All, all eclips'd and sunk! Those stones, 'Scutcheon'd with rude gigantic bones, Shew the tyrant zealot's end,
And where his schemes of power tend.
Near pebbled beds, where riv'lets play, And linger in the beams of day; 'Mid sods by kneeling martyrs worn, Embrown'd with many a horrid thorn, On whose branches off'rings fade, (Proof of vows devoutly paid ;) Where the owlet shrieking hides, Cov'ring with leaves his ragged sides; Wont the solemn bell to flow In silver notes, prolonging slow Tides of matchless melody, Rousing the friar to secret glee; While the vot'ries creep along, And, half-unwilling, join the throng, Their fates depending on his word, Own'd of their breasts almighty lord :Yes, let them slumber here at last, Their tyrannies, their suff'rings past; And lend a venerable dread
To the lone abbey's rocking head.
WHATE'ER of wonder Art or Nature fram'd,
For giant strength or pigmy graces fam'd.
Oh, let me scan, while Life's short changes last,
Pant for the future, and enjoy the past;
Oh! thus, while smiling years all-fav'ring roll,
Compact my body and expand my soul !—
Who, like a worm, in one dull spot would crawl,
Nor view with curious eye this lovely ball?
Who would not wish, with sacred knowledge smit,
To read that page the God of Wisdom writ?
Who would not nicely mark each varied hue
Of that fair scene the God of Beauty drew?
Painter immensely grand, minutely fine,
Whose pictures live and flourish as they shine.
Whether Killarney's silver-rolling tide,
Howth's vernal crest, or Antrim's rocky pride,
Entranc'd we view,-the silent rapture glows,
And Nature trembles at the work she shews.
Who would not fathom Etna's burning womb ?
Who would not thread old Arden's devious gloom?
Who would not tread where dauntless Scipio trod ? Who would not trace the long disfigur'd god,
Whose mould'ring bust, once crown'd with many a
With many a festive myrtle, wants a nose;
While lurks in shades uncouth the Paphian queen,
And Hermes sticks two Christian saints between ?
The serious smile their sportive dooms excite,
And classic wit laughs loudly at the sight:
Nor is the useless moral cast away;-
Lo, Grandeur crumbling to a little clay!
MY fond social linnet, to thee
What dear winning charms did belong!
On my hand thou wouldst carol with glee,
On my bosom attend to my song.
Sweet bird, in return for my strain,
Thou warbled'st thy own o'er again.
Love, jealous a bird should thus share
My affections, shot speedy his dart:
To my swain now I sung ev'ry air;
The linnet soon took it to heart.
Sweet bird, in how plaintive a strain
Thou warbled'st thy own jealous pain!
But faithless my lover I found;
And in vain to forget him I tried :
The linnet perceiv'd my heart's wound;
He sicken'd, he droop'd, and he died.
Sweet bird, why to death yield the strain ?
Thy song would have lighten'd my pain.
Dear linnet, I'll pillow thy head;
In down will I coffin thy breast; And when thy sad mistress is dead, Together in peace we will rest. Sweet bird, how ill-fated our strain! We shall warble, alas! ne'er again.
DEAR girls, in youth and beauty's prime
Despise not friendship's graver rhyme;
Friendship, that marks your early bloom
Perfection's brightest tints assume.
The tints of modest worth divine,
When sense and harmless wit combine,
Prompt each low passion to control,
Or bind in rosy chains the soul.
Ob, ever-charming! let not Pside,
Usurper bold, your breasts divide,
Nor fashion beauteous nature hide;
Assur'd your soft eyes' radiant hue
Can heal, disturb, and conquer too;
Oh! let not Affectation, queen
Of the nice lisp, the mincing mien,
And studied glance, obscure their rays,
Blighting the bloomy wreath of praise.
Yet, sure, this idly-moral strain
Is both presumptuous and vain ;
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