CAPTAIN EDWARD THOMPSON was a native of Hull, and went to sea so early in life as to be precluded from the advantages of a liberal education. At the age of nineteen, he acted as lieutenant on board the Jason, in the engagement off Ushant, between Hawke and Conflans. Coming to London after the peace, he resided, for some time, in Kew-lane, where he wrote some light pieces for the stage, and some licentious poems; the titles of which need not be revived. At the breaking out of the American war, Garrick's interest obtained promotion for him in his own profession; and he was appointed to the command of the Hyæna frigate, and made his fortune

by the single capture of a French East Indiaman. He was afterward in Rodney's action off Cape St. Vincent, and brought home the tidings of the victory. His death was occasioned by a fever, which he caught on board the Grampus, while he commanded that vessel off the coast of Africa. Though a dissolute man, he had the character of an able and humane commander.

A few of his sea songs are entitled to remembrance. Besides his poems and dramatic pieces, he published "Letters of a Sailor;" and edited the works of John Oldham, P. Whitehead, and Andrew Marvell. For the last of those tasks he was grossly unqualified.

THE topsails shiver in the wind,
The ship she casts to sea;
But yet my soul, my heart, my mind,
Are, Mary, moor'd by thee:

For though thy sailor's bound afar,
Still love shall be his leading star.

Should landmen flatter when we're sail'd,

Oh doubt their artful tales;

No gallant sailor ever fail'd,

If Cupid fill'd his sails:

Thou art the compass of my soul,

Which steers my heart from pole to pole.

BEHOLD upon the swelling wave,
With streaming pendants gay,
Our gallant ship invites the brave,
While glory leads the way;

And a cruising we will go.

Whene'er Monsieur comes in view,
From India richly fraught,

To gain the prize we're firm and true,
And fire as quick as thought.

With hearts of oak we ply each gun,

Nor fear the least dismay;
We either take, or sink, or burn,
Or make them run away.
The lovely maids of Britain's isle
We sailors ne'er despise;

SONG.

LOOSE every sail to the breeze,

The course of my vessel improve; I've done with the toils of the seas,

Ye sailors, I'm bound to my love.

Since Emma is true as she's fair,

My griefs I fling all to the wind: "Tis a pleasing return for my care, My mistress is constant and kind.

My sails are all fill'd to my dear;

What tropic bird swifter can move? Who, cruel, shall hold his career

That returns to the nest of his love!

Hoist every sail to the breeze,

Come, shipmates, and join in the song; Let's drink, while the ship cuts the seas, To the gale that may drive her along.

HENRY HEADLEY, whose uncommon talents were lost to the world at the age of twenty-two, was born at Irstead, in Norfolk. He received his education at the grammar-school of Norwich, under Dr. Parr: and, at the age of sixteen, was adinitted a member of Trinity College, Oxford. There the example of Thomas Warton, the senior of his college, led him to explore the beauties of our elder poets. About the age of twenty he published some pieces of verse, which exhibit no very remarkable promise; but his "Select Beauties of the Ancient English Poets," which appeared in the following year, were accompanied with critical observations, that showed an unparalleled ripeness of mind for his years. leaving the university, after a residence of four years, he married, and retired to Matlock, in Derbyshire. His matrimonial choice is said to have been hastily formed, amid the anguish of disappointment in a previous attachment. But

On

short as his life was, he survived the lady whom he married.

The symptoms of consumption having appeared in his constitution, he was advised to try the benefit of a warmer climate; and he took the resolution of repairing to Lisbon, unattended by a single friend. On landing at Lisbon, far from feeling any relief from the climate, he found himself oppressed by its sultriness; and in this forlorn state, was on the point of expiring, when Mr. De Vismes, to whom he had received a letter of introduction from the late Mr. Windham, conveyed him to his healthful villa, near Cintra, allotted spacious apartments for his use, procured for him the ablest medical assistance, and treated him with every kindness and amusement that could console his sickly existence. But his malady proved incurable; and, returning to England at the end of a few months, he expired at Norwich.

CHILD of the potent spell and nimble eye, Young Faney, oft in rainbow vest array'd, Points to new scenes that in succession pass Across the wond'rous mirror that she bears, And bids thy unsated soul and wondering eye A wider range o'er all her prospects take; Lo, at her call, New Zealand's wastes arise! Casting their shadows far along the main, Whose brows, cloud-capp'd in joyless majesty, No human foot hath trod since time began ;' Here death-like silence ever-brooding dwells, Save when the watching sailor startled hears, Far from his native land at darksome night, The shrill-toned petrel, or the penguin's voice, That skim their trackless flight on lonely wing, Through the bleak regions of a nameless main : Here danger stalks, and drinks with glutted ear The wearied sailor's moan, and fruitless sigh, Who, as he slowly cuts his daring way, Affrighted drops his axe, and stops awhile, To hear the jarring echoes lengthen'd din, That fling from pathless cliffs their sullen sound: Oft here the fiend his grisly visage shows, His limbs, of giant form, in vesture clad Of drear collected ice and stiffen'd snow, The same he wore a thousand years ago, That thwarts the sunbeam, and endures the day.

"Tis thus, by Fancy shown, thou kenn'st entranced

Long tangled woods, and ever stagnant lakes, That know no zephyr pure, or temperate gale,

By baneful Tigris banks, where oft, they say,
As late in sullen march for prey he prowls,
The tawny lion sees his shadow'd form,
At silent midnight by the moon's pale gleam,
On the broad surface of the dark deep wave;
Here, parch'd at mid-day, oft the passenger
Invokes with lingering hope the tardy breeze,
And oft with silent anguish thinks in vain
On Europe's milder air and silver springs.

Thou, unappall'd, canst view astounding fear
With ghastly visions wild, and train unbless'd
Of ashy fiends, at dead of murky night,
Who catch the fleeting soul, and slowly pace,
With visage dimly seen, and beckoning hand,
Of shadowy forms, that, ever on the wing,
Flit by the tedious couch of wan despair.
Methinks I hear him, with impatient tongue,
The lagging minutes chide, whilst sad he sits
And notes their secret lapse with shaking head.
See, see, with tearless glance they mark his fall,
And close his beamless eye, who, trembling, meets
A late repentance, and an early grave.

With thine and elfin Fancy's dreams well
pleased,

Safe in the lowly vale of letter'd ease,
From all the dull buffoonery of life,
Thy sacred influence grateful may
I own;
Nor till old age shall lead me to my tomb,
Quit thee and all thy charms with many a tear.
On Omole, or cold Soracte's top,
Singing defiance to the threat'ning storm,
Thus the lone bird, in winter's rudest hour,
Hid in some cavern, shrouds its ruffled plumes,
And through the long, long night, regardless hears
The wild wind's keenest blast and dashing rain.

SUPPOSED TO BE WRITTEN AT LEMNOS. ON this lone isle, whose rugged rocks affright The cautious pilot, ten revolving years Great Pæon's son, unwonted erst to tears, Wept o'er his wound: alike each rolling light Of heaven he watch'd, and blamed its lingering flight:

By day the sea-mew, screaming round his cave, Drove slumber from his eyes, the chiding wave,

And savage howlings chased his dreams by night. Hope still was his; in each low breeze that sigh'd

Through his rude grot, he heard a coming oar:
In each white cloud a coming sail he spied;
Nor seldom listen'd to the fancied roar
Of Etna's torrents, or the hoarser tide
That parts famed Trachis from th' Euboic
shore.

JOHN LOGAN was the son of a farmer, in the parish of Fala, and county of Mid-Lothian, Scotland. He was educated for the church, at the university of Edinburgh. There he contracted an intimacy with Dr. Robertson, who was then a student of his own standing; and he was indebted to that eminent character for many friendly offices in the course of his life. After finishing his theological studies, he lived for some time in the family of Mr. Sinclair, of Ulbster, as tutor to the late Sir John Sinclair. In his twenty-fifth year, he was ordained one of the ministers of Leith; and had a principal share in the scheme for revising the psalmody of the Scottish church, under the authority of the General Assembly. He contributed to this undertaking several scriptural translations, and paraphrases, of his own composition. About the same time, he delivered, during two successive seasons, in Edinburgh, Lectures on History, which were attended with so much approbation, that he was brought forward as a candidate for the Professorship of History in the university; but, as the chair had been always filled by one of the members of the faculty of advocates, the choice fell upon another competitor, who possessed that qualification. When disappointed in this object, he published the substance of his lectures in a work, entitled, "Elements of the Philosophy of History;" and, in a separate essay, "On the Manners of Asia."

His poems, which had hitherto been only circulated in MS. or printed in a desultory manner, were collected and published in 1781.

The

favourable reception which they met with, encouraged him to attempt the composition of a tragedy, and he chose the charter of Runnymede for his subject. This innocent drama was sent to the manager of Covent Garden, by whom it was accepted, and even put into rehearsal; but,

on some groundless rumour of its containing dangerous political matter, the Lord Chamberlain thought fit to prohibit its representation. It was, however, acted on the Edinburgh boards, and afterward published; though without exhibiting in its contents any thing calculated to agitate either poetical or political feelings.

In the mean time our author unhappily drew on himself the displeasure of his parishioners. His connection with the stage was deemed improper in a clergyman. His literary pursuits interfered with his pastoral diligence; and, what was worse, he was constitutionally subject to fits of depression, from which he took refuge in inebriety. Whatever his irregularities were, (for they have been differently described,) he was obliged to compound for them, by resigning his flock, and retiring upon a small annuity. He came to London, where his principal literary employments were, furnishing articles for the English Review, and writing in vindication of Warren Hastings. He died at the age of forty, at his lodgings, in Marlborough-street. His Sermons, which were published two years after his death, have obtained considerable popularity.

His "Ode to the Cuckoo" is the most agreeable effusion of his fancy. Burke was so much pleased with it, that, when he came to Edinburgh, he made himself acquainted with its author. His claim to this piece has indeed been disputed by the relatives of Michael Bruce; and it is certain, that when Bruce's poems were sent to Logan, he published them intermixed with his own, without any marks to discriminate the respective authors. He is further accused of having refused to restore the MSS. But as the charge of stealing the Cuckoo from Bruce was not brought against Logan in his life-time, it cannot, in charity, stand against his memory on the bare assertion of his accusers.*

ODE TO THE CUCKO0.

HAIL, beauteous stranger of the grove!
Thou messenger of Spring!
Now Heaven repairs thy rural seat,
And woods thy welcome sing.
What time the daisy decks the green,
Thy certain voice we hear;

Hast thou a star to guide thy path, Or mark the rolling year?

[ Because some pieces which are printed among the remains of poor Michael Bruce, have been ascribed to Logan, Mr. Chalmers has not thought it proper to admit Bruce's poems into his collection.-SOUTHEY, Quar. Rev. vol. xi. p. 501.]

Delightful visitant! with thee

I hail the time of flowers,

And hear the sound of music sweet

From birds among the bowers.

The schoolboy, wandering through the wood To pull the primrose gay,

Starts, the new voice of Spring to hear,

And imitates thy lay.

What time the pea puts on the bloom,

Thou fliest thy vocal vale,
An annual guest in other lands,

Another Spring to hail.

Sweet bird! thy bower is ever green,
Thy sky is ever clear;
Thou hast no sorrow in thy song,

No winter in thy year!

Oh could I fly, I'd fly with thee!
We'd make, with joyful wing,
Our annual visit o'er the globe,
Companions of the Spring.

THE LOVERS.

Har. "Tis midnight dark: 'tis silence deep, My father's house is hush'd in sleep;

In dreams the lover meets his bride,
She sees her lover at her side;

The mourner's voice is now suppress'd,

A while the weary are at rest:
"Tis midnight dark; 'tis silence deep;
I only wake, and wake to weep.

The window's drawn, the ladder waits,
I spy no watchman at the gates;
No tread re-echoes through the hall,
No shadow moves along the wall.
I am alone. "Tis dreary night,
Oh come, thou partner of my flight!
Shield me from darkness, from alarms;
Oh take me trembling to thine arms!

The dog howls dismal in the heath,
The raven croaks the dirge of death;
Ah me! disaster's in the sound!
The terrors of the night are round;
A sad mischance my fears forebode,
The demon of the dark's abroad,
And lures, with apparition dire,

The night-struck man through flood and fire.

The owlet screams ill-boding sounds,
The spirit walks unholy rounds;
The wizard's hour eclipsing rolls;
The shades of hell usurp the poles:
The moon retires; the heaven departs,
From opening earth a spectre starts:
My spirit dies-Away my fears,
My love, my life, my lord appears!

Hen. I come, I come, my love! my life! And nature's dearest name, my wife!

Long have I loved thee; long have sought:
And dangers braved, and battles fought;
In this embrace our evils end;
From this our better days ascend;
The year of suffering now is o'er,

At last we meet to part no more!

My lovely bride! my consort, come!
The rapid chariot rolls thee home.

Har. I fear to go--I dare not stay.
Look back.I dare not look that way.
Hen. No evil ever shall betide
My love, while I am at her side.
Lo! thy protector and thy friend,
The arms that fold thee will defend.

Har. Still beats my bosom with alarms: I tremble while I'm in thy arms! What will impassion'd lovers do? What have I done-to follow you? I leave a father torn with fears; I leave a mother bathed in tears; A brother, girding on his sword, Against my life, against my lord.

Now, without father, mother, friend,
On thee my future days depend;
Wilt thou, for ever true to love,
A father, mother, brother prove?
O Henry!- -to thy arms I fall,
My friend my husband! and my all!
Alas! what hazards may I run?
Shouldst thou forsake me-I'm undone.

Hen. My Harriet, dissipate thy fears, And let a husband wipe thy tears; For ever join'd our fates combine, And I am yours, and you are mine. The fires the firmament that rend, On this devoted head descend, If e'er in thought from thee I rove, Or love thee less than now I love!

Although our fathers have been foes,
From hatred stronger love arose ;
From adverse briers that threat'ning stood,
And threw a horror o'er the wood,
Two lovely roses met on high,
Transplanted to a better sky;
And, grafted in one stock, they grow,

In union spring, in beauty blow.

Har: My heart believes my love; but still My boding mind presages ill: For luckless ever was our love,

Dark as the sky that hung above.

While we embraced, we shook with fears,

And with our kisses mingled tears;

We met with murmurs and with sighs,
And parted still with watery eyes.

An unforeseen and fatal hand

Cross'd all the measures love had plann'd
Intrusion marr'd the tender hour,

A demon started in the bower;