☞ A few original favours from our poetick friends would be very acceptable.
Massachusetts Centinel, March 28, 1789.
From the New York Daily Advertiſer.
The Sailor Boy.
DARK flew the ſcud along the wave,
And echoing thunders rend the ſky;
All hands aloft! to meet the ſtorm,
At midnight was the boatſwain's cry.
On deck flew every gallant tar,
But one—bereft of ev'ry joy;
Within a hammock's narrow bound,
Lay ſtretch'd this hapleſs SAILOR BOY.
Once, when the Boatſwain pip'd all hands,
The firſt was he, of all the crew,
On deck to ſpring—to trim the ſail—
To ſteer—to reef—to furl or clue.
Now fell diſeaſe had ſeiz'd a form
Which nature caſt in fineſt mould;
The midwatch bell now ſmote his heart,
His laſt, his dying knell it toll'd.
"O God!" he cried, and gaſp'd for breath,
"Ere yet my ſoul ſhall cleave the ſkies,
"Are there no parents—brethren—near,
"To cloſe, in death, my weary eyes?