Divided far by death were they, whose names,
  In honour here united, as in birth,
  This monumental verse records.  They drew
  In Dorset’s healthy vales their natal breath,
  And from these shores beheld the ocean first,
  Whereon, in early youth, with one accord
  They chose their way of fortune; to that course
  By Hood and Bridport’s bright example drawn,
  Their kinsmen, children of this place, and sons
  Of one, who in his faithful ministry
  Inculcated, within these hallowed walls,
  The truths, in mercy to mankind revealed. 
  Worthy were these three brethren each to add
  New honours to the already honour’d name;
  But Arthur, in the morning of his day,
  Perished amid the Caribbean sea,
  When the Pomona, by a hurricane
  Whirl’d, riven and overwhelmed, with all her crew
  Into the deep went down.  A longer date
  To Alexander was assign’d, for hope
  For fair ambition, and for fond regret,
  Alas, how short! for duty, for desert,
  Sufficing; and, while Time preserves the roll
  Of Britain’s naval feats, for good report. 
  A boy, with Cook he rounded the great globe;
  A youth, in many a celebrated fight
  With Rodney had his part; and having reach’d
  Life’s middle stage, engaging ship to ship,
  When the French Hercules, a gallant foe,
  Struck to the British Mars his three-striped flag,
  He fell, in the moment of his victory. 
  Here his remains in sure and certain hope
  Are laid, until the hour when earth and sea
  Shall render up their dead.  One brother yet
  Survived, with Keppel and with Rodney train’d
  In battles, with the Lord of Nile approved,
  Ere in command he worthily upheld
  Old England’s high prerogative.  In the east,
  The west, the Baltic, and the midland seas,
  Yea, wheresoever hostile fleets have plough’d
  The ensanguined deep, his thunders have been heard,
  His flag in brave defiance hath been seen,
  And bravest enemies at Sir Samuel’s name
  Felt fatal presage in their inmost heart,
  Of unavertable defeat foredoom’d. 
  Thus in the path of glory he rode on,
  Victorious alway, adding praise to praise;
  Till full of honours, not of years, beneath
  The venom of the infected clime he sunk,
  On Coromandel’s coast, completing there
  His service, only when his life was spent.

  To the three brethren, Alexander’s son
  (Sole scion he in whom their line survived,)
  With English feeling, and the deeper sense
  Of filial duty, consecrates this tomb.

* * * * *

LOVE.

A BALLAD, BY THE ETTRICK SHEPHERD.

  O, Love’s a bitter thing to bide,
    The lad that drees it’s to be pitied;
  It blinds to a’ the warld beside,
    And makes a body dilde and ditied;
  It lies sae sair at my breast bane,
    My heart is melting saft an’ safter;
  To dee outright I wad be fain,
    Wer’t no for fear what may be after.