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SWEET CHLOE.

LYSAGHT,

SWEET Chloe advised me, in accents divine,
The joys of the bowl to surrender ;
Nor lose, in the turbid excesses of wine,
Delights more ecstatic and tender;
She bade me no longer in vineyards to bask,
Or stagger, at orgies, the dupe of a flask,
For the sigh of a sot's but the scent of the cask,
And a bubble the bliss of the bottle.

To a soul that's exhausted, or sterile, or dry,
The juice of the grape may be wanted;
But mine is reviv'd by a love-beaming eye,
And with fancy's gay flow'rets enchanted.
Oh! who but an owl would a garland entwine
Of Bacchus's ivy-and myrtle resign?
Yield the odours of love, for the vapours of wine,
And Chloe's kind kiss for a bottle?

MARKED YOU HER CHEEK?

SHERIDAN.

MARK'D you her cheek of rosy hue?
Mark'd you her eye of sparkling blue ?
That eye, in liquid circles moving;
That cheek, abashed at Man's approving;
The one, Love's arrows darting round;
The other, blushing at the wound:
Did she not speak, did she not move,
Now Pallas-now the Queen of Love!

These lines are generally supposed to have been written upon Miss Linley; but Moore, in his Life of Sheridan, tells us Lady Margaret Fordyce was the object of this sparkling eulogy. They are part of a long poem in which, to use Moore's words, "they shine out so conspicuously, that we cannot wonder at their having been so soon detached, like ill-set gems, from the loose and clumsy workmanship around them." In the same poem, says Moore, we find "one of those familiar lines which so many quote without knowing whence they come;-one of those stray fragments whose parentage is doubtful, but to which (aş the law says of illegitimate children), 'pater est populus,"

"You write with ease to show your breeding;

But easy writing's curst hard reading."

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PETRARCH'S INKSTAND.

Miss EDGEWORTH. Born, 1767. Died, 1849.

When the inkstand of Petrarch was presented to Miss Edgeworth, the gift was made to one by whose refinement and sensitiveness it could be most highly appreciated. It may be supposed she was more than ordinarily touched by it, when it hurried her into verse; for the "even tenor" of her thoughts accorded best with prose. She so seldom indulged in the sportive grace of metrical composition, that the following lines derive an additional value from their rarity, superadded to their intrinsic merit of sweet sentiment, gracefully expressed.

But not for the mere recording of these lines are they introduced in this volume: they afford the proud opportunity of gracing our pages with the name of Maria Edgeworth, whose numerous works are so honourable to Ireland;-works bright with genius, and rich in usefulness. To her the highest place must be assigned among our lady writers; for her novels and tales are vivid not only with national character, but with the more genera forms of universal life; and while they captivate by their entertaining qualities, inculcate the purest lessons of morality.

By beauty won from soft Italia's land,

Here Cupid, Petrarch's Cupid, takes his stand.
Arch suppliant, welcome to thy fav'rite isle,
Close thy spread wings, and rest thee here awhile;
Still the true-heart with kindred strains inspire,
Breathe all a poet's softness, all his fire;

But if the perjured knight approach this font,
Forbid the words to come as they were wont,
Forbid the ink to flow, the pen to write,

And send the false one baffled from thy sight.

In the three first lines Miss Edgeworth pays a graceful compliment at once to her countrywomen and her countrymen :-to the beauty of the former, and the devotion which it commands from the latter.

YOUNG TYRANT OF THE BOW.

Rev. GEORGE CROLY, D.D.

YOUNG tyrant of the bow and wings,
Thy altar asks three precious things,
The heart's, the world's, most precious three,
Courage, and time, and constancy.

Yes! love must have them all, or none,
By time he's wearied, but not won;
He shrinks from courage hot and high;
He laughs at tedious constancy;

But all his raptures, tender, true, sublime,
Are given to courage, constancy, and time.

EPITAPH ON EDWARD PURDON.*

GOLDSMITH.

HERE lies poor Ned Purdon, from misery freed,
Who long was a bookseller's hack:

He lived such a damnable life in this world,

I don't think he'll wish to come back.

* This gentleman was educated at Trinity College, Dublin; but having wasted his patrimony, he enlisted as a foot soldier. Growing tired of that employment, he obtained his discharge, and became a scribbler in the newspapers. He translated Voltaire's Henriade.

DANCE LIGHT, FOR MY HEART IT LIES UNDER
YOUR FEET, LOVE.

Air, "Huish the cat from under the table."

JOHN F. WALLER, LL.D.

The editor would not do justice to his own feelings or the author's merits did he fail to notice this song as one of the most charming of its class: full of truth-admirably graphic-and thoroughly national in its sportive tenderness.

"Aн, sweet Kitty Neil, rise up from that wheel-
Your neat little foot will be weary from spinning;
Come trip down with me to the sycamore tree,
Half the parish is there, and the dance is beginning.

The sun is gone down, but the full harvest moon

Shines sweetly and cool on the dew-whitened valley;
While all the air rings with the soft, loving things,
Each little bird sings in the green shaded alley."

With a blush and a smile, Kitty rose up the while,
Her eye in the glass, as she bound her hair, glancing;
'Tis hard to refuse when a young lover sues-

So she couldn't but choose to go off to the dancing.
And now on the green, the glad groups are seen-

Each gay-hearted lad with the lass of his choosing; And Pat, without fail, leads our sweet Kitty NeilSomehow, when he asked, she ne'er thought of refusing.

Now, Felix Magee puts his pipes to his knee,

And, with flourish so free, sets each couple in motion; With a cheer and a bound, the lads patter the groundThe maids move around just like swans on the ocean. Cheeks bright as the rose- -feet light as the doe's,

Now coyly retiring, now boldly advancing

Search the world all round, from the sky to the ground,

No SUCH SIGHT CAN BE FOUND AS AN IRISH LASS DANCING!

Sweet Kate! who could view your bright eyes of deep blue,
Beaming humidly through their dark lashes so mildly,
Your fair-turned arm, heaving breast, rounded form,
Nor feel his heart warm, and his pulses throb wildly?
Young Pat feels his heart, as he gazes, depart,

Subdued by the smart of such painful yet sweet love;
The sight leaves his eye, as he cries with a sigh,

"Dance light, for my heart it lies under your feet, love!"

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THE WIND AND THE WEATHERCOCK.

SAMUEL LOver.

THE summer wind lightly was playing
Round the battlement high of the tow'r,
Where a vane, like a lady, was staying,—
A lady vain perch'd in her bow'r.

To peep round the corner the sly wind would try;
But vanes, you know, never look in the wind's eye;
And so she kept turning shily away:—
Thus they kept playing all through the day.

The summer wind said, "She's coquetting:
But each belle has her points to be found;
Before evening, I'll venture on betting,

She will not then go but come round!"

So he tried from the east, and he tried from the west,
And the north and the south, to try which was best;
But still she kept turning shily away :-
Thus they kept playing all through the day.

At evening, her hard heart to soften,
He said, "You're a flirt, I am sure;
But if vainly you're changing so often,

No lover you'll ever secure.'

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"Sweet sir," said the vane, "it is you who begin; When you change so often, in me 'tis no sin;

If you cease to flutter, and steadily sigh,
And only be constant-I'm sure so will I."

EPIGRAM

ON THE BUSTS IN RICHMOND HERMITAGE. 1732.

DEAN SWIFT.

LEWIS the living learned fed,
And raised the scientific head:

Our frugal Queen,* to save her meat,
Exalts the head that cannot eat.

* Queen Anne.

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