University of Virginia Library

No more my Muse, by martial deeds inspir'd,
Shall sing of heroes with ambition fir'd;
Whose minds insatiate by new conquests led,
Enroll their fame 'midst millions of the dead.
No more the broils of nations I rehearse,
No crooked policy now marks my verse;
To courts adieu, and ev'ry specious art,
That gives a varnish to the vicious heart:
To thee, soft god, enslaver of the soul,
Alike farewell.—I spurn thy soft controul,
To roseate bowers be gone, where dulcet strains
Invite thee to allay thy minions' pains.
Fly hence, ye visions: let my humbler muse
Less vice with more simplicity infuse:
Yes, come thou little sea-boy, come to me,
For thou alone inspir'st my minstrelsy;
Thy deeds to chronicle is all I crave,
And snatch thy mem'ry from oblivion's grave.

On Albion's coast, where Neptune's surges roar,
And western winds salubrious fan the shore,
Its straw-clad roofs an hamlet mean displays,
To wintry storms expos'd, and summer's rays:
There nightly on the beach, sad, silent, slow,
Poor Jane the maniac strays, oppress'd with woe;
Now halts to gaze upon the orb of night,
Then sighing, starts like one appall'd with fright:
Or when the skies, with murky clouds o'ercast,
Her tresses wanton in the nipping blast,
While on her garments falls the drenching rain,
That vainly would allay the fev'rish pain,
Which, canker-like, the mental peace destroys,
And robs her heart of all congenial joys.
'Twas man, deceitful man, with baseness fraught,
And varnish'd tale, the yielding Jenny sought,
And 'lur'd her from the paths of spotless fame,
To tread the beaten road of public shame;
By passion urg'd, her soul confess'd the love,
Which was at once her joy and bane to prove,
The first as short liv'd as the bliss procur'd,
The last with frenzied pain to be endur'd:
For still from year to year she feels the smart,
And moans her fault with blood-drops from the heart.
O! monster, when the maid was in thy pow'r,
Could'st thou so basely cull the stainless flow'r!
And after leave it to those stings of fate,
The pangs of conscience, and the world's dire hate?
Could'st thou forget how oft, with honour's tongue,
By thee, the theme of marriage had been sung;
How, urg'd by solemn pledges of thy troth,
She yielded all without the nuptial oath;
Yes, gave her character in trust to thee,
And all thy recompense was perfidy.
Yet soft, arraign not fate's all just behest,
Vengeance, ere long, assail'd his perjur'd breast;
Far from the victim fled, he sought in vain
To hoard up wealth, his darling impulse—gain;
The toil how fruitless; pain procur'd but cross,
Venture on venture, brought on loss on loss.
Ruin'd, and poverty at length his lot,
Duty, religion, were alike forgot;
Spurning the laws, his guilty thoughts applied
To wrench by force that gold his God denied.
By theft debas'd, he met the felon's doom,
Consign'd from execution to the tomb.
Thus died the object of the maniac's joy,
Source of her anguish—parent of her boy;
Of honest Ned, who, with unceasing pain,
Strives to wash out his father's guilty stain,
And to her wounds the balm of comfort lend,
At once the child, the christian, and the friend.
'Tis his the task to labour out the day,
And trace at eve his mother's lonesome way;
With tender converse strive to lull her pain,
And safe conduct her to the cot again.
Then on the hearth the buckhorn Ned will broil,
Their simple supper—produce of his toil.
And oft in tears will mark her tearless eye,
As when with stedfast gaze she heaves the sigh,
And vainly strives to vent the gushing grief,
For tears alone can yield her heart relief;
The cause is rooted, and no pow'r can save,
Her only remedy—the peaceful grave.
Yet hold, from suff'ring Jane my Muse now flies,
And wings her way to Spring's etherial skies,
When bursting buds array the leafless trees,
And op'ning flowers perfume the genial breeze;
Come, boist'rous March, and let the Pisces bring
With equinoxial winds the dawn of spring;
When angry billows, with incessant roar,
Dash o'er the shingle, and assail the shore,
Then spent, retire to join their wat'ry home,
And lave the sandy beach with milky foam.
Now, swiftly wafted by the howling gale,
Fall frozen show'rs of chrystal icy hail,
Which oft, like gems, the seaman's jacket grace,
Or, thaw'd by heat, course down his rugged face.
By frost led on, chaste Dian's crest is seen,
Spangling the vast expanse of liquid green,
Till clouds the glitt'ring surface quite obscure,
Which only beam'd a transitory lure.
Inviting smugglers forth to tempt the deep,
And bury rashness in eternal sleep.
The o'er fraught clouds, now poiz'd 'twixt heav'n and sea,
Besiege the moon with black artillery;
In torrents, not in drops, pour down the rain,
Still adding horrors to the boist'rous main;
Where, toss'd in fell distress, the vessel rocks,
And bilges as she feels repeated shocks.
The well-known signal gains the sea-girt land,
Where hardy sailors line the darken'd strand,
Face ev'ry peril to prolong life's breath,
And snatch poor seamen from impending death:
'Tis then, from sleep arous'd, poor little Ned
Will rush, half clad, from out his truckle bed,
Straight to the shore, with nimble speed repair,
To lend his aid, should aught require him there;
The dismal truth once known, his hand is giv'n,
Pure effort, worthy of a son of heav'n;
His little arms, extended at full length,
Shove on the boat, and vie with manly strength,
O'er hills of pebbles still the bark he'll urge,
Until it gains at length the buoyant surge;
Soon as the wave toss'd skiff begins to float,
Experienc'd vet'rans spring into the boat,
Heedless of peril, and the drenching spray,
They dare the waves, that bear them far away;
Meantime the sea-boy on the shingle stands,
With heart high beating, and with firm clasp'd hands,
His eyes upon the blacken'd deep still bent,
Thus to the winds he gives his thoughts free vent:
“Ah! would that I the name of man could boast,
“And safely steer from dangers of the coast,
“Had strength to buffet ev'ry yawning wave,
“And ride triumphant o'er a wat'ry grave;
“No more in idleness should I remain,
“To view the dangers of the briny plain;
“No more be left expectant on the strand,
“Myself a help-mate of th' advent'rous band;
“Oh! then how amply would my toils be blest,
“To tender comfort to the poor distress'd,
“To see preserv'd their cargo and their lives;
“No orphans left, no hapless widow'd wives.
“This to behold, and know myself one cause,
“Of their safe rescue from fate's rueful jaws,
“Would lead me to despise all fears of death,
“For should I sink, I nobly yield my breath,
“Since I had plac'd in heav'n alone my trust,
“The impulse mercy, and my God is just.”
Such were the stripling's thoughts; and though they broke
In humbler accents, as the theme he spoke,
The pray'r was equally receiv'd on high,
For there's no favour with the Deity.
While thus pray'd little Ned, disdaining fear,
The seamen still towards the vessel steer,
And gain at length the laden brig distress'd,
By winds, by waves, and shoals at once oppress'd;
Then, ere day's dawning, pilot safe to shore,
Poor souls, who thought to see their homes no more.

Now scarce is Aries usher'd in with wet,
When little Ned repairs some owner's net;
To earn a sixpence from the master, he
From morn till night toils on incessantly,
With twine and needle works, the flaws to mend,
And with the mesh makes good each gaping rend;
No sinful thought his busy mind employs,
The hand that labours, venom'd vice destroys;
Dispels those vapours luxury oft brings,
Makes gods of poor men, slaves of ermin'd kings.
Free from such soul-subduing thoughts, the lad,
Arm'd with the consciousness of right—feels glad:
For pastime, oft some ditty he'll rehearse,
In strains as simple as the native verse,
While on the net sweet chubby infants play,
And others list attentive to the lay.

THE FISHER-BOY's SONG.

In April Ned oft hears the welcome call,
And gladsome flies to tend the wish'd for haul,
O'er briny waves now undulates the boat,
Rides their curv'd tips—or sinks in peace to float.
A wat'ry mountain still succeeds, and now
Through the curl'd precipice glides on the bow,
While right and left the splashing surges rise,
And veil each object from the gazer's eyes;
Rang'd on the beach, at equal distance stand,
To haul each line, a motley lab'ring band,
Men, women, children, draw the ropes amain,
And little Ned cries out—God speed our Seine!
But as the floating corks approach, so those
Employ'd at either rope run on to close;
And now the twiny snare the beach bespreads,
Tangled with sea-weeds, variegated shreds:
At length, as nearer draws the finny weight,
Each countenance betrays a mind elate,
Feelings in turn resume their wonted scope,
Now pallid fear pervades—now anxious hope.
The Seine on shore, no fear Ned's joy controuls,
Who leaps to view a glorious haul of soles,
With plenteous heaps of whitings, silv'ry skins,
And their companions the cream-coated blins.
The owner of the nets especial care,
Is next to note down each assistant there;
Another hand prepares to count the store,
When sep'rate heaps of fish o'erspread the shore,
Whose glitt'ring scales such varied tints impart,
As bid defiance to the hand of art;
For then in quick succession will arise,
Pearls, di'monds, em'ralds, living to the eyes,
The tint of roses mingling with the hue
Of pansie, daffodil, and violet blue;
And yet, poor harmless offspring of the deep,
For ye the liquid drops mine eyes ensteep,
As writhing, I your tinsell'd forms behold,
Your heaving gills, and eyes of blue and gold,
Ring-like distended, and with glazy stare,
Bent on high heav'n, with fix'd and anguish'd glare;
Dullness at length each brilliant orbit shades,
For gold and azure, misty film pervades;
Thus death approaching, veils the sparkling sight,
And closes in proportion life and light.
Each parcel counted, Ned receives his lot,
For e'n the smallest child is ne'er forgot;
And if some red-nos'd Jolter then should wish,
For market-town to purchase lots of fish,
Ned to the wily barterer will hie,
Present his stock, and ask him if he'll buy;
Hard bargain, to ensure the most he can,
For though no Jew, our sea-boy knows his man.
But if no dealer waits: the welcome gain
Ned forthwith eases of its ling'ring pain;
Beneath the gill, and thro' the mouth applied,
His nimble fingers straight the twine doth glide.
Arriv'd at cot, to Jane he shows the string,
Conscious his toils increasing comforts bring,
His stool then places at the cottage door,
From whence are seen the breakers and the shore;
His knife he wets upon the nearest stone,
Each whiting's back rips down, then draws the bone,
And being cleans'd of entrails, and of blood,
He laves the carcase in fresh water's flood,
Some salt applies, then plac'd in sun or shade,
Leaves it to dry, and thus the Buckhorn's made;
Whose firm flesh, hoarded up, affords a treat,
By hunger season'd, far beyond rich meat,
When stew'd with luscious sauces, that excel
In pamp'ring appetite and sating smell.

With genial Taurus milder breezes play,
Though sometimes cold assumes a transient sway;
Light clouds dispense around translucent show'rs,
To nurse the soil, and rear the opening flow'rs.
Ned, watchful, at each haul repairs to aid,
His only profit now the fishing-trade;
But, ah! not always will success ensue,
Fortune will cross us, though we strive to do;
Such fate our honest lad will often share,
In spite of labour and unceasing care:
Oh! then he gazes, fraught with mental pain,
Upon the inauspicious empty Seine;
For labour thus he'll oft no produce get,
And whilst in silence he overhauls the net,
A stifled sigh perhaps his bosom heaves,
Not for his own, his mother's wants he grieves;
And pensive thus awhile remains his breast,
Till something whispers:—All is for the best:
Now 'gins to dissipate fell sorrow's cloud,
While reason's offspring on his fancy crow'd.
“All's right,” says Ned, “for it is understood
“No ill proceeds from God, who does all good;
“So if to sin I never feel inclin'd,
“Why need I fear the Lord should prove unkind.”
Thus having argu'd, then a pause ensues,
When thus the boy his train of thought pursues:
“What though this day hath brought no good: from “thence
“May I not hope the morrow's recompence;
“And should the morrow fail, is there not still
“A third day for the great Almighty's will,
“Besides, of Buckborn there's yet on the shelf
“A plenteous store for mother and myself;
“Then why repine, of hunger none e'er die,
“Who labour hard, and place their trust on high.”
Conviction instant flash'd on little Ned,
“Forgive me, God:”—he sigh'd, and hung his head.
Ah! would such simple reason did but rule
All men—and not the jargon of a school—
Disputes no longer would perplex the mind,
But one true standard govern all mankind:
Logic would yield its powers to common sense,
As reason governs ruling providence.

Thrice welcome Summer, for to thee I tune
Mine oaten pipe, and hail auspicious June;
Rich harbinger of ev'ry luscious sweet,
That fecund nature rears the sense to greet;
With thee unnumber'd flowrets grace the day,
And full blown roses carpet out thy way;
Embroider'd hills and vallies meet the view,
Ripen'd by Sol, and fed by morning dew;
Now strain the warbling choirs their little throats,
To greet new Summer with enlivening notes;
And half-fledg'd young ones of the breathy Spring,
Peep from the nest, desirous to take wing,
While tender fears assail the mother's breast,
Who anxious sits the guardian of her nest.
Now breaks in Gemini the grey-ey'd light,
Awakening dawn by robbing sullen night;
The jocund hours come laughing hand in hand,
Surround Sol's car, and join Aurora's band;
With dewy kiss salute her brows serene,
And smiling, hail her summer's rosy queen;
O'erjoyed night's murky influence to fly,
They graceful trip it thro' the azure sky;
As wide o'er briny expanse dart the beams,
Lacing the em'rald tints with golden gleams.
'Tis now the fisher-boy to joy gives scope,
For Summer proves the harvest of his hope;
With glistning eyes he hails the rising sun,
Nor ceases labour till its course is run;
Still tends the shooting of the seine to feel,
The profits rising from the salmon-peel,
In more abundance now the whiting shares,
Which, if unsold, for drying he prepares;
And for his parent's eating dab supplies,
Which cleans'd—in dripping pan he dextrous fries;
Then adds potatoes slic'd, thin, crisp, and brown,
Whereto he sets his silent mother down;
Praises the dish, to coax her to the meal,
The highest earthly transport he can feel.

The self-same toil awhile gives Ned good store,
For still the seine invites him to the shore;
Where oft the owner, when his net is cast,
In hoarse unwelcome tones sings out—“Tis fast!”
Who hauling in finds out some rock at sea,
Hath rent the toil, and set the captives free.

Sometimes as Sol'gins kiss the western waves,
And, dipp'd in flood, his circlet partly laves,
While thus array'd in all his blazing pride,
With burning arms clasps Thetis willing bride.
'Tis then our Ned will stroll beneath the cliff,
And mark the progress of the scudding skiff;
The laden culm brig he'll descry afar,
Or proudly sailing view the sloop of war;
Her pendant flying, and her broad white sails
Swell'd into graceful curves by gentle gales.
At other times huge chasms in the rocks,
Hewn by the force of elemental shocks,
With silent wonder strike his youthful eye,
Teaching the grandeur of the Deity,
Whose frown omniscient this firm globe can shake,
And nod tremendous make all nature quake;
Whose pow'r alike can harmony controul,
Or in one chaos overwhelm the whole.
Amidst these cliffs the fisher-boy will oft
Descry the screaming sea-gull perch'd aloft;
Then mark the spreading of its pennons white,
And see it rise aloft in lordly flight,
Or sailing smoothly down, its wings emerge
In the white breakers of the beachy surge;
Nor less the keen-ey'd hawk his sight allures,
Who in some cleft its progeny secures;
With dark brown vans distended soars away,
Till poiz'd with quiv'ring wings it marks the prey;
Stays but to rivet fast the reptile's eye,
Then swiftly pouncing, seals its destiny.
Full oft the cawing rooks their plumage show,
With ebon coated, and the harsh ton'd crow;
Its wings slow flapping in the airy height,
Lounging lag lazily a ling'ring weight.
But not alone to feather'd choirs belong
The thankful tribute in my sea-boy's song;
The playful rabbit equally appears
To charm our Ned, with downy dusky ears;
Now flat and now erect, should aught surprise,
Sure proof its safety in its hearing lies;
For swift it burrows; and, when once in cell,
Intrusion and intruders, both farewell!
Yet soft, my Muse, this idle theme forbear,
Which of my hero's labours forms no share,
To work once more, for it is now the lot
Of little Ned, to tend the lobster-pot;
In Cancer he the ocean joyful braves,
Nor thinks of howling blasts, or wint'ry waves:
But, ah! though smooth the deep as spotless glass,
Beware the lure—full oft it comes to pass,
Beneath the smile a coil'd up serpent lies,
First to ensnare with wiles, and then surprize.
Now stow'd in sean-boat, view my Ned sedate,
From offal fish prepare the lobster's bait;
O'er noisome garbage there compell'd to sit,
Divide and subdivide in small each bit.
Towards his pots the fisherman now steers,
And pressing sail, the seine-boat that way veers;
With milky whiteness streaks the glossy plain,
And scarcely ruffles the unruffled main:
Arriv'd at length, he greets the welcome toils,
Prepar'd to draw the wish'd for shelly spoils;
And now with smiles perceives each pot well stor'd,
With crabs and lobsters, an abundant hoard;
Each shell cas'd limb well arm'd with jagged claw,
Would fain the blood from his assailant draw;
But vain the struggle 'gainst superior art,
Thy claws are pigg'd—how keen must prove the smart,
A pointed wedge between each joint to drive,
And thus in anguish keep the fish alive:
For what? Ah! wou'd my fancy could controul
Those thrilling sentiments that touch my soul,
But no: the Muse such thoughts disdains to shield,
A foe to cruelty, the lance she'll wield,
And rather to oblivion would be sent,
Than screen a crime to 'scape the punishment.
Yes, wretched suff'rers, it is doom'd that you,
For coat of jet shall take the coral hue;
Plac'd, while yet living, o'er consuming fire,
You thus in your own element expire.
Ah! did we contemplate before we eat,
What pangs have been experienc'd for our treat,
Oft would the appetite with thought grow dall,
And pity make the empty stomach full.
Let me refrain, to those enough I've said,
Who by congenial sentiments are led:
So to my fisher-lad I'll turn once more,
Casting of bail, in ev'ry pot a store,
As joyfully the ample lot he eyes,
Ensuring to himself a certain prize.
The work then ended, straight they haul the sail,
And make tow'r'd land, urg'd by an ev'ning gale;
But short liv'd prove to them Sol's sinking rays,
Wide o'er th' horizon rolls a dismal haze;
In sullen majesty the clouds are driv'n,
And mantle with fell gloom the cheek of heav'n;
Urg'd by the blast, smooth ocean, late so green,
Distorted frowns, and wears a murky mien;
High surges rising, tow'rd the beach still roam,
And tinge the blackness of the deep with foam.
Now rides the bulky porpoise near the strand,
Now sails the shrill-ton'd sea-gull from the land;
Plunges and dips in surf its downy breast,
And hails, with screams, old Neptune, rage oppress'd;
Still onward stride the clouds of leaden tinge,
While others, copp'rous like, hang on as fringe,
Burthen'd with thunder and that fluid dire,
That tracks the gloom with pale electric fire.
United 'gainst the seine-boat, winds and surge,
The bark on ev'ry side impetuous urge,
The fishermen expert, ne'er daunted, yield,
But try experience 'gainst the dang rous field,
Summon all former practice to their aid,
Regarding tempests as the rubs of trade.
Ned, who had weather'd oft before a gale,
The storm beholds, nor feels his courage fail;
With ardor fir'd, performs his duty true,
The gen'ral safety with his own in view:
Now spout the torrents from each surcharg'd cloud,
Now rage the winds, now bursts the thunder loud;
While livid fires sulphureous, forked trace
Their paly glare, on closing night's black face.
Least too much canvas should the boat capsize,
The sails are reef'd, for fiercer blasts arise,
While billows break incessant o'er the bark,
And nought but lightning dissipates the dark;
Now sounds of night the tenth revolving hour,
To make the shore is still beyond their power,
The storm hard batters, while the boat still rocks,
And feels at ev'ry plank repeated shocks;
Soon from another point the wind loud roars,
The mast is struck, the seamen seize their oars;
The tempest bids defiance to controul,
And threatens instant death to ev'ry soul:
Their sinewy arms the fishermen now strain,
And tug against the mountains of the main;
Conquer the summit of each liquid steep,
To plunge once more midst horrors of the deep;
Up to the middle now the fisher-boy
In water standing, follows his employ;
The briny liquid with a bowl heaves o'er,
And prays, in silence, to regain the shore:
For should he ne'er again arrive at cot,
He thinks, with anguish, on his mother's lot;
Depriv'd of ev'ry power to earn her bread,
Famish'd at length, perhaps, she'd join the dead,
Waft 'neath some frowning cliff her latest sigh,
No friend to hold her head, and see her die;
No son to waft forth all his bosom's love,
And sooth her spirit for its flight above.
Thus inward prays poor Ned, the incense sweet,
Wafted by angels to his Saviour's feet;
Spreads o'er the visage of his God divine,
An heav'nly radiance and a smile benign:
“Haste,” says the son of light, “and tender aid,
“That suppliant spirit's plea must be obey'd;
“From whose pure soul my sacred precept flows,
“Who prays for others, not for private woes.”
So wills the bless'd Redeemer, when for flight,
With wings expanded, soars a child of light;
Glowing with extacy at thought of good,
With whirlwind's speed then darts towards the flood,
With beamy radiance each dire cloud dispels,
And all the atmospheric horror quells;
Calms the rude clangor of the yawning wave,
Preserving that which mortals could not save.

Rous'd by the storm, the hamlet's sons repair,
To mark how those in lobster-boat will fare;
For to his pots Bob Jones had steer'd, they knew,
So felt for him, and for the little crew!
As well they might; since no assistance then
Could yield the ablest, boldest, fishermen;
A storm, so terrible, no summer skies
Had e'er before presented to their eyes:
As thus in dread expectancy they wait,
To mark the sequel of impending fate,
With transports they salute returning peace,
Viewing the horrors of the tempest cease,
And loud huzza, to see the angry main
Restore their friends, who spring to land again.
Once pass'd the threshold of the cottage-door,
Ned paces nimbly o'er the stone-pav'd floor,
Illumes the lamp, impatient of delays,
Anxious to view the author of his days;
With caution then withdraws the curtain'd veil,
Made from the remnant of a tatter'd sail,
And views the impulse of soul-soothing sleep,
His mother's maniac senses sound ensteep:
Thankful to see his parent's feelings calm,
Lull'd by the transient soporific balm,
The curtain drops with blessings on her head,
Then kneeling suppliant down beside his bed,
Offers up thanks, and on his rug is bless'd,
With one unvarying night of sweetest rest.

Propitious now the summer solstice glows,
To shrimp with little net our Ned oft goes;
While sultry Leo plenteously supplies,
With savo'ry prawns, that yield a precious prize:
'Tis now with anxious gaze the moon he'll view,
Note well the full, and equally the new;
Then at low-water-mark that spot he'll reach,
Where sand abounds, and rocks bestrew the beach.

His net to hoop attach'd, and fixt to pole,
He nimbly glides into each rocky hole,
With care proceeds the limpid pools to try,
Where shelly prawns transparent meet the eye;
Arrests their darting progress with his drag,
Draws forth the spoils, then pops them in his bag;
And while thus busied, he will sometimes pause,
To mark the green crab sidling on its claws;
Will oft preserve in pouch some fine-vein'd shell,
Or pluck the varied weed from rocky cell;
Nor does that living wonder 'scape his eye,
The little snaky living æmone,
Whose fungus body to the rock adheres,
While, like Medusa's locks, its back appears,
Fring'd with all colours to th' admiring view,
In beauty equal to the rainbow's hue.
In myriads, clinging to the stones are seen,
Muscles and cockles, ting'd with black and green,
And perriwinkles; frills with cockle shell,
Whose flesh of pinkish hue in sauce eats well;
These, with unnumber'd reptiles of the main,
The tide retiring, leaves on sandy plain;
Fit food for contemplation of the sage,
Whose study is prolific nature's page.

Return'd from prawning, Neddy, without fail,
Finds for his horny lot immediate sale,
Which being boil'd, the long claw'd produce straight
Is turn'd to scarlet hue, though green so late;
Making, what living was as amber clear,
A substance firm, and quite opaque appear.

In sain-boat station'd, distant from the land,
Now takes the owner of each net his stand,
For hours awaits, till on the greeny wave
He views afar the scole of mackrel lave,
With bright effulgence wide the surface stain,
And cloth with silv'ry hue the rippling plain.

With promptitude the net is thrown to sea,
While those on shore awaiting anxiously;
The signal viewing, feel returning hope,
Spring to the shingle, and straight grasp the rope;
Then hauling hours, at length with cheers they greet
Ten thousand mackrel, labour's produce sweet,
Which glare at once on the enchanted sight,
Blue, green, and roseat, mingling with pure white.

Full oft the seine with varied colours glows,
Its coat of pink the high-back'd piper shows;
The flat and dark brown plaise, with soals esteem'd,
The brill, with turbot, best of fishes deem'd;
Red freckled gurnet, and the paly blin,
Mullets and thornbacks too, with prickly skin;
Nor should unheeded pass the fam'd John Dory,
By Quin renown'd in Epicurean story,
Whose side of dusky hue, with mark is fraught,
Th' impression of St. Peter's thumb, 'tis thought.
This fish, while struggling, with camelion vies,
By changing oft its colour, as it dies.
Oft in the net is found the jellied squib,
Of varied tinctures, and to pressure glib;
The milky substance of the gluey bull,
Whose roundish form's with pois'nous matter full.
The emmer, pollick, salmon, salmon-peel,
Dabs, flounders, whitings, and the slipp'ry eel:
Such is the varied produce summer shows,
Which from his toil the fisherman oft throws,
Bringing new comforts to the lab'ring boy,
Whose days of toiling bring on nights of joy;
Whose trust is heav'n, and whose unceasing care
Is to make her he loves his comforts share:
Who, void of art himself, is truly blest,
Does all he can, and leaves to God the rest.

Veil'd in the purple streakings of the dawn,
Old Time steals softly to the sleeping morn,
Who from the dappled pillow rears her head,
And rises, blushing to be caught in bed.
Now cooler breezes fan the close shorn ground,
And mirthful strains of harvest-home resound.
While sol, more partial grown with length'ning shades,
Darkens the hills and 'luminates the glades,
The winds more chilling play o'er ocean's surge,
And curling breakers more impetuous urge,
To wash the shingle, which, with constant roar
Rumbles unsteady thunder to the shore.
Still brightly glows the vaulted concave high,
Reflecting on the waves its azure dye,
While gold and purple morn, and evening grace,
To tinge with hues alternate ocean's face;
With Virgo changing from their lust'rous green,
The leafy clothings of the woods are seen,
Gilded by sol, their dark brown tinges glow,
And all the honours of ripe autumn show.
Now hies our Ned, with bag and long hook'd stick,
To hedges, wood, and coppice, nuts to pick,
Showing their shells, quite bronz'd and hard with heat,
Which yield, when crack'd, a firm and savoury meat;
These sold in pecks, an eighteenpence produce,
For little Neddy's and his mother's use.

And now the seine's still haul'd thro' liquid fields,
When sea's autumnal summer's store still yields;
For fishermen thus piling up the hoard,
Destin'd to clothe with food the wint'ry board;
And though fell venom hath less room to sport,
In lowly hamlet than the splendid court,
Black rancor sometimes will gangrene the breast,
And by its influence rob the mind of rest.
Spread o'er the beach, and canopied by sky,
Nightly the dripping seine is left to dry,
When, though but seldom, it has still been known,
Dark rankling hatred, having love o'erthrown,
In gloom obscur'd, some soul by fiends beset,
Hath stol'n with knife, and cut his neighbour's net;
In vain next morn is tender'd a reward,
None know the villain, though, with one accord,
The act nefarious is at once contemn'd,
And the insidious wretch by all condemn'd.
Nor should be left untold the just disdain
Of Ned, employ'd to mend the owner's seine,
Whose swelling bosom with no rancour fraught,
Demands how man can nurture such a thought;
Who boasts a spirit with its God allied,
A soul created to be deified.

But soft, from acts like these my sick'ning muse
With blushes turns—still anxious to infuse
The theme of honest labour, which imparts
Pure honour's stainless badge to lowly hearts.

In myriads now are caught, of heav'nly blue,
The boney pilchard, rob'd in silver too,
One haul producing oft upon the shore,
Full sixteen thousand fish, and sometimes more,
For frying fam'd, while some in pickle stow'd,
Preserve till winter, in their hoop'd abode.

Now oft, prognostic of approaching gales,
The dark and flound'ring porpoise inland sails,
O'er ocean's breakers rears its curvy back,
Studding the green and white with nobs of black;
In net this fish unsightly oft is found,
With snout of hog, and swell'd up carcase round,
And lengthen'd tail, of dusky greyish hue,
Form'd like an anchor to the transient view.
And though this fish no store of wealth brings in,
For use the fisherman preserves its skin,
Leaving the carcase to the ebbing wave,
Which forthwith wafts it to a wat'ry grave:
The length'ning nights yield Ned a fresh employ,
To form a ship, now works the fisher-boy;
The hull first carves, from oaken block so stout,
Then scoops with care the rough-hewn model out;
With caution labours, and oft whets the steel,
The bows to form, and sharp projecting keel;
Next he essays the sounding deck to frame,
And from soft deal with ease effects the same;
The red-hot pin thro' each side nine times runs,
His grand attempt, a sloop of eighteen guns.
Through deck and bottom then the holes he drills,
Which next he with the main and foremast fills;
Constructs the rigging, ladders, blocks, and sails,
Pliant to meet, or full, or reef'd the gales:
The bottom pitches, and with paint supplied,
With varied gaudy stripes adorns each side;
To keel the steadying lead affixes straight,
That more majestic it may sail with weight.
In limpid flood his work he sets afloat,
To try the equipoize of his new boat;
With pleasure views it plough the chrystal stream,
And safely dance in flood reflected beam,
The work of pastime, profit soon supplies,
His sloop he ventures, and it proves a prize.
To sons of opulence the toy is shown,
Each youth desires the plaything for his own,
Which purchas'd, yields to Ned's enraptur'd sight,
Two weighty golden guineas, shining bright,
Which, with a pound in store, he puts to trade,
And buys a long-ear'd donkey, well array'd
With saddle, bridle, and good panniers twain,
Prepar'd the finny burthen to sustain.
With small beginnings Ned repairs around,
Though small his profits, yet his store is found
Encreasing daily; for where he attends,
On all sides he procures himself new friends.
One to his charge a letter will entrust,
Whose safe deliv'ry proves the stripling just.
A parcel for another is convey'd,
When equal caution is by him display'd:
From valet of some 'squire, for all his care,
Ned gets a coat, but little worse for wear.
From cook the refuse of the pantry earns,
In short, has presents from them all in turns;
For there's no soul that knows him, young or old,
But to his care would yield up untold gold.
Yet of his chief support this forms no share,
In vending fish consists his ruling care;
Since thence a certain profit he obtains,
The winter's comforts from autumnal gains.
Nor must the muse now let unheeded pass,
Our stripling's conduct to his patient ass:
For Ned's not gifted with an heart of steel,
But knows full well the beast like him can feel;
And with such marks of care the ass doth tend,
As speaks it not a donkey, but a friend.

No cruel stripes e'er wail the creature's skin,
For he well knows that gentleness will win;
So rather pats, than urges on by blows,
And thus from kindness all its labour flows.

Ah! wretched lank-ear'd race, how oft have I
Tow'rd thee been witness of man's cruelty,
How oft beheld thy gall'd and laden back,
Bend 'neath the burthen of the o'ercharg'd pack,
While adding to the load—upon thy rump
Thy lord hath ridden, who, with ceaseless thump,
In cruelty each godlike sense forgot,
Hath urg'd thee, sinking, to encrease thy trot;
And, deaf to all thy groans, with oaths been led
To strike with vehemence o'er eyes and head;
And when at length, upon the flinty road,
Extended lay thy carcase and thy load,
How have I seen the brutal wretch, with stick,
Hail blow on blow; while oft a vicious kick
Hath been applied to thy most feeling part,
And with the thorn of anguish pierc'd thine heart.
Then, with clos'd eyes, I've seen thy swelling breast
Moan forth in suff'ring for the day of rest,
When freed from labour, and return'd to earth,
Nature should nurse thee, who first gave thee birth,
In peace oblivious all thy pangs ensteep,
And lull thee in the arms of lasting sleep.

Libra at length the season ushers in,
When hardy smugglers all their toils begin,
In open seine-boat dare the ocean's wiles,
And steer at once towards those well known isles,
Jersey and Guernsey, whence the crews export
Gin, rum, and brandy, with the vin de port.
But oft, in war time, there they feel distress,
A sloop is station'd for an hot impress;
Sweeps off the little crews, and wafts them far,
On board some king's ship destin'd for the war.
In vain expectancy their kindred wait,
Months oft elapse; no tidings of their fate
Arrive to comfort the deploring wife,
Whose husband's toils procur'd the means of life;
Till those escap'd from bullets of the foe,
With peace return to tell the tale of woe:
How Jack by chain-shot fell—or, with a ball,
Dick on the main-deck got a deadly fall;
How Sam, by splinters shiver'd, met his death,
Bless'd children, wife, and friends, with ebbing breath.
Such are the simple stories, which explain
Sad truths, inflicting on their kindred pain;
And such too often proves the fate of those,
Who in the smuggling trade their lives expose.
Yet, for the present let my muse be mute,
Far better will the theme with winter suit,
When, in its fullest extent, I'll rehearse
Its various chances, breath'd in simple verse;
With truth its profits and its perils show,
The first with pleasure fraught—the last with woe.
Tow'rd land now oft October's chilly gales
Full wide expands the culm brig's dusky sails,
When boats incessant rowing from the shore,
Bear from the vessels hold the ebon store.
Then up the hilly shingle horses toil,
To drag the carts, high pil'd with sooty spoil;
With sinews quite distended, reeking climb,
And bear to yards, what's brought for burning lime.

At winter's near approach, the finny stores
Visit more sparingly the western shores,
The seine's but seldom cast, and then the spoil,
Full oft, does not repay the owner's toil.
'Tis now, with courage near to madness rais'd,
Ned views the picking samphire—“dreadful trade!”
Shudders, as from the frowning craggy height,
He marks th' advent'rer pendant, risk his weight,
By rope made fast, and round his middle slung,
From dreadful eminence the gath'rer's hung,
Whose eyes above etherial regions greet,
Three hundred yards of vacuum 'neath his feet;
Yawning grim death should evil fate betide,
And hurl the picker thro' the expanse wide;
In vain each feather'd tribe, with downy crest,
Hath deep in aperture secur'd its nest;
In vain, relying on its pow'rs of flight,
Hath built a dwelling far from human sight;
Presumptuous man, still eager to explore
New scenes of wonder, quits the firm set shore,
Each tenant of the rocky region scares,
While for a weed futurity he dares:
For trifling stipend ventures life and hope,
His sole reliance on a simple rope;
Which worn by friction 'gainst some sharp edg'd steep,
Might headlong hurl him thro' the airy deep,
Smash all consistency, and piece-meal strew
His fragile frame, dread spectacle to view.
How strange that some will sole reliance place,
On that which seals another's foul disgrace;
Since by a cord each culprit meets his end,
Which proves the samphire-picker's only friend,
Gives him new life who freely ventur'd death,
And stops his course who only covets breath.
Tow'rd night, returning from such sights as these,
While pensive gazing on the dark'ning seas,
Ned views a bright effulgence light the skies,
Aurora borealis meets his eyes;
The shooting lights thro' heav'n's high concave spread,
From paly hue assume the dye of red,
Grows darker as it wantons o'er the flood,
And ends in colour of transparent blood.
With mingled sentiment the scene he views,
Delight and awe by turns their pow'rs infuse;
Pleas'd, he beholds what's novel to his eye,
Thinks fearfully on him who rules the sky;
And with such sentiments his soul oppress'd,
Hies home, and with his parent's presence bless'd;
Stretch'd on the rug, corporeal labours cease,
And should he dream, his visions are of peace.
The fisherman in Libra still will stay,
To watch for hours the full-grown salmon play;
Throws out the seine, and, with an anxious wish,
Strives to ensure a plenteous haul of fish.
Ned, always steady, to his post proves true,
Receives his share, and buys a portion too:
Then on his donkey bears the glitt'ring stock,
In portions sells it, parted on the block;
With profit satisfied, to toil returns,
And spends with credit what his labour earns.

Now Scorpio in his turn holds scepter'd sway,
And shrouds with hazy mists the dawn of day,
From shore the tenants of the deep affrights,
Ushers in changeful days and murky nights.
Now muggy heat, now frost, now rain will fly,
Damp, cold, and wet, the constitution try.
And sometimes, as at cottage door Ned stays,
To watch the setting of sol's parting rays,
Far in th' horizon, flush'd with Tyrian glow,
Sails round a point, majestically slow;
With canvass crowded; leading on the train,
An English war-ship, lord of ocean's plain.
Now onward moves a second—then ensue
Two more, which near abreast break on the view:
Augmenting still, the fisher-boy counts nine,
Unconquer'd king's ships of the British line.
In slow succession, then in turns appear,
Eleven oak built turrets in their rear,
Of Albion's bulwarks thus sail on a score,
To fence from enemies our sea-girt shore.
Another to another still succeeds,
Each chronicled alike for thund'ring deeds,
Till in the offing of the buoyant green,
Proud rocking, six and thirty sail are seen;
The grandest, noblest, object that can greet
A Briton's sight—a conqu'ring British fleet:
First prais'd be th' illustrious arms of old,
Which prov'd that England's sea-born race was bold,
Who flourish'd in the days of glorious Bess,
And struck at once to conquer and to bless.
Still after ages, striving to outshine,
In turns the verdant coronet entwine,
Heroes on heroes rose, and glorious now,
To living Britons, sounds the name of Howe,
Who swept the fleets of Gallia from the sea,
And, with her children's blood, wrote victory.
Nor less to Spain does Vincent's name strike dread,
Who, with an equal thirst of glory led,
In harsh ton'd thunder, and in circling fire,
Curb'd those who dar'd to Albion's wreath aspire;
Hail, vet'ran Duncan, Britain owes thee much,
For 'twas thine iron arm disgrac'd the Dutch;
Drove them indignant from the briny deep,
And aw'd by conquest all their pow'r to sleep.
Last, like a blazing comet, Nelson rose,
Who, living, prov'd the fire-brand of our foes;
Who never aim'd the blow, or struck in vain,
By turns subduing France and haughty Spain;
Alike Britannia's safe-guard, and her pride,
By vict'ry nurs'd, and who in conquest died;
Hero, farewell, the muse thy feats reveres,
Droops o'er thine urn, bedew'd with Briton's tears,
In melancholy rapture still is led
To contemplate thy glories with the dead;
And on the page of everlasting fame,
Perpetuate thy valour, deeds, and fame.
Such was the envied prospect of our Ned,
Whose glowing soul, by warmest fancy fed,
Would prompt him to adore his native earth,
And own, with honest pride, his British birth.
Indignant, oft he contemplates the blow,
Aim'd by a vengeful and invading foe:
Prays for the time, when met just half-seas o'er,
Our tars shall ring their knell with cannon's roar,
Hurl them disdainful from Britannia's sight,
And drown presumption in the floods of night.

Blow, Boreas, blow, thy chilly pow'rs entail
On earth, now sterile, rain, frost, snow, and hail,
O'er ocean's expanse mists unceasing fleet,
And drench the shore with cold and mizzly sleet;
Or, if a transitory warmth bears sway,
Dark o'ercharg'd clouds soon scarf sol's sickly ray;
In sweeping floods the drenching torrents pour,
With swamps inundating the cheerless shore;
Now nightly keener blows the cutting breeze,
And of its latest clothing robs the trees,
Powders the soil, and makes it to the view
Brilliant appear, in robe of Parian hue:
While stars still brighter seem to lace the doom,
And glitter diamonds thro' the ebon gloom;
And when less nipping blows the frosty wind,
In sombre girdle is the earth confin'd,
Which loosen'd, sends the frozen drops below,
In feather'd whiteness of the flaky snow.
Thus Sagitarius brings in frost and wet,
With him no longer boasts the beach its net;
The haul of fishermen is seen no more,
Each twiny toil now farther borne in shore,
For barking's carried, and in the tan-pit's laid,
To strengthen seine 'gainst spring time's fishing trade,
For smuggling, larger boats o'er ocean rock,
To stem of winds and waves the wint'ry shock;
Impell'd by northern blasts, that whistle loud,
Brave surges mounting to the pendant cloud,
And long enur'd, the smugglers never dread,
But with expansive sails to Boreas spread;
Meet ev'ry veering of the angry gales,
All canvass press'd—fore, main, and mizen sails.
And as on shore, with spy-glass doth await,
Some watchful partner in th' expected freight,
Far in the offing he with fear espies,
The hated brig, far hov'ring for a prize;
While lynx-ey'd officers of custom's watch,
The cargoes of the smuggling boats to catch;
Or, station'd on the impress service, he
Oft views the sloop to nab good tars for sea.
'Tis then he hopes his smuggling friends may land,
And waits till midnight on the shingly strand;
Hails with delight the hour that greets his view
With vessel, messmates, and rich freightage too;
Laughs o'er the grog as he explains the fear,
Experienc'd when he saw each vessel near;
Whilst in return his partners, as they booze,
Recount each hazard of the little cruize;
With brimful can, and sly facetious wink,
They give the toast—“Success to smuggling drink.”
And as their consciences feel no alarm,
They swear they've done the revenue no harm;
Booze till quite groggy grown, they nodding stand,
And shake each other warmly by the hand;
Then reeling, to their sev'ral cots repair,
And in the arms of rest drown joy and care:
For, wrapt at once in sound unvarying sleep,
Forgot are all the perils of the deep;
Pain, pleasure, profit, e'en respiring breath,
By Somnus overcome in living death.
Yet hold, for here my muse should not forget,
To paint the throwing of the trolling net;
Which, far at sea, on sandy bottom cast,
Is never by unfriendly rock held fast.
There Ned, unmindful of the ruffled sea,
Toils as industrious as the honey'd bee;
With smiles obeys the troll-boat owner's will,
And strives to emulate more practis'd skill.
'Tis now the very produce, most despis'd
In Spring and Summer—is in Winter priz'd—
With pleasure now the fisher-boy will take,
His quantum of the ugly dark hued hake;
Nor less delight his anxious bosom feels,
To view the lead-complexion'd conger eels,
In span so bulky, in dimension long,
To touch quite slimy, and in motion strong.
These mostly constitute the troller's gain,
Who bless'd with them, ne'er thinks he toils in vain;
Willing endures winds, wet, frost, hail, and snow,
With all the perils of the depths below.

Now to resume the theme I left so late,
Must prove my care—to paint the smuggler's fate,
My simple reed I tune—which bold employ
Ends all the labours of my fisher-boy.
Nor thou, drear Capricorn, in dread array,
Canst turn the smuggler from his toils away;
Nor can Aquarius, with his gloom o'erspread,
Infuse in fishermen the taint of dread;
From whom the tempests rage no fears can draw,
Who press-gangs spurn, and officers of law,
Risk life and wealth, a profit to ensure,
Which yields in age a competence secure.
Hail, then, ye harbingers of tempests dire,
And let your influence now my lays inspire;
Though last in song, oh! lend my fancy wing,
The horrors of your gloomy realms to sing;
When air, fire, water, ceaseless conflicts raise,
And elemental chaos frights the gaze;
When all in battled fury onward roll,
And shake the firm set earth from pole to pole;
Showing to mortal eyes fate's darkest womb,
And faintly picturing the day of doom.
Such scenes to draw, must now employ my lays,
Truth let me speak, although I cannot praise;
For wint'ry storms no other charms can bring,
Than as rough heralds of th' approaching spring.

'Twas to such bleak and inauspicious gales,
The Halsewell erst unfurl'd her ample sails,
When darkness shaded o'er the grave profound,
And echo'd loud discordant thunders round,
When winds and surges, each in fell array,
Alternate battled for tempestuous sway;
Then furious dash'd on Portland's craggy steep,
The sport of Boreas, and the rocking deep;
Successive blows the vessel's sides attack'd,
She yaw'd, while parting ev'ry timber crack'd,
Gave to the elemental conflict fierce,
Her seamen, and commander, hapless Pierce;
Around whose form, in agony then clung,
The fair, whose fate his manly bosom wrung;
Till, with convulsive shock, they met one doom,
In floods: their grave, their epitaph, and tomb.

Here cease the sad recital—for my verse
Returns, the smuggling business to rehearse;
From truth's pure page the muse each feat shall quote,
And ev'ry act with nice precision note.
First mann'd with spreading sails the boat now view,
From western beach its buoyant track pursue;
Behold it as the shades of night draw near,
A fading speck upon the sight appear;
Though boist'rous still—the gale propitious blows—
And urges on the bark with darting throes;
In safety wafts it to the isle amain,
Whose traffic constitutes the smuggler's gain.
The boat there anchor'd lays, till safe stow'd in,
They view the kegs of brandy, rum, and gin;
Or, sometimes station'd by the veering wind,
For days they wait, till Boreas proves more kind;
Then once more steer towards their native shore,
To earn the profits of their mad'ning store;
Since spirits prove too oft the mental bane
For Reason, planting frenzy in the brain.

Now mark, with wind quite fair the sails they set,
With spray from shingle-broken surges wet;
Far from the isle ere long the main they plough,
And dip in foam the sharp and convex bow;
When, ah! what dread their fondest hopes disarm,
To view their foe, the well known brig—Alarm.
In vain she makes the signal to heave too;
They press all sail—the enemies pursue—
This for the flight prepares, and that for chace;
Each ploughs with eagerness the greeny space.
The one its freight from seizure to secure,
T' other th' illegal cargo to ensure.
And now upon the bark the war-brig gains,
Spite of th' smuggler's pray'rs, and ceaseless pains;
Fruitless th' attempt, though canvas still they press,
Th' approaching vessel heightens their distress;
Till desp'rate grown, with bitter oaths they swear,
The chacers never shall their cargo share;
For, rather than with spirits wash their junk,
They'll heave it o'er, to make old Davy drunk.
No sooner said, than each enacts his part,
In passion drowns the achings of the heart;
Plunges each flaggon 'midst old ocean's flow,
Which sunk, is lost in briny realms below.
At other times behold the smuggler's fleet
Outsail the brig, and thus the foe defeat;
Then gaining on the shore, by friends espy'd,
Who in the distance long the bark desery'd;
They with the rockets made, in case of need,
Ascend the rugged steep with trembling speed;
Whilst as the bark still makes towards the land,
'Gainst weather harden'd, Ned oft takes his stand;
With folded arms by night, looks sharp about,
His cry should danger threaten—“Ho—look out.”
No sooner heard the sound: in fiery flight
The rocket blazes, 'midst the realms of night;
Sure beacon for the crew, who long expert,
Thence learn some officer's on the alert;
Who, did they land the store, would seize the prize,
Condemn'd as forfeit to the strict excise:
From hungry officers, in wat'ry grave
The reef of kegs they then prepare to save;
Each flaggon to its fellow's soon made fast,
Thus lash'd, with dawn's returning, to be cast
Amidst the deep; while, for a mark in store,
They note some objects on the distant shore;
And thus commit their treasure to the main,
Until with creepers they return again;
Which hook the cordage of each reef when thrown,
And hauled up, give the smuggler back his own.
But should the angry surges, clad with white,
Buffet the little crew, their cots in sight,
The fisher-boy still anxious views the deep,
Unmindful of fatigue and want of sleep;
For though his watchful task is quite fulfill'd,
His honest breast, by nobler duties thrill'd,
No longer feeling for the smuggler's pelf,
He trembles only for the man himself;
Who, with his friends, by yawning dangers prest,
Ne'er hopes again to be with comforts bless'd;
But, as the distant hamlet meets his eye,
He silent speaks his anguish with a sigh;
Labours each dreadful peril to subdue,
That rises in succession to his view;
Till horror struck, the fears of death find scope,
And end at once the last faint ray of hope.
Now, clad in murky gloom, morn breaks apace,
When Ned more plainly views old ocean's face,
By winds distorted into mountains high,
A wat'ry Erebus, oppos'd to sky.
Loose play his dank locks in the nipping gale,
Drifting cold sleet comingled with sharp hail;
His jacket, chequer'd shirt, and trowsers blue,
Expos'd thro' night's fell storms, are soak'd quite thro';
Yet he, with folded arms and thought oppress'd,
Hugs the drench'd vestments closer to his breast,
While from his eager eyes, o'er billows cast,
Trickle the chrystal gems of pity fast.
Meantime, expectant on the shingle wait,
The hamlet's sons, to watch each messmate's fate;
Silent they stand, dejection clouds each brow,
While from their bosoms steal the mental vow.
Yet pray'rs are futile, for 'tis heav'n's decree,
The tempest's rage shall still deform the sea.
Exhausted now, each smuggler quits his oar,
And strives against impending fate no more;
With ghastly terror pictur'd in his eyes,
Looks upwards, and on God alone relies;
By furious billows dash'd, the boat makes way,
Gains the fell rocks, immers'd in clouds of spray;
By surges toss'd, the breakers now assail
Its oaken flanks, and loosen ev'ry nail;
Till with one crash the fabric piece-meal flies,
A scatter'd wreck before our sea-boy's eyes.
Ned o'er the shingle darts on wings of speed,
To lend assistance in this pressing need;
While in his rear, with tackle seamen haste,
To snatch their comrades from the wat'ry waste.
Now climbs our fisher-lad the rocky steep,
And gains its height to view with dread the deep;
Where planks, with sails, and shatter'd cordage float,
Dismantled remnants of the smuggler's boat.
Now strive the bark-wreck'd fishermen to save
Their threaten'd lives, from ocean's liquid grave;
With eagerness extend each pliant limb,
And combat death as they expertly swim.
Ned, from the rocky summit marks their toil,
'Tis now they ride o'er floods, and now recoil;
With beck'ning hand, and voice then sounding loud,
He onward hails the fast approaching crowd;
Points out the spot, where battling with the main,
Their brethren strive to make the land again;
An uprais'd oar Ned seizes next expert,
Then doffs his jacket, and his checker'd shirt,
Splices the same incontinent thereto,
A floating signal to the struggling crew.
In vain, the winds and wet his body beat,
He feels no numbness, arm'd with inward heat;
That god-like emanation—genial glow—
With mercy fraught to feel for other's woe.
Each fainting mariner, with dim fix'd eyes,
The signal from amidst the surge descries;
Flush'd with new hopes, his strokes redoubles straight,
Determin'd dearly to dispute his fate.
The friendly cord, with floating corks supplied,
Buoyant o'er billows gracefully doth ride;
While those still hold the rope, who line the strand,
To haul some grappling seamen to the land.
And now the fisher-boy beholds one soul
In safety clinging to the swimming goal;
A second follows, when, with eager call,
He sounds the welcome words—“They're too; haul, haul!”
Six thus preserv'd, half dead, are brought on shore,
But, ah! sad fate, there still remains one more,
Who, with the ninth day's turn of tranquil tide,
Floats lifeless on the liquid expanse wide;
Stiff, sodden, swell'd, and horrible to view,
His face devour'd—his corse of ashy hue:
Ned, who each coming day had ne'er forgot
Of this unfortunate, the hapless lot,
While watchful gazing on the wat'ry plains,
Beholds at length his alter'd sad remains,
Spread the alarm; a boat puts off—when Ned,
One of the crew, assists to haul the dead;
Shudders as o'er the spectacle he sighs,
While gems of chrystal brightness glaze his eyes.

To church next Sabbath-day our urchin goes,
To share in all the widow's heart-felt woes;
Close by the mourner pensive takes his place,
No cambric to enshroud his piteous face;
A woollen cap uprais'd his front conceals,
While purest sympathy his heart reveals.
And as the village pastor reads aloud
The solemn service to the list'ning crowd,
The theme impressive, thrills my little lad,
With feelings awefully sublime and sad.
The rites then ended, slowly are convey'd
The cold remains, in churchyard to be laid;
Where the sad final words attend the just,
Giving to ashes, ashes—dust to dust.
And now return'd to cot, the fisher-boy
Thinks on the smuggler's dangerous employ;
Assail'd by storms, and press-gangs to surprize,
War brigs, and officers of the excise,
Perils, that in succession ceaseless throw,
O'er hopes of profit, all the fears of woe.
Such are the thoughts of Ned, who charm'd my muse,
And simple facts thus taught her to infuse;
Whose pride is honesty—whose hard-earn'd gains
Are bless'd in soothing a sad parent's pains;
Who lives to learn that life is but a span,
That God requites just deeds 'twixt man and man;
In which conviction he is doubly bless'd,
His conduct here ensuring future rest:
As friend of all, he harbours no foul hate—
Content—he envies not a monarch's fate.
And well assur'd a parent claims his love,
He feels a secret impulse from above;
A ray that animates his earthly clod,
With hopes of everlasting peace with God.