“The topmast falls—three shackled slaves— “Cling to the Vessel’s side! “Now lost amid the madd’ning waves— “Now on the mast they ride— “See! on the forecastle my DRACO stands “And now he waves his chain, now clasps his bleeding hands. XVIII. “Why, cruel WHITE MAN! when away “My sable Love was torn, “Why did you let poor ZELMA stay, “On Afric’s sands to mourn? “No! ZELMA is not left, for she will prove “In the deep troubled main, her fond—her faithful LOVE.” XIX. The lab’ring Ship was now a wreck, The shrouds were flutt’ring wide! The rudder gone, the lofty deck Was rock’d from side to side— Poor ZELMA’s eyes now dropp’d their last big tear, While, from her tawny cheek, the blood recoil’d with fear. XX. Now frantic, on the sands she roam’d, Now shrieking stop’d to view Where high the liquid mountains foam’d, Around the exhausted crew— ’Till, from the deck, her DRACO’s well known form Sprung mid the yawning waves, and buffetted the Storm. XXI. Long, on the swelling surge sustain’d Brave DRACO sought the shore, Watch’d the dark Maid, but ne’er complain’d, Then sunk, to gaze no more! Poor ZELMA saw him buried by the wave— And, with her heart’s true Love, plung’d in a wat’ry grave. _The TRUMPETER_, _AN OLD ENGLISH TALE_. It was in the days of a gay British King (In the old fashion’d custom of merry-making) The Palace of Woodstock with revels did ring, While they sang and carous’d—one and all: For the monarch a plentiful treasury had, And his Courtiers were pleas’d, and no visage was sad, And the knavish and foolish with drinking were mad, While they sat in the Banquetting hall. Some talk’d of their Valour, and some of their Race, And vaunted, ’till vaunting was black in the face; Some bragg’d for a title, and some for a place, And, like braggarts, they bragg’d one and all! Some spoke of their scars in the Holy Crusade, Some boasted the banner of Fame they display’d, And some sang their Loves in the soft serenade As they sat in the Banquetting hall. And here sat a Baron, and there sat a Knight, And here stood a Page in his habit all bright, And here a young Soldier in armour bedight With a Friar carous’d, one and all. Some play’d on the dulcimer, some on the lute, And some, who had nothing to talk of, were mute, ’Till the Morning, awakened, put on her grey suit— And the Lark hover’d over the Hall.