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I come, ye worms, my flesh to give;
Feast, feast, insatiate crew;
Sure Myra will at least believe,
That her scorn'd swain to death was true.
Yet, oh ye pow'rs! who plac'd on high,
Our inmost wishes see,
Bless the dear maid, for whom I die!
And may she never love like me!
SHOULD the rude wind too roughly blow,
Then would yon gem of living snow
Droop o'er its parent bed!
And tho' the mildest breeze should play,
Nor evening's dew, nor morning's ray,
Could raise its weeping head!
Ah! thus by dark suspicion's breath,
The rose of love was chilled to death,
Never to blossom more!
In vain did hope contend with fears,
Nor sweetest smiles, nor softest tears,
Could e'er that rose restore.
TO THE RUINS OF PALMYRA.
WRITTEN IN THE VICINITY. 1781.
ILLUSTRIOUS Scene! tho' EGYPT pour
Her marbles, and the PARIAN shore,
To swell thy antient pride;
Still ow'st thou to the lyre of taste,
And sculpture's charms, that, o'er the waste,
Thy throne shall time deride!
How priz'd thy roofs, with ivy strown!
Thy broken arches! columns, prone!
Thy coins, remov'd from day!
These bear ZENOBIA'S godlike face,
And, where his genius rul'd, we trace
The critic's verdant bay!
Fir'd at LONGINUS' letter'd fame,
Th' enthusiast feels the Attic flame
Which lights this classic pile:
To snatch one relic of his art,
Nor, without beauty's smile, depart,
He braves ARABIAN guile!
For lo! amid the cypress grove,
Where stood a temple rear'd to Love,
A tented town appears!
And, where those useless ducts convey'd
The stream, to feed the cool cascade,
A line of hostile spears!
Yet, scite renown'd! from those, who seek
Thy glory, tho' with pennons weak,
The lurking pest with-hold:
With mercy tinge the ARAB's creed,
That pilgrims oft may wake the reed,
Whence Wood thy wonders told!
LEFT ON THE BROKEN HARPSICHORD OF A
DECEASED SISTER. 1769.
BY EYLES IRWIN, ESQ.
WHY sleep the sounds which struck my listening ear,
When angels lean'd, in Fancy's eye, to hear
A new Cecilia touch thy trembling strings,
And warble praises of the King of kings?
Alas! no more shall music wake thy frame,
Cold are those hands that gave thy music fame!
Mute is that voice, which charm'd the enraptur'd throng,
And match'd thy harmony with sacred song!
Nor thou, neglected instrument! repine,-
No other touch could make thy notes divine:
Emblem of her, whose loss the Nine deplore,
The Muse shall claim thee, but no Muse restore!
"The good that I would, I do not; but the evil which I would not, that I do." Video meliora, proboque Deteriora sequor.-TER.
How earnestly I would be free,
Would free my fetter'd soul
From bondage of perverse desire,
And passion's fierce controul !
I know my duty; and resolve
To walk in Wisdom's way;
But cannot, cannot persevere,
Nor Wisdom's will obey.
That I shall never trespass more,
With solemn vow I swear :
But suddenly temptation lures,
And whelms me unaware.
O who will save me from myself!
And rein my restless will!
Restrain vile appetite! and bid
My froward thoughts be still?
Hear me, O Heaven! for thou hast power
To quell my wild desires;
O quench, for thy Messiah's sake,
My soul's unhallow'd fires!
ELL may our eyes suffuse with sacred dew, Well may our souls with veneration thrill, Cana, the mount, and Calvary to view,
The plain of Esdraelon and Sion's hill! Yet is it not near Salem to have trod,
Or of her temples to display the chart, Can draw the Christian nearer to his God;
That "holy land" must be—a pious heart!