Refin'd, and more exalted, shall contend
Your splendid fate to warble through the bow'rs
Of amaranth and myrtle ever young,
Like your renown. Your ashes we will cull.
In yonder fane deposited, your urns,
Dear to the Muses, shall our lays inspire.
Whatever off'rings, genius, science, art
Can dedicate to virtue, shall be yours,
The gifts of all the Muses, to transmit
You on th' enliven'd canvas, marble, brass,
In wisdom's volume, in the poet's song,
In ev'ry tongue, through ev'ry age and clime,
You of this earth the brightest flow’rs, not cropt,
Transplanted only to immortal bloom
Of praise with men, of happiness with gods.

ADMIRAL HOSIER'S GHOST. As near Porto-Bello lying

On the gently swelling flood, ..
At midnight with streamers flying,

Our triumphant navy rode;
There while Vernon sat all-glorious

From the Spaniard's late defeat;
And his crews, with shouts victorious,

Drank success to England's fleet:

On a sudden shrilly sounding, i

Hideous yells and shrieks were heard;

Then each heart with fear confounding,

A sad troop of ghosts appear'd, All in dreary hammocs shrouded,

Which for winding-sheets they wore, And with looks by sorrow clouded,

Frowning on that hostile shore.

On them gleam'd the moon's wan lustre,

When the shade of Hosier brave
His pale bands was seen to muster,

Rising from their wat’ry grave:
O'er the glimm'ring wave he hy'd him,

Where the Burford rear'd her sail,
With three thousand ghosts beside him,

And in groans did Vernon hail.

“ Heed, O heed, our fatal story,

I am Hosier's injur'd ghost,
You, who now have purchas'd glory

At this place where I was lost;
Though in Porto-Bello's ruin

You now triumph free from fears, When you think on our undoing,

You will mix your joy with tears.

“ See these mournful spectres, sweeping

Ghastly o'er this hated wave, Whose wan cheeks are stain'd with weeping;

These were English captains brave:

Mark those numbers pale and horrid,

Those were once my sailors bold,
Lo! each hangs his drooping forehead,

While his dismal tale is told.

“ I, by twenty sail attended,

Did this Spanish town affright; Nothing then its wealth defended

But my orders not to fight:
O! that in this rolling ocean

I had cast them with disdain,
And obey'd my heart's warm motion,

To have quell'd the pride of Spain. “ For resistance I could fear none,

But with twenty ships had done What thou, brave and happy Vernon,

Hast achiev'd with six alone. Thon the Bastimentos never

Had our foul dishonour seen, Nor the sea the sad receiver

Of this gallant train had been. “ Thus, like thee, proud Spain dismaying,

And her galleons leading home,
Though condemn’d for disobeying,

I had met a traitor's doom;
To have fall'n, my country crying

He has play'd an English part,
Had been better far than dying

Of a griev'd and broken heart.

“ Unrepining at thy glory,

Thy successful arms we hail ; But remember our sad story,

And let Hosier's wrongs prevail. Sent in this foul clime to languish,

Think what thousands fell in vain, Wasted with disease and anguish,

Not in glorious battle slain.

“ Hence, with all my train attending

From their oozy tombs below, Through the hoary foam ascending,

Here I feed my constant woe: Here the Bastimentos viewing,

We recal our shameful doom, And our plaintive cries renewing,

Wander through the midnight gloom."

“ O'er these waves for ever mourning

Shall we roam depriv'd of rest,
If to Britain's shores returning,

You neglect my just request.
After this proud foe subduing,
· When your patriot friends you see,
Think on vengeance for my ruin,

And for England sham'd in me."

JOHN HALL STEPHENSON.

BORN 1718.-DIED 1785.

I have met with no account of this writer's life, nor have I been very anxious to seek for it, as a volume of poems, which bears his name, is disgraced by obscenity.

THE BLACKBIRD.

A MACARONI FABLE,

In concert with the curfew bell,
An Owl was chaunting vespers in his cell;
Upon the outside of the wall,
A Blackbird, famous in that age,
From a bow-window in the hall,
Hung dangling in a wicker cage;
Instead of psalmody and pray’rs,
Like those good children of St. Francis,
He secularized all' his airs,
And took delight in wanton fancies.
Whilst the bell toll’d, and the Owl chaunted,
Every thing was calm and still;

All nature seem'd rapt and enchanted, . Except the querulous, unthankful rill;

Unawed by this imposing scene,
Our Blackbird the enchantment broke; i soi