If ever innocence can know despair,
'Tis from such trance to start and find them there!
Mitford (I will not yield the honest fame
Thy virtues cast on my paternal name!)
Mitford, heaven speed thy efforts! well employed
Even though thy generous aim should be destroyed;
Even should'st thou fail the prison gates to ope,
Thou giv'st the captive much, in giving hope.
O hope most deeply shared! soon may the wind
Play round his brow in freshness unconfined!
Free as the wave, or as the roving cloud,
May he too wander, of his being proud,
Tasting the sweets of his young iiberty,
Remembering all his woes, and blessing thee!
ON HEARING MRS. PIGOT SING TO HER HARP, 1813. BY EYLES IRWIN, ESQ.
THE Form, that charm'd the world so long,
Nor motion ask'd, nor eye, nor song!
But now-the sculptur'd spell unbound!
Pour forth the miracles of sound:
Now, from her lips persuasion trills,
And each harmonious finger kills:
The Grecian wonder! call'd to life,
To waken rivalry and strife-
Each ear should deprecate the strain,
And wish the marble cold again!
BY THE RIGHT HON. W. H. BURGH, lord chief BARON OF THE EXCHEQUER OF IRELAND.
WHY yes, this busy scene, my friend,
Were curs'd without its destin'd end,
Which reason ought to give;
From wisdom we should learn at last
To taste the fruits of labour past,
And for ourselves to live.
For riches who? or who for power
Would trifle with his latest hour,
And toil till life's extreme;
Nor mark, to passion still a prey,
The little evening of his day
With one indulgent gleam?
The laurel who would cultivate,
When flames the summer's scorching heat,
Or wintry storms invade―
If some fond hope he did not breathe,
Calmly at length to rest beneath
Its honourable shade?
SLANZAS TO MISS H. B. 1778.
on a sea of trouble tost,
I hop'd the port to gain;
Where woes are in oblivion lost,
Where truth and quiet reign.
But, not the fraud ARABIA yields,
Where lurks oppression's sting:
THEBAIS' desolated fields,
Where fails the limpid spring:
Nor famish'd wastes, nor stormy seas,
Nor shocks, the globe that part,
United, rob the mind of ease,
Like Love's infected dart!
Ah, hapless youth! the thought how vain!
How fatal to thy rest!
That groves were still devoid of pain,
That shepherds still were blest!
Tho' thro' each land, by pilgrim trod,
Thy heart has still been free,
Thee waited here, Love's chastening rod-
Here bend thy stubborn knee!
'Tis not the form CIRCASSIA boasts,
Thy tender homage claims;
The feature of the GRECIAN coasts-
'Tis charms, that lack of names!
Whate'er the animated heart
Thro' timid looks conveys;
More potent than the painter's art,
Or poet's magic lays:
Whate'er of liberal, polish'd, meek,
The female race supply;
Flush in Honoria's blooming cheek,
Or languish in her eye!
Shun then, fond swain! the danger shun!
While yet thy fears have breath;
To linger here's to be undone—
To fly, is worse than death!
Instruct me then, some gracious power!
Her pity to implore;
Be this a favourable hour,
Or beat this heart no more!
a kiss so offend you, dear maid, And to punish the insult you burn, Let affront with affront be repaid, And kiss me ten times in return.
"Twas dreadful all-the scene around
The wearied eye could never bound,
The list'ning ear scarce heard a sound,
Save when reechoed back the ground
The pealing voice of War.
The morning sun had seen the plain
Adorned with Autumn's waving grain;
At evening when he looked again,
Through sulphurous clouds, of crimson stain,
'Twas ruin, wide and far.
The smiling cots no more appeared,
Or dimly seen, where darkly reared
Their mouldering walls, whose falling heard
By watching swains, told them interr'd
Was every hope their home.
The balmy breeze at morning's dawn,
Had wafted sweets from every lawn,
Till War, at evening, bade it fan
The burning homes of houseless man,
On burning wings to roam.
The swain, who scarce an hour ago
Trod o'er his fields nor feared a foe,
Now skulked his native woods below,
And looked from every bush a blow,
And waited as for death.
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