CARROL'S COMPLAINT.

WHERE Antrim's giant-pillars rise
Abrupt, to prop th' incumbent skies,
And fling their frowning shadows o'er the flood;
Wild with woe his frenzied air,

His big breast to the tempest bare,

Smit with his country's wounds indignant Carrol

stood.

Responsive to his tuneful lore,

Juverna's ancient harp he bore.
Holy harp, whose witching numbers

Lapp'd the soul in heavenly slumber,

Bade youth's impassion'd bosom bleed,

Or wak'd the gen'rous mind to high heroic deed!
Thou, a sea-nymph once, couldst skim
Gentle ocean's burnish'd brim;

Once through coral groves couldst stray,
And with the dimpling eddies play;
'Till chang'd by fate, to sooth that shore
With song, which thou didst wash before,

Thy pristine form reversely twin'd,
Thy silvery shoulders stretch'd behind,

Lo! still th' uninjur'd mermaid-shape remains;
Save that thy copious locks afford
To music each appropriate chord,

Nor Sol's bright tresses pour'd superior strains.
With tutor'd fingers, taught to fly

Through ev'ry maze of harmony,

The bard (erewhile whose magic measures

Steep'd the tearful lid in pleasures,

And grac'd the storied hall of chieftains and of king
Thus swept with sorrowing agony the strings:
"Doom'd to perish, hapless coast,

Never more thy birthright boast;
Purchas'd with thy flowing gore,
Independance boast no more.
The native fragrance of thy fields,
The stores thine every valley yields,
Plains where Learning's pilgrim-feet
First could find a safe retreat;
Plains where nought empoison'd dwells,
Whilom purg'd by saintly spells,

Basely sold and ever lost;

Henceforth shall glut a rav'ning host.

Fiends of slaughter, say if yet

Martyr'd peace be in your debt;

Not enough of carnage, say ;
So insatiate still to slay.
Flesh'd in death, inhuman, tell
How many a guiltless victim fell.
Has not oft the filial sword

The father's wither'd breast explor'd?
Has not oft the infant's scream,
Mid the fir'd hut's midnight gleam;
Has not oft the virgin's shriek,
Doubly dyed in blood her cheek;
Has not oft the matron's cry,
Her sons, her husband, groaning nigh;
Wrung and torn my bursting soul?-
Mark a part, not blast the whole.
The wily knave who leads astray

The peasant tribe, an easy prey;
The fool by mad ambition led,
And idle praise, to risk his head;

The bold-fac'd thief, th' assassin dark;
Unmov'd, for instant vengeance mark :
Carrol's self will dig their grave:-
But spare the innocent, the brave.

HYMN TO BEAUTY.

MISTRESS of magic wiles, whose humid glance,
Transparent bloom, and soft celestial air,

So oft my breast have steep'd in heav'nly trance,
And chas'd with rosy smile delighted care;

Still let thy charming agonies invade;
Thy panting pleasure, thy voluptuous pain.
Still let me clasp thy semblance in the shade,
Oh! still enrol me with thy laughing train.

O'er Plato's sapient thought 'twas thou didst stream Visions of joy and philosophic bliss;

And sweetest still has been the poet's dream,

Nectareous flavour'd by a fragrant kiss.

Whence doth bright Painting cull her graceful line,

Her glowing tints, her captivating dyes;

And whence the poet form his fair design;

But from th' inspiring lustre of thine eyes?

Those heaving hillocks where twin-strawb'ries grow, Though flutt'ring Loves the blissful confines keep, Insatiate let me print their yielding snow,

And press the pouting cherry on thy lip.

Askance pale Care, a wither'd crone, may view
Envious the glowing fold he can't enjoy ;

But still to youth and youthful passion true,

Be mine the transport prudence would destroy.