contains within itself the rudiments of navigation, if not to form a complete seaman, it may certainly be considered as the grammar of his professional science. I have heard (he adds) many experienced officers declare that the rules and maxims delivered in this poem for the conduct of a ship in the most perilous emergency, form the best, indeed the only opinions which a skilful mariner should adopt. We possess, therefore, a poem not only eminent for its sublimity and pathos, but for an harmonious assemblage of technical terms and maxims used in navigation, which a young sailor may easily commit to memory; and also, with these, such scientific principles as will enable him to lay a sound foundation for his future professional skill and judgment." Poetry has seldom received or earned this praise of direct utility, for, though Virgil embodied in his exquisite verse the rules of husbandry, he never perhaps made a practical farmer. Nor would Falconer have taken his place as a British classic, if he had not soared far beyond his nautical precepts and description. These are only subordinate and accessory to his power of touching the heart and painting to the eye and imagination. In the light of his poetry, the Britannia sails with a glory not its own, and the perils and adventures of the voyage are invested with a moral beauty and interest. It is this blending of the ideal with the real—of the picturesque and poetical with the pathetic and sublime-that constitutes the charm of the narrative; and a poem thus founded on truth and nature, elevated by imagination, and presenting the most affecting examples of human suffering and moral heroism, may be said to rest on an imperishable basis. It has survived many revolutions of taste and opinion, and unquestionably will be read as long as British enterprise and valour maintain their empire on the sea.

THE SHIPWRECK

IN THREE CANTOS

THE TIME EMPLOYED IN THIS POEM IS ABOUT SIX DAYS

Quæque ipse miserrima vidi,

Et quorum pars magna fui.-VIRG. ÆN. lib. II. v. 5.

HILE jarring interests wake the world to arms,
And fright the peaceful vale with dire alarms,
While Albion bids the avenging thunders roll
Along her vassal deep from pole to pole;
Sick of the scene, where War with ruthless hand
Spreads desolation o'er the bleeding land;
Sick of the tumult, where the trumpet's breath
Bids ruin smile, and drowns the groan of death:

'Tis mine, retired beneath this cavern hoar,
That stands all lonely on the sea-beat shore,
Far other themes of deep distress to sing
Than ever trembled from the vocal string:
No pomp of battle swells the exalted strain,
Nor gleaming arms ring dreadful on the plain;
But o'er the scene, while pale remembrance weeps,
Fate with fell triumph rides upon the deeps,
Where hostile elements conflicting rise,
And lawless surges swell against the skies,
Till hope expires, and peril and dismay
Wave their black ensigns on the watery way.

Immortal train! who guide the maze of song,
To whom all science, arts, and arms belong;
Who bid the trumpet of eternal fame
Exalt the warrior's and the poet's name,

Or in lamenting elegies express

The varied pang of exquisite distress:

If e'er with trembling hope I fondly stray'd,

In life's fair morn, beneath your hallow'd shade,
To hear the sweetly-mournful lute complain,

And melt the heart with ecstasy of pain,

Or listen to the enchanting voice of love,
While all Elysium warbled through the grove;
Oh! by the hollow blast that moans around,
That sweeps the wild harp with a plaintive sound;
By the long surge that foams through yonder cave,
Whose vaults remurmur to the roaring wave;
With living colours give my verse to glow,