"Whilst thou, perhaps, for some few years, Shalt rule this fickle land,

To let them know how wide the rule
'Twixt king and tyrant hand.

"Thy power unjust, thou traitor slave!
Shall fall on thy own head”.
From out of hearing of the king
Departed then the sledde.

King Edward's soul rushed to his face,
He turned his head away,

And to his brother Gloucester
He thus did speak and say:

"To him that so-much-dreaded death

No ghastly terrors bring;

Behold the man! he spake the truth;
He's greater than a king!"

"So let him die!" Duke Richard said;
"And may each one our foes
Bend down their necks to bloody axe,
And feed the carrion crows."

And now the horses gently drew
Sir Charles up the high hill;
The axe did glister in the sun,
His precious blood to spill.

Sir Charles did up the scaffold go,

As up a gilded car

Of victory, by valorous chiefs.

Gained in the bloody war.

And to the people he did say :
"Behold you see me die,
For serving loyally my king,
My king most rightfully.

"As long as Edward rules this land,
No quiet you will know;

Your sons and husbands shall be slain, And brooks with blood shall flow.

"You leave your good and lawful king, When in adversity;

Like me, unto the true cause stick,
And for the true cause die."

Then he, with priests, upon his knees,
A prayer to God did make,
Beseeching Him unto Himself
His parting soul to take.

Then, kneeling down, he laid his head
Most seemly on the block;
Which from his body fair at once
The able headsman stroke:

And out the blood began to flow,
And round the scaffold twine;
And tears, enough to wash't away,
Did flow from each man's eyne.

The bloody axe his body fair

Into four partis cut;

And every part, and eke his head,

Upon a pole was put.

One part did rot on Kinwulph-hill,
One on the minster-tower,
And one from off the castle-gate
The crowen did devour.

The other on Saint Paul's good gate,
A dreary spectacle;

His head was placed on the high cross,
In high street most noble.

Thus was the end of Bawdin's fate:

God prosper long our king,
And grant he may, with Bawdin's soul,
In heaven God's mercy sing!

William Cowper.

VERSES SUPPOSED TO BE WRITTEN BY ALEXANDER SELKIRK, DURING HIS SOLITARY ABODE IN THE ISLAND OF JUAN FERNANDEZ.

I

AM monarch of all I survey—

My right there is none to dispute;
From the centre all round to the sea,
I am lord of the fowl and the brute.
O Solitude! where are the charms

That sages have seen in thy face?
Better dwell in the midst of alarms
Than reign in this horrible place.

I am out of humanity's reach;
I must finish my journey alone,

Never hear the sweet music of speech-
I start at the sound of my own.
The beasts that roam over the plain
My form with indifference see;
They are so unacquainted with man,
Their tameness is shocking to me.

Society, friendship, and love,

Divinely bestowed upon man!
O, had I the wings of a dove,
How soon would I taste you again!
My sorrows I then might assuage

In the ways of religion and truth—
Might learn from the wisdom of age,
And be cheered by the sallies of youth.

Religion! What treasure untold
Resides in that heavenly word!—
More precious than silver and gold,
Or all that this earth can afford;
But the sound of the church-going bell
These valleys and rocks never heard,
Never sighed at the sound of a knell,

Or smiled when a sabbath appeared.

Ye winds that have made me your sport, Convey to this desolate shore

Some cordial endearing report

Of a land I shall visit no more!

My friends-do they now and then send

A wish or a thought after me?

O tell me I yet have a friend,

Though a friend I am never to see

How fleet is a glance of the mind!
Compared with the speed of its flight,
The tempest itself lags behind,

And the swift-winged arrows of light.
When I think of my own native land,
In a moment I seem to be there;
But, alas! recollection at hand

Soon hurries me back to despair.

But the sea-fowl is gone to her nest,
The beast is laid down in his lair;
Even here is a season of rest,

And I to my cabin repair.

There's mercy in every place,

And mercy-encouraging thought!—

Gives even affliction a grace,

And reconciles man to his lot.

THE PULPIT.

THE pulpit, therefore (and I name it filled

With solemn awe, that bids me well beware
With what intent I touch that holy thing)—
The pulpit (when the satirist has at last,
Strutting and vapouring in an empty school,
Spent all his force, and made no proselyte) —

I say the pulpit (in the sober use

Of its legitimate, peculiar powers)

Must stand acknowledged, while the world shall stand,

The most important and effectual guard,

Support, and ornament of Virtue's cause,