where human help avails not. There they struck
And sank;-the hopes, the fears, the wishes all
Of myriads o'er, at once. Each fated ship
One moment sat in all her pride, and pomp,
And beauty, on the main;-the next, she plung'd
Into the "hell" of waves, and from her deck
Thrill'd the loud death scream-stifled as it rose
By the dark sea;-one blow-one shriek-the grave!
And all was silent-save the startling voice
Of the Atlantic, rising from that shore
In anger ever! Terribly its surge
Clos'd o'er them, and they perish'd in that gulf
Where the dead lie innumerous, and the depths
Are rife with monstrous shapes, and rest is none
Amid the infuriate war of waters hurl'd
In endless, horrible commotion.
Alone, between the pausings of the gale,
Was one faint, human wail.
One rode the vengeful wave, preserv❜d to be,
As seem'd, the sport of the mad billows: now
Upflung upon the mountain ridges-now
Swift sinking in abysses vast that yawn'd
Almost to Ocean's bed. Yet life fled not,
Nor hope, though in the tempest's giant coil
He gasp'd for breath, and often writhed beneath
The suffocating waters!
In vain, though on the island rock the sea
Had flung the hapless mariner. Around
Howl'd the remorseless surge;-above, the cloud
Swept, terror-wing'd;-the lightning o'er the day
Shed an unnatural glare, and near him broke
The thunder with its peal of doom. No aid
Came through the long, long day, yet on the cliffs
Floated the cheering signal ;—from the strand
Came voices animating;-men were there
Impatient as the bounding greyhound held
Within the straining leash a gallant band
Nurs'd in the western storm, familiar long
With danger, and with-death, but might not brave The monster, now. And thus the victim hung
Upon eternity's dread verge, and gaz'd
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