For well your tender hearts I know; Hearts formed to melt at every woe, Virtue to soothe, vice to chastise, And shine in bounteous pity wise.Yet num'rous is the tinsel race That hover round a lovely face, As round the candle's beamy blaze Their brother-insect wildly plays. When by those ideot suitors prest, 'Mid the gay flatt'rers falsely blest, Ador'd, and borne by sighs, you move On the frail, floating, clouds of love; When fell Deceit, in angel guise, True demon, plans the pleasing lies; Look round, and if you haply see No honest face-oh! think on me,

THE

POET'S PETITION TO APOLLO.

SCARCE fourteen summers crown my age,
And yet on life's oft-varied stage

(Such are the hapless poet's losses)

I've met with fourteen thousand crosses.
Debts; duns; proud patrons all so squeamish,
Who damn one for a single blemish ;
Malice, with blinking eye and shrug,
Rooting the grave fond Pity dug;
Suspence, on courtier's promise waiting,
"Like Patience on a monument ;"
Envy, that darling imp of Satan;
Poetic pique, and discontent :

Full many a bitter pinch ye gave me ;
From which, O god Apollo, save mc!

No more beneath some guardian wing
I tune my little pipe, and sing ;
No more tied by the leg I flutter,
Hop but in sight, nor dare to mutter ;

O'er the wild fields of ether free,
I now cry Vive la liberté !

And though my nest I have not feather'd,
I have at least experience gather'd:
That rudder of good conduct, guiding
To a calm port where Age may ride in ;
Till call'd aloft at cherubs' whistle,
To try if he has wisely mist ill;
And, without boast or flourish pompous
Kept honour as his star and compass.
That I have never seen the child
Of injur'd merit weep, and smil'd;
That I have never heard the poor
Sigh out their plaints, and clos'd the door;
That I have never wish'd to wrong

The good man in satiric song;

Bear witness Heav'n, that know'st my heart,
And now, oh! take thy minstrel's part.
Like sad Darius, bruis'd and beaten

'Mong those by whom his goods were eaten ;

Like Belisarius (poor fellow !)

Drest up in rags black, blue, and yellow;

Like grave Cervantes in a jail ;
Like Butler, without soothing ale;
Like Tasso praying, in the night,

His cat's clear eyes to lend him light;

Like Chatterton, who sung so sweet;
Like princely The'dore in the Fleet;
Like Tippoo Saib by strangers plunder'd;
Like-like-ah me, sirs! like a hundred;
Behold Tom Dermody quite humbled,
From Fortune's wheel (the gipsey) tumbled:
Petitioning, in paltry verses,

Great George's head-piece from long purses.
For he, unlike disloyal brothers,

Loves his king's head above all others.
And shall I now with formal scrape,
The muse low-curt'seying like an ape,
Your pardon for this trifle beg,
Dash off some lies and make a leg?
By Phoebus, no! Consult your breast,
Where all the soft-ey'd feelings rest,
Each tender passion search with care,
My bet apology is there.

THE

VISION OF KILLEIGH CHURCH.

AS through the churchyard path I rov'd, The mould'ring turrets stagg'ring shook ; The stones in ruin'd row remov'd,

Out flew the owl, and lonely rook.

In antique garb of Erin's loom,
Such as on moss-grown tomb is scen,
A rev'rend spirit trod the gloom,
With venerably-pensive mien :

A broken cross adorn'd his head.
Which shew'd the blossoms of decay;

His sighs a holy stillness shed:
At last I heard him softly say:

"Alas! where are my glitt'ring tow'rs,
My seats where mournful sinners pray'd;
Where rosy abbots pass'd their hours,
And comforted the bashful maid?

"No silver bell with heav'nly call,
Sounds sweetly through the rocking spire;
No Peter-pence from rich men fall;
No symptoms of religious fire.