FROM BOOK XII

Song of the Priestess of the Muses to the chosen band after their return from the inroad into the Persian camp, on the night before the Battle of Thermopylae.

Back to the pass in gentle march he leads The embattled warriors. They, behind the shrubs, Where Medon sent such numbers to the shades, In ambush lie. The tempest is o'erblown. Soft breezes only from the Malian wave O'er each grim face, besmeared with smoke and gore, Their cool refreshment breathe. The healing gale, A crystal rill near Oeta's verdant feet, Dispel the languor from their harassed nerves, Fresh braced by strength returning. O'er their heads Lo! in full blaze of majesty appears Melissa, bearing in her hand divine The eternal guardian of illustrious deeds, The sweet Phoebean lyre. Her graceful train Of white-robed virgins, seated on a range Half down the cliff, o'ershadowing the Greeks, All with concordant strings, and accents clear, A torrent pour of melody, and swell A high, triumphal, solemn dirge of praise, Anticipating fame. Of endless joys In blessed Elysium was the song. Go, meet Lycurgus, Solon, and Zaleucus sage, Let them salute the children of their laws. Meet Homer, Orpheus, and the Ascraean bard, Who with a spirit, by ambrosial food Refined, and more exalted, shall contend Your splendid fate to warble through the bowers Of amaranth and myrtle ever young, Like your renown. Your ashes we will cull. In yonder fane deposited, your urns, Dear to the Muses, shall our lays inspire. Whatever offerings, genius, science, art Can dedicate to virtue, shall be yours, The gifts of all the Muses, to transmit You on the enlivened canvas, marble, brass, In wisdom's volume, in the poet's song, In every tongue, through every age and clime, You of this earth the brightest flowers, not cropt, Transplanted only to immortal bloom Of praise with men, of happiness with gods.

ADMIRAL HOSIER'S GHOST.

ON THE TAKING OF PORTO-BELLO FROM THE SPANIARDS BY ADMIRAL VERNON—Nov. 22, 1739.

1 As near Porto-Bello lying On the gently swelling flood, At midnight with streamers flying, Our triumphant navy rode: There while Vernon sat all-glorious From the Spaniards' late defeat; And his crews, with shouts victorious, Drank success to England's fleet:

2 On a sudden shrilly sounding, Hideous yells and shrieks were heard; Then each heart with fear confounding, A sad troop of ghosts appeared, All in dreary hammocks shrouded, Which for winding-sheets they wore, And with looks by sorrow clouded, Frowning on that hostile shore.

3 On them gleamed the moon's wan lustre, When the shade of Hosier brave His pale bands was seen to muster, Rising from their watery grave: O'er the glimmering wave he hied him, Where the Burford[1] reared her sail, With three thousand ghosts beside him, And in groans did Vernon hail:

4 'Heed, O heed, our fatal story, I am Hosier's injured ghost, You, who now have purchased glory At this place where I was lost; Though in Porto-Bello's ruin You now triumph free from fears, When you think on our undoing, You will mix your joy with tears.

5 'See these mournful spectres, sweeping Ghastly o'er this hated wave, Whose wan cheeks are stained with weeping; These were English captains brave: Mark those numbers pale and horrid, Those were once my sailors bold, Lo! each hangs his drooping forehead, While his dismal tale is told.

6 'I, by twenty sail attended, Did this Spanish town affright: Nothing then its wealth defended But my orders not to fight: Oh! that in this rolling ocean I had cast them with disdain, And obeyed my heart's warm motion, To have quelled the pride of Spain.

7 'For resistance I could fear none, But with twenty ships had done What thou, brave and happy Vernon, Hast achieved with six alone. Then the Bastimentos never Had our foul dishonour seen, Nor the sea the sad receiver Of this gallant train had been.

8 'Thus, like thee, proud Spain dismaying, And her galleons leading home, Though condemned for disobeying, I had met a traitor's doom; To have fallen, my country crying, He has played an English part, Had been better far than dying Of a grieved and broken heart.

9 'Unrepining at thy glory, Thy successful arms we hail; But remember our sad story, And let Hosier's wrongs prevail. Sent in this foul clime to languish, Think what thousands fell in vain, Wasted with disease and anguish, Not in glorious battle slain.

10 'Hence, with all my train attending From their oozy tombs below, Through the hoary foam ascending, Here I feed my constant woe: Here the Bastimentos viewing, We recall our shameful doom, And our plaintive cries renewing, Wander through the midnight gloom.

11 'O'er these waves for ever mourning Shall we roam deprived of rest, If to Britain's shores returning, You neglect my just request. After this proud foe subduing, When your patriot friends you see, Think on vengeance for my ruin, And for England shamed in me.'

[1] 'The Burford:' Admiral Vernon's ship.