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!
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, To grow 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, eastern 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,
Ierne 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.
But through the pathless burning waste,
Man marches with his patient beast;
Braves the hot sun, and heaving sand,
And calls it free and happy land.
Enough to make a desert known,
Arms and the man, and sand and stone.
DUBLIN MARCH 20, 1796.
LEND SPUNGE & guinca! Ned! you'd best refuse, And give him half-sure half's enough to lose!
To the Memory of John Courtenay, a Cadet in the Corps of Engineers, who died at Calcutta, December 1794, in the 19th Year of his Age.
BY HIS FATHER, JOHN COURTENAY, ESQ, M. P.
O SHADE belov'd, still present to my sight,
My daily vision, and my dream by night!
In all thy youthful bloom thou seem'st to rise,
With filial love yet beaming from thy eyes.
Such were thy looks, and such thy manly grace,
When late I held thee in a last embrace;
When in my breast presaging terrors grew,
And, sunk in grief, I sigh'd a long adieu.
How soon to thee this plaintive note I owe,
My plaintive note to soothe maternal woe!
"Those fading orbs their darling view no more,
"And the last charm of ebbing life is o'er."
Dark o'er my head the low'ring moments roll,
For ever set the sun-beam of my soul.
Is this, indeed, the universal doom!
ray of hope to cheer the lonely tomb!
Perhaps the soul, a pure ethereal flame,
May still survive her frail and transient frame,
And wrapp'd in bliss, the great Creator trace,
Celestial Power! who lives thro' boundless space!
See his benevolence unclouded shine,
Where wisdom, virtue, dwell in joys divine;
In an Elegy on Captain Courtney.
Search truths sublime; with sacred rapture scan
His gracious views conceal'd from erring man:
But reason vainly would this depth explore,
And fabled systems make us doubt the more.
O Youth belov'd, now mouldering in the tomb,
Each soft progression, ev'n to manhood's bloom,
My fancy paints; in infancy my pride,
With sparkling eyes still playful at my side;
The lively boy then rose with winning grace,
Till ripening ardour mark'd his glowing face.
I saw him shine in every liberal art,
Science and fame the passion of his heart.
Where Granta's domes o'erhang the cloister'd plain,
Studious he mix'd in Learning's pensive train;
There, Meditation lent her sacred aid,
To woo bright Science in the peaceful shade.
Why tempt that burning clime, that fatal shore?
*The glorious motive pains my bosom more.
When bards sublime attun'd the sounding lyre,
His vivid breast display'd congenial fire:
He bade TYRTÆUS' martial ardour shine,
And breathes his spirit in each glowing line;
With Henry's glory gilds his classic lays,
And joins the Prince's in the Hero's praise;
Indignant scorn on Freedom's foe he flings,
And spurns ambition, the mean vice of Kings;
With PRIOR's graceful ease he moves along,
And laughs at fiction in his sportive song;
With pregnant fancy, brilliant wit defines,
And blends examples in his playful lines;
* Extract of one of his letters from Portsmouth, April 20, 1794. "For the idea of being a service to, and of again seeing those who are so dear to me, is the most lively and pleasing sensation I can ever have."
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