Page images
PDF
EPUB

That cousin is wealthy, that cousin is fair,

Is Wentworth's, and Cleveland's, and Nettlestead's heir ;

Her smile is the sunshine of innocent youth;
Her heart is the throne of affection and truth;
Her dark glossy ringlets luxuriantly flow,
Contrasting and arching her forehead of snow:
This flowret of beauty and sweetness they call
Henrietta, the Lily of Nettlestead Hall!

A stranger, in manhood and gallantry's pride,
The merry lord Lovelace has placed by her side:
Forbidden his station and name to disclose,
He calls him "Sir Alured, knight of the rose:
How winning his graces and courtesy prove!
His ardent affection soon fixes her love,
And, secretly, wedlock's soft fetters enthral
The delicate Lily of Nettlestead Hall.

What pages mysterious has fate to unfold?
Her husband is Monmouth, the royal and bold,
And he, whom she trusted as loyal and true,
Had previously wedded the heir of Buccleugh:
At her feet in despondence and agony thrown,
He swears that his faith and his vows are her own,

*James, Duke of Monmouth and Buccleugh, the eldest natural son of Charles the IInd by Mrs Lucy Walters, the daughter of Richard Walters, of Haverford-West in the county of Pembroke, Esq. He was born at Rotterdam, and bore the name of James Crofts till his Majesty's Restoration. His creation to the title of Duke of Monmouth was to grace his nuptials with the Lady Anne, the daughter and sole heir of Francis, Earl of Buccleugh, who was then esteemed the greatest fortune and the finest woman, in the three king. doms. Being married, he took the surname of Scott; and he and his lady were created Duke and Duchess of Buccleugh, &c. For a spirited portrait of this unfortunate nobleman, drawn by an un rivalled statesman lately deceased, see "Fox's History of the reign of Charles 11." p. 259 273. See also "Lord Clarendon's Life," vol. 2. p. 206. "Memoirs of Count Grammont," Vol 3. p. 161. 165 251. 253 and for many curious particulars of the family of scot, see the Notes to Walter Scot's inimitable Poem of the "Lay of the Last Minstrel,"

That his marriage of boyhood illegal shall prove,
And heav'n seal the union of nature and love.
Affections so mated, O! say, can they part?
She yields to that eloquent pleader the heart,
Deciding, through changes of climate and state,
To share unrepining his fortune and fate :
Remov'd from her native, her fostering shades,
Untimely the Lily of Nettlestead fades.

Ah Monmouth! brave Monmouth! thy glories are fled;

And low in the dust lies thy blood-streaming head !
Those lips still seem warm with the redolent breath,
Those eyelids, like violets, lovely in death;
With no fond awaking again shall they move,
Though nurs'd on thy Lily's soft bosom of love!
As still to his image her fancy returns,

The mourner is paler than him whom she mourns,
And calm are her features, and calm is her air,
All fix'd in the sadness of settled despair;
No sigh swells her breast, and no tear-drop her eyes,
But blighted, the Lily of Nettlestead dies.

ON THE

Unfortunate Seamen,

Who were Wrecked on the Coasts of Suffolk and Norfolk, October 31, 1789.

BY P. HOMER.

A few minutes before four in the morning, one of the most violent squalls of wind from the North East came on, that had ever been remembered. As it com

menced not less suddenly than violently, it was the occasion of a scene, almost too dreadful for description. A large fleet of ships was lying in the Yarmouth Roads, several of which being driven from their anchors, and running foul of each other, the greatest confusion ensued. Some foundered, and many lost their masts; whilst others were obliged either to slip or cut their cables, and run to the Southward, which luckily for them, on account of the quarter from which the gale blew, they were able to accomplish without much danger, so that two only were forced on shore to the Southward of the harbour. The case, however, of those vessels, which were caught by the storm to the Northward of the Cockle-Sand, was infinitely more distressing and fatal. Those that were at anchor, waiting for the light to enter the Roads, were, almost every one of them, forced to quit their anchors by the violence of the wind, or by other ships coming athwart them; some sunk instantly upon their striking against each other ; others perished the moment they were driven on the sand; some, having been beaten over the Cockle, either went down in deep water, or fell upon the Barber ; and several met their fate on the shore. Ships from the Northward were every moment coming in, some with every sail split, and hanging like so many pennants; others with one mast only standing; some with nothing but a small piece of torn canvas fastened to the remaining stumps of their masts; others with all their boats and anchors washed away, making signals of distress, and in a perfectly unmanageable state driving through the Roads at the mercy of the waves, and at last sinking in the sight of hundreds of spectators.

The immense damage, done by this storm on the coast of Suffolk and Norfolk, was shocking beyond expression. Indeed, the whole coast exhibited a scene the most awful and distressing. Ships dismasted at anchor; others scudding before the wind without any canvas to set; and wrecks of ships, that had been lost on the sands, floating in every direction. Between Southwold and Yarmouth, a space of only 25 miles, 40 ships were ashore. Between Yarmouth and Cromer,

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:

66

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."

« PreviousContinue »