No braver chief could Albion boast
Than he with whom he went,
Nor ever ship left Albion's coast
With warmer wishes sent.
He loved them both, but both in vain,
Nor him beheld, nor her again.
Not long beneath the whelming brine, Expert to swim, he lay;
Nor soon he felt his strength decline, Or courage die away :
But waged with death a lasting strife, Supported by despair of life.
He shouted; nor his friends had fail'd
To check the vessel's course,
But so the furious blast prevail'd,
That, pitiless perforce,
They left their outcast mate behind,
And scudded still before the wind.
Some succour yet they could afford;
And, such as storms allow,
The cask, the coop, the floated cord,
Delayed not to bestow:
But he, they knew, nor ship nor shore,
Whate'er they gave, should visit more.
Nor, cruel as it seem'd, could he
Their haste himself condemn,
Aware that flight, in such a sea,
Alone could rescue them;
Yet bitter felt it still to die
Deserted, and his friends so nigh.
He long survives, who lives an hour
In ocean, self-upheld:
And so long he, with unspent power,
His destiny repell'd:
And ever, as the minutes flew,
Entreated help, or cried-" Adieu !"
At length, his transient respite past,
His comrades, who before
Had heard his voice in every blast,
Could catch the sound no more:
For then, by toil subdued, he drank
The stifling wave, and then he sank.
THE author of "The Botanic Garden," was born at Elston, near Newark, in 1731. He was educated at St John's, Cambridge, and from thence proceeded to Edinburgh, where he studied medicine. After taking his degree there, he settled in Lichfield, where he got into extensive practice. He afterwards removed to Derby, where he published the first part of his "Botanic Garden;" the second and third parts followed in 1789 and 1792. Darwin was the author of several prose works, evincing considerable metaphysical talent. He died 18th April 1802. He left another poem, of the same character as "The Botanic Garden," ready for the press. It was published shortly after his death, under the title of "The Temple of Nature."
ON STEAM.
From "The Botanic Garden."
NYMPHS! you erewhile on simmering caldrons play'd,
And call'd delighted Savery to your aid;
Bade round the youth explosive Steam aspire,
In gathering clouds, and wing'd the wave with fire;
Bade with cold streams the quick expansion stop,
And sunk the immense of vapour to a drop.
Press'd by the ponderous air the piston falls
Resistless, sliding through its iron walls;
Quick moves the balanced beam, of giant birth,
Wields his large limbs, and nodding shakes the earth.
The Giant-Power from Earth's remotest caves
Lifts with strong arm her dark reluctant waves;
Each cavern'd rock and hidden den explores,
Drags her dark coals, and digs her shining ores.
Next, in close cells of ribbed oak confined,
Gale after gale, he crowds the struggling wind;
The imprison'd storms through brazen nostrils roar,
Fan the white flame, and fuse the sparkling ore.
Here high in air the rising stream he pours
To clay-built cisterns, or to lead-lined towers;
Fresh through a thousand pipes the wave distils,
And thirsty cities drink the exuberant rills.
There the vast mill-stone with inebriate whirl
On trembling floors his forceful fingers twirl,
Whose flinty teeth the golden harvests grind,
Feast without blood! and nourish human-kind.
Now his hard hands on Mona's rifted crest,
Bosom'd in rock, her azure ores arrest;
With iron lips his rapid rollers seize
The lengthening bars, in thin expansion squeeze ;
Descending screws with ponderous fly-wheels wound
The tawny plates, the new medallions round;
Hard dyes of steel the cupreous circles cramp,
And with quick fall his massy hammers stamp.
The harp, the lily, and the lion join,
And George and Britain guard the sterling coin.
Soon shall thy arm, unconquer'd Steam! afar
Drag the slow barge, or drive the rapid car;
Or on wide-waving wings expanded bear
The flying-chariot through the fields of air.
-Fair crews triumphant, leaning from above,
Shall wave their fluttering kerchiefs as they move;
Or warrior-bands alarm the gaping crowd,
And armies shrink beneath the shadowy cloud.
FALCONER was the son of a poor barber in Edinburgh, and was born there on 11th February 1730. He joined a Leith merchant vessel as an apprentice, and there acquired that intimate knowledge of sea matters which qualified him for the composition of his poem. He was shipwrecked in the Britannia, when second-mate, off Cape Colonna; and the scene there enacted has been vividly described in "The Shipwreck." The work was successful, and brought Falconer into notice. He was successively made midshipman, and then purser, in the Glory. After the peace he was paid off; and among other means that he tried to make a living, he wrote a "Marine Dictionary," which is still the basis of all others. In 1769, the poet, having been appointed purser of the Aurora frigate bound for India, again went to sea; but the vessel, after passing the Cape, was never more heard of, and is supposed to have foundered with all on board.
FROM "THE SHIPWRECK."
In vain the cords and axes were prepared,
For now th' audacious seas insult the yard;
High o'er the ship they throw a horrid shade,
And o'er her burst, in terrible cascade.
Uplifted on the surge, to heaven she flies,
Her shatter'd top half-buried in the skies,
Then headlong plunging thunders on the ground,
Earth groans! air trembles! and the deeps resound!
Her giant-bulk the dread concussion feels,
And quivering with the wound, in torment reels.
So reels, convulsed with agonising throes,
The bleeding bull beneath the murderer's blows-
Again she plunges! hark! a second shock
Tears her strong bottom on the marble rock:
Down on the vale of death, with dismal cries,
The fated victims shuddering roll their eyes,
In wild despair; while yet another stroke,
With deep convulsion, rends the solid oak:
Till like the mine, in whose infernal cell
The lurking dæmons of destruction dwell,
At length asunder torn her frame divides;
And crashing spreads in ruin o'er the tides.
O were it mine with tuneful Maro's art
To wake to sympathy the feeling heart;
Like him the smooth and mournful verse to dress
In all the pomp of exquisite distress!
Then too severely taught by cruel fate,
To share in all the perils I relate,
Then might I, with unrivall'd strains deplore
The impervious horrors of a leeward shore.
As o'er the surge the stooping main-mast hung,
Still on the rigging thirty seamen clung;
Some, struggling, on a broken crag were cast,
And there by oozy tangles grappled fast;
Awhile they bore the o'erwhelming billows' rage,
Unequal combat with their fate to wage;
Till all benumb'd and feeble, they forego
Their slippery hold, and sink to shades below.
Some, from the main-yard-arm impetuous thrown
On marble ridges, die without a groan.
Three with Palemon on their skill depend,
And from the wreck on oars and rafts descend.
Now on the mountain wave on high they ride,
Then downward plunge beneath the involving tide;
Till one, who seems in agony to strive,
The whirling breakers heave on shore alive;
The rest a speedier end of anguish knew,
And prest the stony beech, a lifeless crew!
MICKLE, the son of a minister in Langholm, Dumfriesshire, went to London to push his way, and there changed the spelling of his name, which was originally Meikle. He published some poems, which were highly thought of at the time; but, with the exception of "Cumnor Hall," which suggested to Scott the idea of "Kenilworth," and "The Mariner's Wife," they are scarcely known at the present day. Mickle succeeded in working himself into a good position in society. He died near Oxford, in 1788.
THE MARINER'S WIFE.
BUT are ye sure the news is true?
And are ye sure he's weel?
Is this a time to think o' wark
Ye jauds, fling by your wheel.
There's nae luck about the house,
There's nae luck at a',
There's nae luck about the house,
When our gudeman's awa.
Is this a time to think o' wark,
When Colin's at the door?
Rax down my cloak-I'll to the quay,
And see him come ashore.
Rise up and make a clean fireside,
Put on the mickle pat;
Gie little Kate her cotton goun,
And Jock, his Sunday's coat.
And mak their shoon as black as slaes,
Their stockins white as snaw;
It's a' to pleasure our gudeman—
He likes to see them braw.
There are twa hens into the crib,
Hae fed this month and mair,
Mak haste and thraw their necks about,
That Colin weel may fare.
Bring down to me my bigonet,
My bishop's sattin gown,
For I maun tell the bailie's wife,
That Colin's come to town.
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