The Candle's gleam pierc'd through the night, Some short space o'er the green; And there the little trotting Sprite Distinctly might be seen. An _Ass's Foal_ had lost its Dam Within the spacious Park; And simple as the playful Lamb Had follow'd in the dark. No Goblin he; no imp of sin: No crimes had ever known. They took the shaggy stranger in, And rear'd him as their own. His little hoofs would rattle round Upon the Cottage floor: The Matron learn'd to love the sound That frighten'd her before. A favorite the Ghost became; And, 'twas his fate to thrive: And long he liv'd and spread his fame, And kept the joke alive. For many a laugh went through the Vale; And some conviction tod:-- Each thought some other Goblin Perhaps, was just as true. [Illustration] THE FRENCH MARINER. A Ballad. An Old _French Mariner_ am I, Whom Time hath render'd poor and gray; Hear, conquering _Britons_, ere I die, What anguish prompts me thus to say. I've rode o'er many a dreadful wave, I've seen the reeking blood descend: I've heard the last groans of the brave;-- The shipmate dear, the steady Friend. 'Twas when _De Grasse_ the battle join'd And struck, on _April's_ fatal morn: I left three smiling boys behind, And saw my Country's Lily torn. There, as I brav'd the storms of Fate, Dead in my arms my Brother fell; Here sits forlorn his widow'd Mate, Who weeps whene'er the tale I tell. Thy reign, sweet Peace, was o'er too soon; War, piecemeal, robs me of my joy: For, on the bloodstain'd _first_ of _June_ Death took my _eldest_ favorite Boy. The other two enrag'd arose; 'Our Country claims our lives,' they said. With them I lost my Soul's repose; That fatal hour my last hope fled. With BRUYES the proud NILE they sought; Where one in ling'ring wounds expir'd; While yet the other bravely fought The Orient's magazine was fir'd. And must I mourn my Country's shame? And envious curse the conquering Foe? No more I feel that thirst of Fame;--All I can feel is private woe. E'en all the joy that Vict'ry brings, (Her bellowing Guns, and flaming pride) Cold, momentary comfort flings Around where weeping Friends reside. Whose blighted bud no Sun shall cheer, Whose Lamp of Life no longer shine: Some Parent, Brother, Child, most dear, Who ventur'd, and who died like mine. Proud crested Fiend, the World's worst foe, Ambition, canst thou boast one deed, Whence no unsightly horrors flow, Nor private peace is seen to bleed? Ah! why do these old Eyes remain To see succeeding mornings rise! My Wife is dead, my Children slain. And Poverty is all my prize. Yet shall not poor enfeebled Age Breathe forth revenge;--but rather say O God, who seest the Battle's rage, Take from men's hearts that rage away. From the vindictive tongue of strife Bid Hatred and false Glory See; That babes may meet advancing life, Nor feel the woes that light on me. [Illustration] DOLLY _"Ingenuous trust, and confidence of Love."_