POETRY.

For the Analectic Magazine.

THE BATTLE OF ERIE.

AVAST, honest Jack! now before you get mellow,
Come tip us that stave just, my hearty old fellow,
'Bout the young commodore, and his fresh-water crew,
Who keelhal'd the Britons, and captur'd a few.

""Twas just at sunrise, and a glorious day,
Our squadron at anchor snug in Put-in-Bay,

When we saw the bold Britons, and clear for a bout,
Instead of put in, by the Lord we put out.

Up went Union Jack, never up there before, "Don't give up the ship,' was the motto it bore; And as soon as that motto our gallant men saw,

They thought of their Lawrence, and shouted huzza!

"O! then 'twould have rais'd your hat three inches higher, To see how we dash'd in among them like fire!

The Lawrence went first, and the rest as they could,
And a long time the brunt of the battle she stood.

"Twas peppering work-fire, fury, and smoke,
And groans that from wounded lads spite of 'em broke.
The water grew red round our ship as she lay,
Though 'twas never before so, till that bloody day.

"They fell all around me like spars in a gale,
The shot made a sieve of each rag of a sail,

And out of our crew scarce a dozen remain'd,

But these gallant tars still the battle maintain❜d.

""Twas then our commander, God bless his young heart,
Thought it best from his well pepper'd ship to depart,
And bring up the rest who were tugging behind,
For why-they were sadly in want of a wind.

"So to Varnall he gave the command of the ship,
And set out like a lark on this desperate trip

In a small open yawl, right through their whole fleet,
Who with many a broadside our cockboat did greet.

"I steer'd her, and damme, if every inch

Of these timbers of mine at each crack didn't flinch;
But our tight little commodore, cool and serene,
To stir ne'er a muscle by any was seen,

"Whole volleys of muskets were levell'd at him,
But the devil a one ever graz'd e'en a limb,
Though he stood up aloft in the stern of the boat,
Till the crew pull'd him down by the skirts of his coat.

"At last through heav'n's mercy we reach'd t'other ship, And the wind springing up, we gave her the whip,

And ran down their line, boys, through thick and through thin, And bother'd their ears with a horrible din.

"Then starboard and larboard, and this way and that,

We bang'd them, and rak'd them, and laid their masts flat,
Till one after t'other they hal'd down their flag,
And an end put for that time to Johnny Bull's brag.

"The Detroit, and Queen Charlotte, and Lady Provost,
Not able to fight or run, gave up the ghost,

And not one of them all from our grapplings got free,
Though we'd fifty-four guns, and they just sixty-three.
"Smite my limbs! but they all got their bellies full then,
And found what it was, boys, to buckle with men,
Who fight, or, what's just the same, think that they fight,
For their country's free trade and their own native right.

"Now give us a bumper to Elliot and those

Who came up, in good time, to belabour our foes,
To our fresh-water sailors we'll toss off one more,
And a dozen at least to our young commodore.

"And though Britons may brag of their ruling the ocean,
And that sort of thing, by the Lord I've a notion,

I'll bet all I'm worth-who takes it-who takes?

Though they're lords of the sea, we'll be lords of the lakes."

CAROLINE.

By Thomas Campbell, (not published in his works.)

GEM of the crimson-colour'd even,

Companion of retiring day,

Why at the closing gates of heaven,
Beloved star, dost thou delay?

So fair thy pensile beauty burns
When soft the tear of twilight flows,
So dire thy plighted step returns,
To chambers brighter than the rose.

To peace, to pleasure, and to love,
So kind a star thou seem'st to be,
Sure some enamour'd orb above
Descends and burns to meet with thee.

This is the breathing, blushing hour,
When all unheavenly passions fly;
Chas'd by the soul-subduing power
Of love's delightful witchery.

O! sacred to the fall of day
Queen of propitious stars appear!
And early rise, and long delay
When Caroline herself is here.

P.

Shine on her chosen green resort,

Where trees the sunward summit crown;
And damask flowers that well may court
An angel's feet to tread them down.

Shine on her sweetly scented road,
Thou star of evening's purple dome!
That lead'st the nightingale abroad,
And guid❜st the pilgrim to his home.

Shine where my charmer's sweeter breath
Embalms thy soft exhaling dew;
Where dying winds a sigh bequeath
To kiss the cheek of rosy hue.

Where winnow'd by her gentle air
Her silken tresses darkly flow,
And fall upon her brows so fair,
Like shadows on the mountain snow.

O, time! I would not blame thy power,
For Cynthia's youth and beauty flown,
I mourn but that so sweet a flower
Should bloom and wither all alone:
For she was fair

Beyond compare,

And ever was her heart so blithe
By gay good-humoured mirth upborne,
O time! she would have laugh'd to scorn
Thy very glass and sithe.

For her, soft dreams, and slumbers light,
Succeeded calm unruffled days;

'Each eye beam'd on her with delight,
Each tongue was tuneful in her praise:
And at her feet,

With reverence meet,

A crowd of flattering suitors strove ; Some proffer'd glittering gems and gold, And some of endless transports told, And everlasting love.

But little could their prayers avail,

Nor one could win the maiden's choice;

She little heeded flattery's tale,

She scorn'd the sound of mammon's voice:

Was needed, who could watch each breath--Still near thy sickly couch could wait-

Support thee on the brink of fate,

And cheer the gloom of death.

Thou who couldst mourn o'er friendship's bier,

Why was thine own unwept to be?

Thou who couldst give to all a tear,

Why was there none to weep for thee?
Now o'er thy grave

The wild weeds wave

Who shall thy perish'd worth deplore?

Or say, the breast which lies beneath,
Though doom'd its sighs unheard to breathe,
Was never cold before!

Adieu, poor Cynthia! though thy bier

By widow'd love has not been press'd, What though no child with starting tear Shall view thy place of lowly rest; This little mound

Shall still be found

In spring's soft verdure first array'd, The snowdrop, earliest of the year, Spotless like thee, shall flourish here, Like thee shall early fade.