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Young Casabianca, a boy about thirteen years old, son of the admiral of the Orient, remained at his post (in the battle of the Nile) after the ship had taken fire, and all the guns had been abandoned; and perished in the explosion of the vessel, when the flames reached the powder magazine.
The boy stood on the burning deck,
The flame that lit the battle's wreck:
Yet beautiful and bright he stood,
As born to rule the storm; A creature of heroic blood,
A proud, though child-like form.
The flames rolled on-he would not go,
That father, faint in death below,
He called aloud:-" Say, Father, say
He knew not that the chieftain lay
"Speak, Father!" once again he cried, If I may yet be gone!
And "--but the booming shots replied,
Upon his brow he felt their breath,
And looked from that lone post of death
And shouted but once more aloud,
'My Father! must I stay ?"
While o'er him fast, through sail and shroud,
They wrapt the ship in splendor wild,
There came a burst of thunder sound-
With fragments strewed the sea—
With mast, and helm, and pennon fair,
EPISTLE TO JOSEPH HILL, ESQ.-Cowper.
Dear Joseph-five and twenty years ago—
And, were I called to prove the assertion true,
Horatio's servant once, with bow and cringe,
Lest he should trespass, begged to go abroad.
I knew the man, and knew his nature mild,
And was his plaything, often, when a child;
His grief might prompt him with the speech he made:
But, not to moralize too much, and strain,
(I hate all arguments verbosely spun,)
One story more, dear Hill, and I have done.
O happy Britain, we have not to fear
Would run most dreadful risks of catching cold;
A fellow, in a market-town,
Most musical, cried razors up and down,
A country bumpkin the great offer heard;
Poor Hodge,-who suffered by a broad black beard, That seemed a shoe-brush stuck beneath his nose. With cheerfulness the eighteen-pence he paid, And, proudly, to himself, in whispers said• The rascal stole the razors, I suppose.
'No matter if the fellow be a knave, Provided that the razors shave;
It certainly will be a monstrous prize.'
So home the clown, with his good fortune, went,— Smiling,-in heart and soul content,
And quickly soaped himself to ears and eyes.
Being well lathered, from a dish or tub, Hodge now began, with grinning pain, to grub― Just like a hedger cutting furze :
'Twas a vile razor !—then the rest he try'd;All were impostors. Ah!' Hodge sighed, I wish my eighteen pence was in my purse.'
In vain, to chase his beard, and bring the graces, He cut, and dug, and whined, and stamped, and
Brought blood, and danced, blasphemed and made wry faces,
And cursed each razor's body, o'er and o'er.
Hodge, in a passion, stretched his angry jaws, Vowing the direst vengeance, with clenched claws, On the vile CHEAT that sold the goods.
'Razors! a vile, confounded dog !—