'Believe not what the landmen say, Who tempt with doubts thy constant mind: They'll tell thee sailors, when away, In every port a mistress find-- Yes, yes, believe them when they tell thee so, For thou art present wheresoe'er I go. 'If to far India's coast we sail, Thy eyes are seen in diamonds bright; Thy breath is Afric's spicy gale, Thy skin is ivory so white. Thus every beauteous object that I view Wakes in my soul some charm of lovely Sue. 'Though battle call me from thy arms, Let not my pretty Susan mourn; Though cannons roar, yet, safe from harms, William shall to his dear return. Love turns aside the balls that round me fly, Lest precious tears should drop from Susan's eye.' The boatswain gave the dreadful word; The sails their swelling bosom spread; No longer must she stay aboard: They kissed--she sighed--he hung his head. Her lessening boat unwilling rows to land; 'Adieu!' she cries, and waved her lily hand. MY OWN EPITAPH Life is a jest, and all things show it: I thought so once, but now I know it. SAMUEL CROXALL FROM THE VISION Pensive beneath a spreading oak I stood That veiled the hollow channel of the flood: Along whose shelving bank the violet blue And primrose pale in lovely mixture grew. High overarched the bloomy woodbine hung, The gaudy goldfinch from the maple sung; The little warbling minstrel of the shade To the gay morn her due devotion paid Next, the soft linnet echoing to the thrush With carols filled the smelling briar-bush; While Philomel attuned her artless throat, And from the hawthorn breathed a trilling note. Indulgent Nature smiled in every part, And filled with joy unknown my ravished heart: Attent I listened while the feathered throng Alternate finished and renewed their song. * * * * * THOMAS TICKELL FROM ON THE DEATH OF MR. ADDISON Can I forget the dismal night that gave My soul's best part forever to the grave? How silent did his old companions tread, By midnight lamps, the mansions of the dead, Through breathing statues, then unheeded things, Through rows of warriors, and through walks of kings! What awe did the slow solemn knell inspire; The pealing organ, and the pausing choir; The duties by the lawn-robed prelate paid; And the last words, that dust to dust conveyed! While speechless o'er thy closing grave we bend, Accept these tears, thou dear departed friend. Oh, gone forever! take this long adieu; And sleep in peace next thy loved Montague!