a space of about 30 miles, 120 dead bodies were cast ashore; and 80 sail of fishing, with 70 other boats were lost. Out of 150 ships, that were blown out of the roads, 33 were totally lost, with nearly half their

crews.

Nor was the destruction, occasioned by this violent storm, confined to the sea alone, although the effects of its fury were there displayed in all the excess of horror. Trees, buildings, windmills, &c. were blown down; and upwards of 400 sheep were drowned by the sea having forced the banks of the marshes.

THOU merciless wind, how many like myself,
Safe shelter'd from the ills thou know'st to give,
Were idly listening to thy hollow roar,
Calling it music; while, as we did sit
Thus thinking, thou wert raving on our coast,
With man, great Nature's master-piece on earth,
Making wild havock: there, with all their crews,
Thou torest the stranded vessels from their beds,
And, like a giant, whirling them on rocks,
Heard'st not the seamen's cries, by thy mad sport
In miserable ruin lost; ev'n now

Hourly thou drivest the floating carcases

On Yarmouth's shore, and with a dreadful voice
Summon'st her pale inhabitants from home
To come and claim their dead: methinks I see
The trembling wretches, by the moon's faint light,
At intervals obscured, with fearful search
Enquiring for their own: the hoary sire

Stoops to receive the filial corse, flung up
By tossing waves; yet think not that his heart
Upbraids the warring elements, or doubts

The Power that could have quell'd the mutinous seas:
His faith is anchor'd on a rock, which storms
And tempests cannot shake; while in his breast

Hope o'er the strong conflicting passions sits,
And, like an angel on the jarring winds,

Bids all their tumults cease: but 'tis not so
With thee, fair maid, who o'er a lover pour'st
Thy lamentable shrieks: thou canst not bear
The grief that wrings thy soul; I see thee gaze
In wildest horror, hear thee thus complain :
“Yes, thou didst promise thou wouldst soon return ;
And is it thus thou keep'st thy word? ye floods,
When ye did stifle-in that breath, more dear
To me than all the wealth you ever bore,
Could ye not see? not feel? not hear the groan
That struggled on his lips? then take me too,
Remorseless deep! and thou, sweet Cherub, see,
I fly to meet thee at thy quick return,

To kiss those lips, and in thine arms to find
All that I now can wish!"-Rash maid, forbear!
And know that Time shall mitigate the

pang

That rends thy bosom; think that life is still
His gift, whose giving makes it worth thy choice
Still to accept; nor madly deem thy love

A thing too sacred to resign to heaven.
But ye, who wander o'er the vast abyss,

Blown by some adverse wind from friends, who seek
That which alone remains, tho' no kind tear
Be shed upon your graves, and no rude mark
Tell the fond mourner where your relics lie,
Ye shall not pass unnotic'd from the world;
The Muse herself shall consecrate your death,
And write upon the floods, where now ye rest,
Her deep inscription: "Know, whoe'er enquir'st
What spot now holds our unprotected bones,
After life's toilsome voyage we repose
Within the boundaries of this noble tomb,"

THE MELFORD DISASTER,

A NEW BALLAD.

To the Tune of "Tom of Bedlam."

1794.

The circumstances, which gave occasion to this Ballad, are as follow: Three young Ladies of Melford agreed to bathe in a river, about half a mile distant from the town, there being no private accommodation for that purpose in the neighbourhood. An early hour, at which they would be the least liable to be discovered by strangers, was determined on; and at four o'clock in the morning they proceeded to the appointed place. But as they walked through the town, they were unfortu nately espied by a blacksmith. Curiosity prompted him to find out whither the fair-ones were hastening; but he did not discover himself to them till they were in the river, the perfect images of their primitive mother Eve; when perceiving him approach, they screamed out, and prudently sat down in the water. The modern Vulcan, dead to the distresses of these Venuses, determined to divert his uncouth fancy by carrying off their clothes, with which he did not return. In this pitiable situation they were obliged to remain for nearly an hour, when a poor woman passing that way, on hearing the rude behaviour which they had experienced, and their consequent embarrassment, procured them such necessary articles of apparel, as enabled them to return home with decency.

ALL in the land of Suffolk,
At Melford the unwary,

On the side of a bank

Was play'd such a prank,
By a Devil yclept Vagary.

To look about thee, Bury,
(Thy ladies are so charming)
I'd have thee begin,

For, the Father of Sin
Gets a taste that's quite alarming.

On Melford's reputation

For scandal we did take it,

When 'twas talk'd with disdain,

Among the profane,

That the ladies there go naked.

"Twas early in the morning,

Just as the sun was peeping,
Three daughters of Eve
Got up, without leave,

To a farmer's pond to creep in.

Nor, look ye, were they Naiads,
Nor, mind ye, were they Graces:
For, the women of old,
By Ovid we're told,
Wash'd nothing but their faces.

Long time in nature's buff-suits,
Not much oppress'd with blushes,
Now in and now out,
They paddled about,

Like ducks among the rushes.

Nor did ye dream, ye Fair-ones,

When taking such a frolic,

That the sweet West wind,

Tho' it blew so kind,

Could give a maid the cholic.

While thus, in sportive humour, They flounc'd about-God bless 'em! That villain old Nick

Was playing a trick,

On purpose to distress 'em.

Three things as soft as pillows,
With stays and caps together,
This cunning old wag
Put into his bag,

And flew away like a feather.

Cloaks, petticoats, and 'kerchiefs,

On Satan's back suspended,

With stockings and shoes,
And eke furbelows,

Clean out of sight he ascended.

I'd sing the sequel solemn,

Did Modesty allow it;

But a dock leaf vest

Is but ill exprest, By Painter or by Poet.

Let Coventry be no longer
For sights like these be reckon'd;

For, Melford, thy fame

Has got thee the name

Of Coventry the second.