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Refin'd, and more exalted, shall contend
ADMIRAL HOSIER'S GHOST. As near Porto-Bello lying
On the gently swelling flood, ..
Our triumphant navy rode;
From the Spaniard's late defeat;
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
Rising from their wat’ry grave:
Where the Burford rear'd her sail,
And in groans did Vernon hail.
“ Heed, O heed, our fatal story,
I am Hosier's injur'd ghost,
At this place where I was lost;
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,
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:
I had cast them with disdain,
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,
I had met a traitor's doom;
He has play'd an English part,
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,
You neglect my just request.
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.
A MACARONI FABLE,
In concert with the curfew bell,
All nature seem'd rapt and enchanted, . Except the querulous, unthankful rill;
Unawed by this imposing scene,