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Where to the Ocean Shannon yields his store
And scorns the channel of a subject shore;
Green meadows spread-resplendent rivers run-
A healthy climate and a temp'rate sun.
There Misery sits and eats her lazy root,
There, man is proud to dog his brother brute:
In sloth the Genius of the isle decays,
Lost in his own, reverts to former days;
Yet still, like Lear, would in his hovel rule,
Mock'd by the madman, jested by the fool

There, meet th' extremes of rank--there social art
Has leveli'd mankind by their selfish heart.
There, no contented middle rank we trace,
The sole ambition to be rich and base.
Some, o'er their native element elate
Like ice-form'd islands tower in frozen state;
Repel all nature with their gelid breath,
And what seems harbour is the jaw of death.
The wretched mass beat down the struggling mind,
Nor see, nor feel their country, or their kind,
But bow the back and bend the eye to earth,
And strangle feeling in its infant birth,
Through all, extends one sterile swamp of soul,
And fogs of apathy invest the whole.

Thrice blest in fate, had Strongbow never bore
His band of robbers to green Erin's shore!
In savage times the seat of learning known,
In times refin’d, itself the savage grown.
Left to herself, she of herself had join'd
Surrounding nations in the race of mind;
With them,

work'd off the rough barbarian soul,
With them, progressive to a common goal.
Her petty chieftains conquer'd by the throne,
For common interest, while it meant its own;

By law, at length, the King to People chain'd,
His duties modell’d and their rights maintain'd ;
From strong collision of internal strife
Had sprung an energy of public life;
(For pain and travail that precede the birth
Endear sweet Freedom to the mother earth)
Then man had rais'd his spacious forehead high,
Lord of himself, the sea, the soil, the sky,
Twin'd round his sword the wreath of civic art,
And prov'd the wisdom of a fearless heart;
No penal cate had then impal'd the land ;
No stranger Court-no King at second-hand.

TO MISS E. M. WITH SOME GUITAR MUSIC,
Nor in the trifling tinkling lyre

Is Music sought or found :
The voice must with the note conspire,

And mingle sense with sound.
Far, far beyond the finger's art

One thrilling weeping tone,
That makes the strings of ev'ry heart

Responsive to thy own.
Yet vain the voice and tinkling strings,

With all their arts cumbin'd,
But to their aid Eliza brings,

The music of the mind.
Still may that living lyre impart,

More bliss than meets the ear,
And gladden still a mother's heart,
And be to one more dear.

DR. DRINNAN.

1

ye

STANZAS, WRITTEN IN

A VOLUME OF MENORIALS SACRED TO FRIENDSHIP, BELONGING TO ROBERT BOURNE

LSQ. OF DUBLIN. OH

who mock Affection's sacred name! : Her angel nature and her balmy tear, Who never triumph'd in a brother's fame,

Nor deem'd it sweet to hold another dear; Whose names with bigot Ignorance are found,

Beyond her abject sphere afraid to move; Who never breath'd on Fancy’s fairy ground,

Unwarm'd by Science and unknown to love ;
Turn from these tablets, to remembrance dear;

For know the natives of a generous breast
Stampt their fair semblance in a vision here,
And Genius guards what holier Friendship blest.

whose souls a proud alliance claim
With those baptiz'd the family of Heav'n,

on these leaves your consecrated name,

name that Virtue to her sons hath giv'n. Memorials, sacred to the conscious heart!

Ye glow, the pledge of happier days to come, When healthis warm colour shall no inore desert

The check that crimsons at the thought of home. Ah! when the emerald billows of the west,

Shall bear thee back to Erin's beauteous isle, The vivid pictures on these leaves imprest

Shall wake no more a stranger's mournful smile.

But

ye,

Trace

The

No more shall wake with cabalistic power

The native scenes to filial duty dear, Nor troubļd Fancy in her feverish hour,

Chill the warm heart with many an anxious fear,

These simple lines may then the spell possess,

Lodged in the reliques parted friends revere, And memory still the manly worth shall bless

That made thee feel thou wast no Exile here,

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Yes, yes, I own it was a tear :

A tear too shed for thee,
But chide me not, thou tyrant dear,

No more such tears thou'lt see.

For though it lent some little ease,

Midst griefs I dar'd not speak,
Yet ere another shall displease

My full, fond heart shall break,

S. W, I.

!

Alluding to Mr. Bourne's residence in the family of the Author's friend, Dr. Anderson, for the recovery of his health.

LINES TO S. S.

WITH KOTZEBUE'S PLAYS.

BY DR. DRENNAN,

A Muse that pleases, without rule or art,
The child of nature and an honest heart,
That fears on Fancy's wings too far to roam,
Rapt in the sweet concentred bliss of home;
A foreign muse (tho' nothing said or sung,
To me seems foreign, save the heartless tongue)
Thy Drennan sends—his zest for reading flown;
Ev'n tears seem selfish when they're shed alone.
No voice to praise~no darling Sarah near,
No lip of love to catch the falling tear,
No neck inclining to the soft caress,
No eye to glisten, and no hand to press,
No mouth to meditate the matron kiss,
While the heart palpitates for nameless bliss,
No sigh for something future, unpossess'd,
No smile, that says-Be with the present bless'd.
If sorrows double, when we feel alone,
And pleasure palls, when only felt by one;

If sympathy still makes the suff'ring less,
And, by dividing, adds to happiness;
If earth meets heav'n but by partaken bliss,
And heav'n grows brighter heav'n when angels kiss ;
Oh, then, sweet Sarah, hasten to his arms,
Who shares thy joys, will sooth thy soft alarms,

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