Imagens das páginas

O lover of the daisied lawn!
"Tis thine, at earliest peep of dawn
The ranging forester to greet,
Or the blithe lass: whose tripping feet,
All as she sings beneath her pail,
Imprint long traces o'er the vale,
Nor seekeșt thou the proud resorts
Of cities and licentious courts,
Where Sloth and Gluttony abide,
With bloated Surfeit by their side;
But humbly scornest lot to dwell
With Temperance in the rural

, cell;
To watch the sheep-boy, at his stand,
Or ploughman on the furrow'd land.
These climates cold, these barren plains,
Where rude uncultur'd Nature reigns,
Better thy hardy manners please
Than bowers of Luxury and Ease.
And oft you trip these hills among
With Exercise, a sportsman young,
Who starting at the call of day
Cuffs drowsy Indolence away,
And climbs with many a sturdy stride
The mossy Mountain's quivering side.
Nor fleeting mist, nor sullen storm,
Nor blast, nor whirlwind can deform
The careless scene when thou art there,
With Cheerfulness thy daughter fair.
From thee, bright Health, all blessings spring,
Hither thy blooming Children bring,
Light-hearted Mirth, and Sport, and Joy,
And young-ey'd Love thy darling boy.
'Tis thou hast pour'd o'er Beauty's face
Its artless bloom, its native grace;

Thou on my Laura's lip hast spread
The peach's blush, the rose's red;
With quickening life thy touch supplies
The polish'd lustre of her eyes.
O ever make thy dwelling there,
And guard from harm my favourite Fair!
O let no blighting grief come nigh ;
And chace away each hurtful sigh,
Disease with sickly yellow spread,
And Pain that holds the drooping head!
There as her beauties you defend,


in kindness bend
(So doubly bounteous wilt thou prove)
On me who live but in her love.

Oft may



an vitiis carentem
Ludit imago



When fix'd in all the zeal of prayer,

Thine eyes no earthly joys pursue, When all the world and mortal care Grow less and less


the view, What envious shadows intervene, To cloud thy beatific scene.

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What steals insidious o'er thy face,

To rifle there the rose's bloom ;
With cold hand shedding on each grace

The lily's paleness in its room?
Or is it death which chills thy breast,
Or is it thus that angels rest?

Be this the mockery of death!

Yet riper for celestial bliss,
Thou shalt resign thy latest breath,

Dissolving in a trance like this:
Then let this pause of life supply
An image how the virtuous die,
If what can charm the waking sense,

Still perseveres to charm the soul,
Where'er she soars in this suspense,

Above the body's gross controul, What visions now to thee are given, Which antedate the bliss of Heaven !

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How pleas'd thy spirits must retire,

Thus disembodied from their clay,
And on sublimer wings aspire,

To reach the regions of the day;
Where the soul short excursions tries,

familiar with the skies.
When first the new-fledg’d bird essays

His weak and yet untutor'd flight,
He circles round in many a maze,

Ere bold he tempts th' æreal height,
Thus the same path so often trod,
At last will lead thee to thy God,



My Country!-shall I mourn or bless, Thy tame and wretched happiness?

'Tis true-the vast Atlantic tide Has scoop'd thy harbours, deep and wide, Bold to protect and prompt to save, From fury of the western wave. And Shannon points to Europe's trade ; For that, his chain of lakes were made; For that, he scorns to waste his store, In channel of a subject shore; But courts the southern wind to bring, A world upon its rapid wing.

True--thy resplendent rivers run. And safe beneath a temp?rate sun, Springs the young verdure of thy plain, Nor dreads his torrid, castern reign.

True—thou art blest in nature's plan; Nothing seems wanting here but-Man. Man, to subdue, not serve the soil, To win and wear its golden spoil; Man, conscious of an earth his own, No savage biped, 'torpid, prone; Living, to dog his brother brute, And hung’ring for the lazy root, Food for a soft contented slave, Not for the hardy and the brave.

Had Nature been her enemy,
lerne might be fierce and free.
To the stout heart, and iron hand,
Temp’rate each sky, and tame each land.
A climate and a soil less kind,
Had form'd a map of richer mind;
Now a mere sterile swamp of soul,
Tho' meadows spread and rivers roll;
A nation of abortive men,
That dart--the tongue, and point--the pen,
And at the back of Europe hurl'd,
A base Posterior of the world.

In lap of Araby the bless'd,
Man lies, with luxury oppress’d,
While spicy odours blown around,
Enrich the air, and gems, the ground.
Bút through the pathless burning waste,
Man' marches with his patient beast;
Bravès the hot sun, and heaving sand,
And calls it free and happy land.

Enough to make a desert known,
Arms and the inan, and sand and stone.

DUBLIN MARCH 20, 1796.


Lend Sponge a guinca! Ned! you'd best refuse, And give him half-sure half's enough to lose !


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