792

Ill-fated bird! thou fhalt, alas! no more
The streamy copfe, and fhaded rill explore;
No more, with vernal funs, afcend the fky,
Look down on mortals, and to Lapland fly;
No more from thence, before the folar light
Departs, and winter there is one dread night,
Return to brighter climes, with weary wings,
To fweet Kilwarlin, and its limpid fprings:
Whatever life thou hadft, whatever joy,
A youth, barbarian! did at once deftroy.

Poetry.

There was a time, when with a better grace
Our youth had fported with the winged race;
When, wild in woods, our rugged fires did know
The ufe of little but the bended bow:
But now that sciences and arts abound,
Now that pursuits far nobler may be found,
Still, ftill to profecute the fylvan ftrife,
The woodland war, is plainly lofing life,
And giving up the man, and manly joys,
For vulgar pleasures, and the sports of boys.
J. H.
Hillborough.
Prologue to the new Tragedy of the Carme-
lite. Written by the Author. Spoken by

Mr. Palmer.

Ο

LD Drury's dock prepares a launch this
night,

New from the keel (fair speed The Carmelite!)
True British-built, and from the Tragic flip;
She mounts great guns-tho' not a first-rate
ship:

A gallant knight commands, of ancient fame
And Norman blood, St. Valori his name;
On his main-top the Chriftian Crofs he bears,
From Holy Land he comes, and Pagan wars:
Twenty long years his lady mourns him dead,
And bathes with faithful tears a widow'd bed;
One fcene prefents him fhipwreck'd on her
coait-

No fign, we hope, our venture will be loft.
Yet bold the bard, to mount Ambition's

wave,

And launch his wit upon a watery grave;
Sharp critic rocks beneath him lie in wait,
And envious quickfands bar the mufe's straight;
While o'er his head detraction's billows break,
Doubt chills his heart, and terror pales his
cheek.

Hungry and faint, what cordials can he bring
From the cold nymph of the Pierian spring?
What flores collect from bare Parnaffus' head,
Where blooms no vineyard, where no beeves are
fed?

And great Apollo's laurels, which impart

Fame to his head, and famine to his heart.

Yet on he toils, and eager bends his eyes,

Where Fame's bright temple glitters to the

fkies.

Ah, Sirs, 'tis eafy work to fit on fhore
And tutor him who tugs the labouring oar;
Whilst he amidst the furging ocean fteers,
Now here, now there, as Fashion's current
for his point wh
you who fit

yeers :

So fhall our bard fteer to its friendly blaze,
And anchor in the haven of your praife.

Epilogue to the Same.

App.

By the Author. Spoken by Mrs. Siddens.

LADIES, we now have thewa a faithful

And truft our fcene prevails in real life;
We hope that nuptial truth's your reigning paffion,
If not-why let the stage begin the fashion.
'Tis our's to paint you innocent and true;
To be what we defcribe, depends on you -
Two tragic mafters grac'd the Athenian flage,
One sketch'd with candour, and one dash'd with
rage:

Old Sophocles's dames were heavenly creatures,
His rival drew them all in fury features;
Both err'd, perhaps :-The milder urg'd this ples,
"I paint my women as they ought to be:"
The angry bard, relentless to the fair,
Sternly reply'd, “I paint mine as they are."

Our Author (pardon if he brings his name
Too near to those of an immortal fame)
At humble distance takes the milder plan,
Lefs proud to be a poet than a man ;
Scorns firft to forge and then enforce a crime,
Or polifh libels into truth by rhyme.
If you have faults, alas! he bids me say,
Oh! that his wifh cou'd charm them all away !
For if no cure but cauftics can be found,
He will not make a fore to heal a wound;
If you have faults, they're faults he'll not discover,
To your own fex he begs to bind you over.
So many ladies now there are who write,"
You'll hear of all your trips fome winter's night:
Since Pegafus has learn'd the jadish trick
To bear a fide-faddle, you'll find him kick.

But let no fatirift touch my lips with gall,
Lips from which none but grateful words thall fall.
Can I forget?-But I must here be dumb,
So vast my debt, I cannot count the fum;
Words would but fail me, and I claim no art,
I boast no eloquence-but of the heart.
Song by Mrs. Martyr, in the Comedy of The
Follies of a Day.

O the winds, to the waves, to the woods
I complain;
Ah! well-a-day my poor heart!

They hear not my fighs, and they heed not my
pain;

Ah! well-a-day, my poor heart!

The name of my goddess I grave on each tree;
Ah! well-a-day my poor heart!

'Tis I wound the bark, but Love's arrows wound

TO THE

HIBERNIAN MAGAZINE,

OR,

Compendium of Entertaining Knowledge,
For the YEAR 1784.

Harlequin Junior, a Pantomime 37 Bonfoy, Mr. his Speech

305 Bon Mot

Bradshaw, Prefident, Account of
Account of his Fa

Dea

705 Burgh, Captain, his Speeches 324, 326
344 Burgoyne, General, bis Speeches 154, 210
379 Burke, Mr. Edmund, his Speeches 99,
$54, 211, 212, 403, 473, 537, 60s

Bradftreet, Sir Samuel, his Speech 542
British Intelligence 49, 105, 161, 217,
274, 345, 409, 481, 546, 610, 674, 737
Theatre 37, 136, 200, 344, 459,
575, 634, 704

Der

Dec

De

Det

D

ALCULATION of the Bible
Caftle of Coftanzo, a Tale 583

705 Cavendish, Sir Henry, his Speeches 44,

D

D

Hiftory, Oriental, of Arfaces and Ifmena Lift of the Lottery Prizes
315, 357, 428 Lord Ruffel, a Tragedy, by Mr. Hayleys

of the princely Reparation 263
of a remarkable Duel
of the Tiger

Hotel, the, a Farce
Hunt the Slipper, a Farce

Johnfon, Governor, bis Speeches 474, 537

of Lord Carysfort, Ceremo

66, 123

Lift of the British Houfe of Commons 329 Occurrences of the Year 1783