And though, perdye, we do not cope
With that harmonious urchin, Pope,
Congreve facete, or Young sublime,
(Those were tall fellows in their time!)
Still, though no Virgils, 'faith, or Pindars,
We rake not Kotzebue's old cinders,
And hawk his rubbish round the land,
Proud to be dull--at second-hand.

While you the comic fair enjoy,
Parent of many a sprightly boy,
Whose arch rebuke, and mimic rage,
May mend the morals of the stage;
Or, in heart-balming laughter steep
The languid lid, that wakes to weep,
1, by more serious beauties caught,
May dress in rhyme the tender thought;
(For I have ever cast an eye

On ancient, prudish poetry,)
To satire's side, indignant, turn,
With the grave tragic vestal mourn ;
Or, (should the pow'rs of mirth allow,)
Write doggrel; just as I do now.

THE VISION OF ST. PATRICK.

A FRAGMENT.

THE storm was up, for mischief ready,
Old Patrick's church, with tempests giddy,
Rock'd its tall shatter'd spire unsteady;

Each antique pile

Regroan'd the blast, when fraught with dread, I

Stalk'd the long aisle :

Sudden, meanwhile, a mitred shade,

In venerable stole array'd,

Broke on my musing eye dismay'd

From that lone tomb

Where Swift, Ierne's boast, is laid

Deep clad in gloom.

"Ah me!" the awful semblance sigh'd, "Thus lies my son, my country's guide,

Where Night and dim Oblivion hide

His moulder'd grave,

While trophies deck each corse of pride,

Each worthless slave.

"No filial tear by Wisdom shed, Streams fondly o'er his marble bed ; No bosom mourns the patriot dead;

No scutcheons grace

The man, who Shame's broad colours spread On Folly's face.

"Unhappy clime, thrice blest in vain,
What hand shall wake the lofty strain?
Who, burst from thy inglorious train,
By genius fir'd,

That view'st unmov'd the minstrel's fane,
Dull, uninspir❜d.

66 Long, lovely exile, hath the pow'r Whose sweet chord lent the raptur'd hour, Left that mean coast where knaves devour

The meed of merit,

Where Want hails down its freezing shower On struggling spirit!

"Where Worth's small gem unheeded gleams Mid tasteless Grandeur's gorgeous beams,

Where scant the rill of Bounty streams,

To nurse those blooms

That frame the wreath which richly teems

With true perfumes.

"Nor Fame shall mark thy little shore,

Nor pleas'd Posterity explore

Thy curious haunts for native lore,

While sad, and low,

The Bard resigns his tuneful store

To listless Woe."

THE DAYS OF YORE.

IN knightly hall, or lady's bow'r,
Erewhile the vocal lyre was strung;
And many a laurel, many a flow'r,
Round the sweet Minstrel's harp was hung:

Graceful array'd in flowing stole
Of green, with tissued roses wove,
Ilis ardor warm'd th' heroic soul,
His softness sooth'd disastrous love:

Mid Harmony's responsive hoard,
His cunning fingers featly caught
Each sound, that rapture might afford,
Or lift sublime the tow'ring thought.

Yet oft to shun the garish beam,
Mid the deep desert would he stray;
And following quick some haunted stream,

Oft wander from the world away: