These lines, to us at least, seem to echo the rough roar of the breakers, as they rush upon an iron-bound coast. Poor G. Gray! He now sleeps, not in the bosom of that old Ocean he loved so dearly, but, we think, in the kirkyard of Douglas, in the Upper Ward of Lanarkshire,--a light early quenched,--but whose memory this notice and these lines may, perhaps, for a season, preserve! The SEA still lies over, after all written in prose or rhyme regarding it, as the subject for a great poem; and it will task all the energies of even the truest poet. FALCONER'S POEMS. THE SHIPWRECK. IN THREE CANTOS. THE TIME EMPLOYED IN THIS POEM IS ABOUT SIX DAYS. Quæque ipse miserrima vidi, Et quorum pars magna fui. VIRG. ÆN. lib. ii. INTRODUCTION TO THE POEM. While jarring interests wake the world to arms, And fright the peaceful vale with dire alarms, While Albion bids the avenging thunder roll Along her vassal deep from pole to pole; Sick of the scene, where War with ruthless hand Spreads desolation o'er the bleeding land; Sick of the tumult, where the trumpet's breath Bids ruin smile, and drowns the groan of death; 'Tis mine, retired beneath this cavern hoar, That stands all lonely on the sea-beat shore, 10 Far other themes of deep distress to sing Than ever trembled from the vocal string: A scene from dumb oblivion to restore, To fame unknown, and new to epic lore; Where hostile elements conflicting rise, And lawless surges swell against the skies, Till hope expires, and peril and dismay Wave their black ensigns on the watery way. Immortal train! who guide the maze of song, To whom all science, arts, and arms belong; 20 Who bid the trumpet of eternal fame Exalt the warrior's and the poet's name, Or in lamenting elegies express The varied pang of exquisite distress; If e'er with trembling hope I fondly stray'd In life's fair morn beneath your hallow'd shade, To hear the sweetly-mournful lute complain, And melt the heart with ecstasy of pain, Or listen to the enchanting voice of love, While all Elysium warbled through the grove: 30 Oh! by the hollow blast that moans around, That sweeps the wild harp with a plaintive sound; By the long surge that foams through yonder cave, Whose vaults remurmur to the roaring wave; With living colours give my verse to glow, The sad memorial of a tale of woe! The fate in lively sorrow to deplore Of wanderers shipwreck'd on a leeward shore. Alas! neglected by the sacred Nine, Their suppliant feels no genial ray divine: 40 Ah! will they leave Pieria's happy shore To plough the tide where wintry tempests roar? Or shall a youth approach their hallow'd fane, Stranger to Phoebus, and the tuneful train? Far from the Muses' academic grove 'Twas his the vast and trackless deep to rove; Alternate change of climates has he known,