Printed by T. Courtney, 6, Wood-street,
sold by the author. 18131813.
Several of my Readers may, perhaps, be led to censure some of the following Pieces, in consequence of the frequent introduction of Myself; but this was unavoidable, from the circumstances which gave rise to a considerable number of the Poems.
All I dare venture to say for the Work is, that few (if any) of the poems it contains were written with the design of sending them into the world—adverse circumstances alone have compelled me to offer them to the Public.
C. Quigley.Dublin, 18131813.
- Averal, Rev. Adam, Mount Salem
- Adams, Mr. Fs. Monaghan, 7 copies
- Adams, Mrs. do. 3 ditto.
- Alford, Mr. John
- Armstrong, Mr. C. Dublin
- Armstrong, Mr, H. Dublin
- Armstrong, Mrs.
- Armstrong, A. Esq. Enniskil.
- Armstrong, Mr. James
- Armstrong, Surgeon, Clones
- Arbuckle, Mr. George, Sligo
- Atkinson, T. Esq. B. Shannon
- Allingham, Wm. Esq. ditto
- Alexander, Mr. S. Clones,
- Armstrong, Miss
- Armstrong, Mr. Geo. Dublin
- Andoe, Mr. M. ditto
- Armstrong, Mr. J. Monaghan
- Austin, Mr. Robert Dublin
- Argue, Mr. Monaghan,
- Argue, Mr. T.
- Armstrong, Mr. Francis
- Atkins, Lieutenant James, Royal Navy
- Belvedere, Countess of
- Ball, Rev. Wm. Clones
- Byrne, Rev. James
- Bartley, Mr. Ballibay,
- Brown, Mrs. Dublin
- Brown, Miss, do.
- Brown, Geo. Esq. ditto
- Babington, Miss, Cavan.
- Bolton, Mr. Lynden, Dublin 2 copies
- Brice, Miss, Cavan
- Brice, Miss Mary do.
- Bligh, Miss, do. 5 copies
- Bligh, Miss Mary, do. 5 copies
- Bligh, Mr. Thomas, Jus. do.
- Briggs, Mr. John
- Bradley, Mr. Edward
- Burns, Miss Clones
- Beatty Mrs. do.
- Bradshaw, John, Esq. B. Shan.
- Bradshaw, Mrs do.
- Britton, John, Esq. B. Shan.
- Beasly, Mr.
- Beard, Mr. T. Dub. 2 copies
- Burns, Mr. C. Dublin
- Beggs, Mr. Wm. Dublin viiiπ(4)v
- Boyd, Mrs. Castle Blaney
- Burke, Mr. Alexander
- Barklie, Mr. Samuel
- Barklie, Mrs. Keady,
- Brown, Mr. David,
- Brady, Mr. R. Clones
- Berry, Mrs. Mohill,
- Brady, Mr. Thos.
- Bell, Mr. Jno. Newry,
- Brennan, Mr. R.
- Brown, Mr. S. Maynooth
- Beers, Mr. Wm. Dublin
- Bradford, Mr. W. Enniskillen
- Creighton, Lady Catharine Knock-ballimore
- Cochran, Mrs. Clones, 3 copies
- Cochran, Miss, ditto, 2 do.
- Cochran, Gore, Esq. ditto, 2 do.
- Cochran, Gore, Esq. ditto
- Cross, Mrs. ditto
- Crumley, Miss, ditto
- Connolly, Miss, ditto
- Conway, Miss, ditto
- Clarke, Miss, ditto
- Creighton, Miss, Kilmore
- Creighton, Miss E. ditto
- Creighton, John, Esq. do.
- Carmichael, Miss, Hermitage
- Carmichael, Mr. John, ditto
- Cuppage, Miss, Colerain
- Crawford, Mrs. B. Shannon
- Crozier, Mr. T. Clones
- Christian, Lieut.88 regt.
- Clarke, Mr. R. Killavilla Cumming, Mr. James
- Craig, Mr. John
- Cowan, Mr. Thomas
- Connolly, Mr. R. Dublin
- Connolly, Mr. W. ditto
- Crawford, Mr. Thos. ditto
- Clarke, Mr. S.N.T. Butler
- Campbell, Mr. Wm.
- Caldwell, Mr. J Rockcorry
- Clarke, Mr. B. Clones
- Clarke, Miss Sarah do.
- Crawford, Geo. Esq. Belfast
- Crawford, Mr. Wm. Dublin
- Crawford, Mr. Geo. Manorhamilton
- Coyle, Mr. George, Cavan
- Cahill, Mr. Thos. Dublin
- Courtney, Mr. Thomas, 16 copies, do.
- Callaghan, Mr. Owen
- Cotton, Mr. Wm.
- Caldwell, Mr. J. Dublin
- Crookes, Miss, Trumevay
- Corkran, Mr. John, Dublin
- Crawford, Mr. James, ditto
- Carson, Mr. Joseph, Fintona
- Craig, Mr. Andrew
- Druitt, Rev. Joseph, Cavan
- Druitt, Mrs. ditto
- Dickinson, Miss, Dublin, 3 copies
- Downing, Mr. Sam. Wicklow
- Dickson, Mr. A. Armagh ixπ(5)r
- Dwyer, Mr. Alex. Longford
- Donahoe, Mr. Isaiah
- Dougherty, Mr. Coleraine
- Dudgeon, Mr. John
- Dudgeon, Mr. R. Clones. 2 cop.
- Dickson, Mr. Geo.
- Dunleavy, Charles, Esq.
- Davidson, Mr. T.ditto
- Dane, Miss, Enniskillen
- Draffen, Mrs. Dublin
- Dack, Mr. R. Dublin
- Day, Mr. J. B. ditto
- Doxy, Mr. Hercules
- Dunn, Mr. Robert
- Erskine, Wm. Esq. Cavan
- English, Mrs. Dublin
- Ellison, Mr. Allan, ditto
- Ellison, Mr. John, ditto
- Elliot Mrs. Clones
- Elliot, Mr. F. Cavan.
- Forster, Rev. Richard, Clones
- Finney, Mrs. Enniskillen
- Fleming Mrs. Belturbet
- Fleming, Mrs. Monaghan
- Foley, Miss, Dublin, 2 copies
- Fitzgerald, Mr. R Cavan
- Fitzgerald, Mr. J. Clones
- Fitzgerald, Mrs. ditto
- Forster, W. Esq. Ballinure
- Forster, Mr. G. Clones Fleming, Mr. P. Dromore
- Freeman, Mr. R.
- Finlay, J. Esq. Belturbet
- Fox, Mr. Wm. Dublin
- Fox, Mr. John, ditto
- Faussett, R. Esq. Silverhill
- Faussett, Miss, Callahill
- Fisher, Mrs. Dublin
- Freeman, Mr. Wm.
- Fitzsimmons, Mr. C.
- Gumley, Rev. J. Belturbert
- Gass, Rev. Robert,
- Gumley, Miss ditto
- Gumley, Wm. Esq. ditto
- Gumley, D. Esq. ditto
- Gumley, H. Esq. ditto
- Greenham, Mr. J. Dublin
- Graham, Miss, Maguires-b.
- Graham, Mr. W. A. Dublin
- Graham, Mr. C. ditto
- Graham, Mrs. ditto
- Grace, Miss, ditto, 2 copies
- Graham, T. Esq. Clones
- Gibson, Mr. William
- Gallogly, Mr. Geo. Cavan
- Gallogly, Mr. J. Enniskillen
- Guttridge, Mr. R. jun. do.
- Harpur, Rev. James, C. Blaney
- Hodson, A. Esq. Enniskillen,
- Hood, Mr. S. N.T. Stewart, xπ(5)v
- Haughy, Mrs. Newry, 2 c.
- Hanna, Mr. Geo, do.
- Higgins, Mr. Jas Ballina
- Henry, Mr. Joseph, Dublin,
- Harpur, Mrs. Coleraine,
- Harpur, Mr. Samuel, ditto
- Henderson, Mr. Wm.
- Hamilton, Mrs. C. Blaney,
- Hunter, Miss Cavan
- Hunter, Mr. E. Castleblaney,
- Herdman, Mr. Wm. Belfast
- Holden, Mr. Henry, do.
- Henry, Mr. Isaac, Clones
- Hunter, Miss, Eliza
- Heslip, Mr. Wm.
- Higginbottom, Mr. Cootehill,
- Hawkshaw, Miss, Spring-gr.
- Harman, Miss, Belturbet.
- Harman, Miss Ann, do.
- Hall, Jas. Esq. Enniskillen,
- Huddlestone, Mr. F. Belfast,
- Henry, Mr. M. M.
- Harpur, Mr W. Killesandra,
- Huggins, Mrs. Killdallin,
- Hughes, Miss, Dublin,
- Healey, Mr. Jno. do.
- Horner, Mr. A. Ballybay,
- Humphreys, Mrs. Dublin,
- Humphreys, Miss, do.
- Hoey, Mr. Thos. do.
- Halpen, Mr Jas. do.
- Hall, Mr. Wm. do.
- Hopkins, Mr. J. Shelelagh
- Irvine, Mrs Johns-town, Irvine, Geo. Esq.
- Irvine, W. Esq. Dublin,
- Irvine, Hazlet, Esq. Dublin, 2 copies
- Irvine, Mrs. Enniskillen,
- Irvine, Mr. T. do.
- Jackson, Mr. Jas. Clones,
- Jackson, Mrs. do.
- Jackson, Miss, do.
- Jackson, Mr. R. College-land
- Jackson, Mrs. do.
- Jackson, Mr. R. Clones
- Jemmison, Mr. Coote-hill
- Jackson, Mr. Jas.
- Johnson, Captain S. Clones
- Johnson, Mr James, do.
- Johnson, Mr. Maguire’s-b.
- Johnson, Rev. T. Enniskillen
- Jones, Mr. Jas.
- Jones, Mr. R. Maynooth,
- Jackson, Capt. R. Monaghan
- Jebb, Mr. Jno. do.
- Johnson, Mrs. do.
- Jebb, Mr. Jas. Coote-hill,
- Jervice, Jno. Esq. Belfast,
- Jackson, Mr. Geo. Dublin
- King, Hon. Mrs. Spring-grove
- King, Mrs. G. K. bBallimore,
- Kidd, Rev. A. Jonesborough
- Kidd, Miss, Keady, 3 copies xiA(1)r
- Kidd, Mr. J. Keady
- Kidd, Mr. Robert, ditto
- Kidd, Mr. J. Millmount
- Kidd, Mr. G. Tullyglush
- Kidd, Mr. H. Vermont
- Kidd, Mr. S. Linen-Vale
- Kidd, Mr. H. Armagh
- Kidd, Mr. T. ditto
- Kidd, Mr. B. ditto
- Kidd, Mr. R. A. Johnstown
- Kidd, Mr. Wm. Portadown
- Knox, Mr. Wm.
- Kent, Miss
- Kean, Mr. John
- Knipe, Mr. E.
- Kilpatrick, Mr. Wm.
- Knipe, G.M. Esq.
- Kearny, Mr. J.P. Dublin
- Keely, Mr. ditto
- Kelly, Mr. Joseph, ditto
- Keene, Mr. John, Dublin
- Lucy, Mr. A. Armagh
- Lipsett, Mr. T. Ballyshannon
- Little, Mr. James, Dublin
- Little, Mr. John Cavan
- Lewers, Mr. Wm. Castle Bl.
- Lynne, Miss
- Leatham, Lieutenant
- Litton, Mr. Joseph, Dublin
- Litton, Mr. B. S. ditto
- Litton, Mr. A. H. ditto
- Litton, Mr. R. do.
- Lowry, Mr. J. Dublin Lessley, Mr. E. New Castle county Wicklow
- Lewis, Mr. Geo. Dublin
- Lelland, Mrs. Dublin
- Lanktree, Miss, Kilmore
- Moore, Rev. Doctor
- Moore, Miss
- Moffatt, Rev. Wm
- Moore, J. Esq. Cavan, 2 copies
- Montgomery, N. Esq.
- Mackay, Mr. Thomas
- M‘Kewen, Mr. James
- M‘Kinstry, Mr. Lee, Keady, 2 copies
- M‘Kinstry, Miss, ditto
- Mathews, Mr. Richard
- M‘Math, Mr. James
- Mathews, Mr. J F. Dublin
- Mathewson, Mr. Lavens, Newtown Stewart
- M‘Clean, Mr. Robert Dublin
- M‘Clean, Mr. Andrew do.
- Mulholland, Mr. Thomas do.
- Murray, Miss do.
- Murray, Miss D. do.
- Moorhead, Mr. S. Monaghan
- Martin, Mr. John Clones
- Mitchel, Mr. E. do.
- Mitchel, Mrs. ditto
- Montgomery, Mr. James
- M‘Clune, Mr. Wm.
- M‘Clean, Mr. Samuel
- Moore, Mr. Thomas xiiA(1)v
- M‘Clean, Mr. Dublin
- Mitcheltree, Mr. Wm.
- M‘Dowel, Mr. Belfast
- M‘Gowran, Mr. P. do.
- M‘Cabe, Mr. J. Cavan
- M‘Bean, Mrs. ditto
- M‘Dowel, Mr. A. Dublin
- M‘Dowel, Mrs.
- Mather, Mr. Joseph
- Murray, Miss, Cavan
- Moore, Miss, Crosdony
- Moore, Mrs. Augnacloy, 3 copies
- Mathews, Mrs. Clones
- Matthews, Mr. John, ditto
- Martin, Dr. Wm. G. Cavan
- M‘Moran, Dr. Monaghan
- M‘Arthur, Mr. John
- M‘Carter, Mr. J. Ahabog
- Moorhead, Miss, Killesandra
- Magennis, Miss, Clones
- Madder, Mr. Samuel
- Murray, Miss C. Dublin
- M‘Mahon, Mr. Hugh, Clones
- M‘Murray, Mr. Andrew do.
- M‘Murray, Mrs. do.
- Moore, Mr. Jas. Belfast
- Miller, Jno. Esq. Ballintra.
- M‘Connell, Mr. Wm. Belfast
- M‘Cartney, Doctor F.M.
- M‘Cartney, J. Esq. Abbey-I.
- M‘Cartney, Mrs. do.
- Montford, Mr.
- M‘Clure, Miss Jane
- M‘Dermot, Mr.
- M‘Casky, Wm. Esq Dublin M‘Nally, Mr. R. Dublin
- M‘Elwaine, Mr. Ballymena
- M‘Kean, Mr. Newry
- Minnit, Mr. Farnham
- M‘Cord, Mrs. Drumlarney
- Moorehead, Doctor, Nublis
- M‘Phall, Mr. J. Boyle
- Marguren, Mr. F. Cavan
- M‘Callan, Mr. C. Monaghan
- M‘Cannon, Mr.
- Noble, Mrs. Enniskillen
- Norris, Berry, Esq. Mohill
- Nubold, Mr. Sheffield
- Nicholl, Mrs. Coleraine
- Nixon, Mr. Geo. Clones
- Ovens, Rev. Wm. Church-hill
- Oliver, Mrs. Tullamore,
- Page, Mr. Ephraim, Dublin
- Poyntz, Mr. B. ditto
- Poyntz, Mrs. ditto
- Pallen, Mr. J. ditto
- Phillips, Mr. J. Castle Blaney.
- Powell, Lieut. L.Militia
- Parr, Mr. J. G. Clones
- Pratt, Lieut.27th regt. xiiiA(2)r
- Parke, Robt. Esq. Longfield
- Perrin, Miss E. Wicklow
- Price, Mr. Guy, Dublin
- Pounden, Mr. ditto
- Price, Mr. Thos. do.
- Roper, Rev. Dean, Clones
- Robinson, Surgeon, Cavan
- Richardson, Miss H. Lurgan 7 copies
- Ross, Mr. D. Dublin
- Rutherford, Miss, Clones, 2 copies
- Rutherford, Mr. E. Garrison
- Reynolds, Mr. Coleraine
- Robinson, Mrs. Mt. Pleasant
- Robinson, Mr. A. ditto
- Robinson, Mr. J. Summer-hill
- Roney, Miss
- Richardson, Mr. S. Monaghan
- Ransbury, Miss, Clones
- Reynolds, Mr. Paul, Dublin
- Rourke, Mr. Walter, ditto
- Roger, Mrs.
- Richardosn, Mrs. Dublin
- Mr. G. Dublin, 2 copies
- Rigley, Mr. Edward, ditto
- Roddy, Mr. Chas. sen. Clones
- Roddy, Mr. Bernard do.
- Roddy, Mr. Wm. do.
- Rutherford, Miss Drum
- Robinson, Mr. J. Monaghan, Risk, Mr. Chas. Dublin,
- Reynolds, Mr. C. Belturbet
- Sterling, Rev. James
- Steward, Miss, Enniskillen
- Spotswood, Mrs. do.
- Stewart, Mr. CharlesClones, 2 copies
- Stewart, Mr. Lisburn,
- Swanick, Mr. Edward
- Smith, Mrs. Dublin
- Smith, Mrs. Cavan
- Smith, Mr. James, ditto
- Smith, Miss, ditto
- Smith, Mr. J. Kells, 7 copies
- Scarlet, Mr. J. Dublin
- Small, Mr. H. Belview Lodge
- Simpson, Mr. S. D. Arm Mt.
- Simpson, Mr. S. S. Rock Mt.
- Stephen, Mr. Robert
- Sprowle, Mr. Wilson
- Stephens, Miss
- Shaw, Mr. Wm. Longford
- Smith, Mr. Francis, Dublin
- Steel, Mr. J. Enniskillen
- Smith, Mrs. Ashfield
- Saunderson, A. Esq.
- Slack, Wm. Esq. Whiterock
- Slack, J. Esq. Annadale
- Swanzy, Capt. Clotobert
- Sloan, Mrs. Portadown
- Shillington, Mr. T. do.
- Savage, Mr. Dublin
- Thornton, Mrs. P. Greenville
- Thornton, Mrs. do.
- Thompson, W. Surg. B Shan.
- Thompson, Ensign, F.M.
- Thompson, Mr. W. M.
- Templeton, Miss, Coleraine
- Tully, Miss,
- Turkentine, Mr. Wm.
- Tomes, Mr. John
- Thompson, Miss M. Clones
- Veetch, Mrs.
- Vance, Mr. Andrew, Dublin
- Verdon, Mr. John, ditto
- Wynne, Rev. R. Belturbet
- Wynne, Mrs.
- Whitlow, Rev. Newcom. Ballyconnell
- Wright, Rev. J. Killevan
- Wright, Mrs. ditto
- Wright, Mrs. Gola
- Wright, Miss, do.
- Wright, Miss Clones Wrigt, James, Esq.
- Wright, Mr. J. Dublin
- Waldron, Mr. P.
- White, Mr. James
- Watt, John, Esq. Belfast
- Watt, H. Esq.
- Walker, Mr. James
- Watt, Mr. Cavan
- Watt, John Esq.
- Whitaker, Miss, Enniskillen
- Whittaker, Miss, A. ditto
- Wilkin, Mrs. ditto
- West, W. late Lt. 9th Foot do.
- Watkin, Wm. Esq. Dorobrusk
- Walsh, Mr.
- Watson, Mr.
- Williamson, Mr. J. Manorh
- Whitley, Miss, Tatinbar
- Walker, Mr. James
- Weir, Mr. N. Dromore
- Webb, Mr. Wm. Farnham
- Wilson, Mr. Jno. Newry,
- White, Mr. Jno. do.
- Wadsworth, Mr. G. Dublin
- Young, Mrs. Monaghan.
- Young, Mr. E. Cootehill
Stanzas to a Young Lady, on Reading Bloomfield’s Poems.
More than thanks my dear girl’s your due,
For the favour you lent me last night;
I perus’d it with pleasure most true,
And more than my pen can indite.
Your Bloomfield I justly admir’d,
Tho’ oblig’d to run o’er it in haste:
The Poet I saw was inspir’d,
And you had an elegant taste.
How simple my lays must appear!
How rough and unpolish’d each line!
Ill fitted to please a good ear,
Compar’d with a genius so fine.
But, methinks, that in some I discover,
Those gracious perfections of mind;
Which will lead them, at least, to pass over,
The faults, that in mine they may find.
When Critics are striving to censure,
And Cynics are blasting my fame;
Perhaps they may candidly venture,
With generous warmth to exclaim,
And not without some indignation:
This work,(I shall thank them again,)
Is an Orphan’s, whose hard destination,
Hath sought a support from her pen.
One morning, while slumbers encircl’d my head,
Apollo stept into my room,
Thus accosting me, Ma’am, I presume:
Like the most of your sex, you are vain to suppose,
Your numbers will charm ev’ry ear;
So you may, when the thistle can vie with the rose,
Or the nettle the tints of the vi’let disclose,
Or summer remain thro’ the year.
Tho’ the Muses themselves in a league were combin’d,
To bestow every possible worth on your mind,
To polish your verse, make your subjects sublime,
Yet e’en, after all, it were vain to expect,
Your lays by all tastes would be prais’d:
For some will be striving to find a defect,
And others may justly an error detect,
And some have no ears to be pleas’d.
True Friendship, source supreme of ev’ry joy,
No storm can blast thy sweets, nor envy’s shafts destroy,
Thy basis rests on faithfulness and truth,
Thy blooming aspect wears perpetual youth.
Thou only dwell’st in bosoms good and wise,
Thy mystic power’s a native of the skies,
’Tis of celestial birth, etherial mould;
Richer than rubies, choicer far than gold.
’Tis noble, gen’rous, constant, unconfin’d,
’Tis courteous, gentle, affable and kind.
’Tis pure as ether, bright as noon-tide beam,
Clear and transparent as the chrystal stream.
’Tis amiable, ’tis lovely, ’tis sublime,
Nor check’d by distance, or effac’d by time.
For thee I’d stake my fame, my life, my all,
And at thy shrine a willing martyr fall.B 10 B(1)v 10
What’s honour, glory, what the Hero’s praise?
The laurel crown, or e’en the Poet’s bays?
What’s wealth, or world’s, compar’d with Friend-
’Tis virtue’s self the first-born of the sky.
Thou sorrow’s balm, dejection’s sovereign cure,
In heavenly climes unsullied shalt endure.
Ne’er shalt thou perish, wither or decay,
But bloom and flourish in immortal day.
It grieves me sore, poor hapless Bird,
To see a sod laid on thy head;
And can?—It cannot be absurd;
A tear upon thy grave to shed.
Rest sweetest Warbler, peace is thine
Tho’ still to me the scene looks dreary;
Thy cage with willow I’ll entwine,
A tribute due to my Canary.
For thou hast cheered the gloomy day,
And made me oft forget my sorrow,
I listened to thy artless lay,
Thoughtless of what might be to-morrow
Each Spring thy grave with flow’rs I’ll strew,
To me the task will not seem weary,
My tears I’ll mingle with the dew,
That falls on thee, my sweet Canary.
Oh! had’st thou quietly descended
To dust, I would not wail for thee;
Thy little cares with life are ended;
But sad remembrance lives with me.
I think I see thee gasp again,
And fancy paints the sight so dreary;
When much I strove; but, ah! in vain
To save thy life, my poor Canary.
Still it shall make my bosom bleed,
When I relflect how thou hast fell;
’Twas this rash hand that did the deed,
A deed I still shall sigh to tell;
Yet not for pearls my Bird I’d slay,
Altho’ I have been so unwary;
’Twas cruel Death in ambush lay,
’Twas he that slew thee, my Canary. This poor little Bird got its head between the cage and trough, while the lady was supplying it with seed, and by this means its neck was broke.
The Sculptor may adorn his bust,
With elegance of taste, ’tis true;
The Limner shade his colours, just,
And hit the likeness in his view.
The Poet may without restraint,
Describe, the virtues all combin’d;
His fine imagination paint,
The ideal image from his mind.
Yet most of all the human race,
At best elude the Painter’s art;
He draws the outlines of the face,
His pencil cannot reach the heart.
The mind’s the standard of the man,
This is averr’d by all the wise;
Then let them take it off who can!
The object Stella’s wish would find,
Who dares her hand, or friendship claim;
Would be the youth of all mankind,
That’s void of guile, and free from blame.
His form must be proportionate,
His features all in statuquo;
His soul all sensibility,
Manly, benevolent, and brave;
The portrait’s fully drawn I see,
The original I’d wish to have!
Shall this phenomenon be got?
Lives there a Hermes in our day,
With charms that are to him unknown?
When affectation bears the sway,
And dross for sterling coin is shewn.
When trifling wits, of merit boast,
Whose sense would scarce outweigh a grain
Of lightest sand; on ocean’s coast
Yet one there is I do confess,
Form’d of quite superior mould;
May such a friend my Stella bless!
And prize her virtues more than gold.
But if the sad reverse you find,
If short of ev’ry grace he fall;
The little god, you know is blind,
And he will swear he has them all.
An Acrostical Epitaph.
No more to sigh, or fell life’s ills again;
Nigh yonder throne, her spotless spirit stands,
Cease then to mourn, ye who her loss deplore,
Anxiety no more shall break her rest,
Refin’d enjoyments speak her truly blest,
Engage her thoughts, and constitute her bliss.
When grief from genuine sources flow,
And sorrow dims our brightest day,
How shall the heart elude its wo
When dearest joys are snatch’d away?
I too my Thirza might repine,
Like you, I also lost a friend;
Keen anguish pierc’d this breast of mine,
My tears with yours I still can blend.
Come, gentle Sleep, and over me,
Thy magic mantle throw;
With slumbers bland; ’tis thine to free
The heart surcharg’d with woe.
Swift on thy downy wings descend
And lull my griefs to rest,
Let Fancy on thee now attend,
And pleasing thoughts suggest.
Bid me forget day’s bustling noise,
And all its cares resign;
Bring to my intellectual eyes,
That bliss which once was mine.
For still my mem’ry loves to bring,
Those halcyon scenes to mind;
Before I tasted sorrow’s spring,
Or felt an adverse wind.
Tho’ all those joys, alas! are gone,
Which once delight could give,
With pleasure will I dwell upon,
Their image while I live.
But ah! those nymphs in mis’ry’s train,
Croud fast upon my sight,
They banish peace, and plunge again,
My soul in sorrow’s night.
Come Sleep, and at this silent hour,
My weary eyelids close;
On me, thy balmy influence pour,
And bless me with repose.
I ask not riches, honour, fame,
Nor titles of the great;
And humble competence I’ll claim,
An independent state.
A mind untainted and sincere,
A gen’rous feeling breast;
To none, but to itself severe,
And join’d to this request:
In some lone vale, a little cot,
Remote from nose and strife;
Some hidden, unfrequented spot,
Far from the haunts of life:
Here would I spend my peaceful days,
To cities bid farewell,
And calm content and heart felt ease
Should in my cottage dwell.
Envy and vice I’d banish far,
And discontent should fly;
Like clouds before the rising star,
That brightens yonder sky.
Nor false ambition’s gaudy toys,
Should ever enter there.
When night her sable mantle throws
Around the spangled skies,
I’d taste the sweets of blest repose;
Refresh’d by this, I’d rise.
When morning drest in rosy hue,
Salutes the joyous east;
I’d trip it lightly o’er the dew,
Her op’ning sweets to taste.
The feather’d songsters should unite,
Amid the vocal grove,
Their artless notes should oft invite,
My willing feet to rove.
The flowers that yield their sweet perfume,
Zephyrs that glide along:
All nature drest in gayest bloom,
Should aid the tuneful throng.
The murm’ring rivulets that glide,
Along each verdant mead;
At noon my weary steps should guide,
To some delightful shade.
Here should the muses with their train,
Their welcome visits pay;
And here I’d try my choicest strain,
And chaunt my rural lay.
And, Oh! should wisdom condescend
To visit my abode,
Her precepts should my path attend:
To bliss she’d mark the road.
And if a faithful friend I’d find
If such a gem there be?
With sensibility of mind,
And manners pure and free.
Beneath some spreading tree reclin’d,
On tufts of new shorn grass;
In converse cheerful, and refin’d,
The social hours we’d pass.
At flatt’ry’s empty charms we’d smile,
Nor judge her favours meet;
This should the ling’ring moments guile,
Make solitude more sweet.
Nor should the gifts kind heav’n bestows,
Be all engrossed by me:
I’d sooth the hapless widow’s woes,
The orphan’s friend I’d be.
I’d visit oft the tatter’d walls,
Where mis’ry doth corrode,
Where wretchedness for pity calls,
My gifts should be bestow’d.
Here, should the weary trav’ller still
A sure reception find;
I’d guide the wanderer on his way,
Be eyesight to the blind.
Should virtue weep, by vice betray’d,
Yet turn from guilt aside,
Here should its sorrows be allay’d,
And all it’s grief subside.
Kind sympathy should balm impart,
Where adverse fortunes frown,
I’d strive to bind the broken heart
By numerous ills press’d down.
And Oh! might angel bands descend,
To guard my little dome;
And great Jehovah be my Friend,
I’d smile secure at home!
No tempting phantom should annoy,
This calm sequester’d seat;
No vain delusive scenes decoy,
Me, from this sweet retreat.
No mortal would more happy be,
Or more completely blest;
Grant then kind Heaven, these gifts to me!
No more will I request.
Aurora rising in her haste,
Had burst the shades of night:
And Sol emerging from the east,
Display’d his cheering light.
The Birds around on bloomy sprays,
Had tun’d their little throats:
And sung their sweet harmonious lays,
In gay responsive notes.
The flowers were clad in fair array,
And tints of varied hue;
Cool zephyrs fann’d the god of day,
And brush’d off early dew.
Nature in all her charms appear’d,
The fields with verdure crown’d:
Each growing plant it’s head uprear’d,
And lambkins skipp’d around.
I view’d the scene with vast delight,
And wrapt in silken thought;
’Till noon had burst upon my sight,
When gliding swiftly thro’ the air,
A form etherial came;
She seem’d a nymph, exceeding fair,
Reflection was her name:
Mortal, she said, I’m sent to you,
Then hold my precepts fast;
Remember earth’s best joys are few,
And can’t for ever last.
She ceased; but yet the pleasing sound,
Vibrated on mine ear,
And aw’d in silence most profound,
I still stood fix’d to hear.
I felt the sacred truths she taught,
While on my my conscious breast,
The charming goddess quick as thought,
Her image deep impress’d.
Oh! hear a wretched father’s tale,
Whose happiest days are o’er;
’Gainst whom life’s fiercest blasts prevail,
And joy shall taste no more.
Oh! had I not a parent been,
Were not this blessing giv’n:
Had death itself been kindly pleas’d,
To snatch the gift away;
Ere folly’s ruder grasp had seiz’d,
And claim’d her as her prey.
Saw’st thou a rose before a storm
Its fibres did unbind?
Such was my Fanny’s lovely form,
Yet lovelier was her mind.
Sawest thou the lily of the vale?
Its tints she did outvie:
It could not charms like hers reveal,
To strike the wond’ring eye.
But from her cheeks the virgin bloom,
Of innocence is flown;
And now, Alas! guilt’s deepest gloom,
Hath dimm’d her morning sun.
From her each winning grace is fled,
Her peace, and mine are o’er;
Where shall I hide my aged head?
Since Fanny’s chaste no more!
Hodge and Sue.
Reader, believe my tale is true,
This renders it more sweet;
Oft I convers’d with Hodge and Sue,
And both are living yet.
The morn was bleak, and snow had clad the hills,
Disguis’d the shrubs, and frozen were the rills;
The lowing herds in converts lay conceal’d,
And hoary devastations round prevail’d.
When Hodge, whom wind or tide did ne’er prevent,
To visit Sue: along the pathway bent
His course; and whistled whiles, and whiles he sung;
Or now and then, a snow ball round him flung.E 34 E(1)v 34
Revolving in his mind, the jocund chat,
He’d have with Sue; he sometimes twirl’d his hat:
Or with it chas’d the timid birds away,
That strove in vain to peck the leafless spray.
Hodge, tho’ a clown, possess’d the art to please,
His charming Sue, as on her charms he’d gaze,
Adapted to her taste his rustic theme,
Prais’d what she lik’d and the reverse would blame;
And, as the various seasons round them roll’d,
By various tokens was his friendship told.
In Spring the fairest flow’rs for her he’d chuse;
In summer, sportive on the green amuse,
With autumn fruits her pocket would supply,
Press her to more, and bid her not be shy.
Could ’guile the winter’s evening with a song,
Or by a tender tale his stay prolong.
And with a glance would often intersperse,
A hint for Sue, and twice the tale rehearse.
His well known whistle too, was known by Sue,
Oft at the sound away her wheel she threw,35 E(2)r 35
And took her stocking in a thrifty fit,
Tho’ not a stich for weeks before she knit;
Or sat with rapture, while she milk’d her cows,
To hear her faithful swain repeat his vows:
And many a syllabub for him she made,
And many an egg for him her hens had laid.
Now, he drew near, and stood beside the stake,
Which propp’d the cottage door, but did not speak.
Anxious to hearken, what his Sue would say,
As he had been so many days away.
Besides, he wished to take her by surprize,
Thinking that joy must sparkle in her eyes;
To see her swain once more, unchang’d, return,
Unmindful of the cold inclement morn:
Nor thought, that she his shadow did espy,
Or heard his whistle ere he came so nigh.
But Sue had been resolv’d to make him feel,
And Hodge’s heart was not composed of steel;
For much he lov’d the maid (without pretence,)
She was so kind—besides, she had the pence!36 E(2)v 36
With cautious step she slipt behind the door,
But long suspense Hodge could not well endure,
And now his patience was so sorely tried,
That thus in angry mood he frowning cried:
Where are you Sue? what is it makes you run?
I did not think you’d strive my sight to shun!
Is this the welcome that I am to get?
For walking two long miles in cold and wet,
With broken pumps upon my weary feet.
Truly I’m vex’d; but yet it’s not too late,
Then farewell Sue, no longer will I wait,
Nor shall I henceforth such a journey take
For you, or any other woman’s sake.
Oh, Hodge, your nonsense must one’s mind provoke,
To be quite angry: sure you do but joke:
I did not mean it only as a jest,
You’re very easy huff’d, I do protest,37 E(3)r 37
You’d make one laugh, until they’d almost burst;
Here drink this mug of cream, and eat this crust.
Is it indeed my own dear Sue that speaks?
Says Hodge, as from her hand the crust he takes:
Thrice happy day! since you are glad to see,
Your Hodge; sure this must fill his heart with glee.
I had no notion to forsake my Sue,
I only spoke to try what she would do,
But yet I cannot taste a bit of this,
Until you seal my welcome with a kiss.
Welcome, dear Hodge! what news? where have you been?
A sight of you this month I have not seen.
It seems as if you had dropp’d from the skies,
To see you must be good for one’s sore eyes. A sight of you is good for sore eyes.—Rustic Dialect.38 E(3)v 38
Believe me, dear, I thought you had been dead:
I have been dreaming of you many a night,
And saw you in a most uncommon plight,
And oft I’ve seen you digging on the heath,
Or running down the hill quite out of breath:
And sometimes married: this you know’s like death.
I’m sure you have been sick, you look so pale:
Speak, dearest Hodge, I long to hear your tale!
Dear Sue, I never saw your like, for fears,
I was not better for these twenty years.
But, I’ve been busy fencing-in my farm,
Thatching my cabin that it might be warm.
And mending stools, and fitting up the barn.
But tho’ I have had all this work to do,
Yet many a time I though upon my Sue.
Can I believe the half of what you say?
How could this keep you, all this time away?
You said you could not live a single day,
If in that time, your Sue, you could not see,
But now you like some other more than me.
And now I call to mind my other dream,
Last night I saw you sitting by the stream,
Near which in summer I my linen bleach,
I saw you something from your pocket fetch:
But I’ve forget the figure of the thing,
Stay! let me think again! it was a Ring:
And this you gave another: Hodge, I swear!
Which made me wring my hands, and tear my hair.
Beside you look’d so cheerful, pleas’d, and gay,
That then I thought my wits would run away:
For not a single word to me you spoke,
And with vexation I that minute woke.
And, oh! thought I, can Hodge be so unkind;
But out of sight, ’tis said, then out of mind.
Dreams often turn contrary, dearest Sue,
I never meant to marry one but you.
Tho’ neighbour Morgan coax’d me o’er and o’er,
To wed a maid with many a shilling more.
A good new wheel that’s better by the half
Than yours; a cow, a sheep, and heifer calf,
But this I only answer’d with a laugh.
And now, where is there one, except myself?
Who would not barter love for honest pelf.
Oh, Hodge, you need not think me such a fool,
I guess’d the cause, that made you be so cool,
I’m seldom wrong, in what I judge or say,
This was the thing, that kept you long away.
I never heard you talk this way before,
So I’m resolv’d to trust your love no more.
But tis no matter, if you turn you back,
There never was a Joan, but got a Jack.
Farewell then Sue, since you would have it so,
To neighbour Morgan’s back again I’ll go.
For now, as you have treated me so bad,
I have a mind—the maid can still be had.
Are you in earnest Hodge? then if you be,
I beg your pardon if I made too free.
But if one likes a person don’t you know?
The thoughts of parting fills them with such wo,
That in this case they know not what to do,
But sure I am my Hodge is kind and true.
And I was only telling you my dream,
Here take and eat these eggs, and drink this cream.
Forgive me Sue, I only meant to try,
What you would say, for not a thought had I,F 42 F(1)v 42
Of taking neighbour Morgan’s kind advice
Altho’ the maid were twenty times more nice.
Believe me Sue, your Hodge is still sincere,
Witness what I have brought you from the fair,
The nicest ribbon I could purchase there.
And if you vow no more on me to frown,
When Christmas comes, I’ll take you into town.
Ah! dearest swain, who hast my heart ensnar’d,
My shoes for snow are very ill prepar’d.
The upper leather from the soal did rip,
And lies unsew’d since last we took a trip
Together, to behold the puppet shew,
And Humphrey said it would be hard to sew.
And tho’ I like your company and talk,
Barefoot to town I am ashamed to walk.
Oh, dearest maid, my mare has lost her shoe,
Else to the town I’d freely carry you.43 F(2)r 43
Besides you know, I never had a spur,
And without that the lazy beast won’t stir.
But if you come, your pockets I will cram,
With cakes and nuts, and treat you to a dram,
An Epistle From Dublin to a Friend in the Country.
You wish, my dear girl, I would send you down,
An account of the scenes that are passing in town;
To tell what adventures, (if any,) I’ve met,
And to say if I yet have forgotten to fret.
With respect to myself, I have little to say,
But that sometimes I grieve half my senses away,
And this I can’t help, tho’ folks here are kind,
When I think of my friends and relations behind.
In the midst of enjoyment I feel my heart sad,
Reflecting on pleasures I formerly had.
Not much of the city to me is yet known,
For I’m fond of retirement, and mostly alone:45 F(3)r 45
And trust me my friend, should I speak my thoughts free,
Gay scenes can’t afford any pleasure to me.
I would rather be ranging alone in a field,
Than partaking those pleasures the city can yield.
Don’t imagine from this that my case must be bad,
That my brains are derang’d, or my muse hath run mad:
For believe me if wit ever dwelt in my crown,
There’s more in my pate since I came to this town.
But sense, which kind nature implants in the heart,
You’ll say hath in witlings a very small part.
Yet do not mistake me! its wisdom I mean,
Resides in my bosom, and wit in my brain.
But I’ll drop my complaining, and banish my wo,
’Till I give you a sketch of what little I know;
And lest in the sequel it might be forgot,
I’ll give you a hint, first, of what I know not.
I know not of any, by fate, or by chance,
That have broke any legs, in attempting to dance:46 F(3)v 46
I know not of one who for love lost his wits,
Nor of any by Cupid kick’d into the fits;
Not one since I came in the Liffey was drown’d,
Such phrenzy in lovers is rare to be found:
Nor any in quarrels of love have been slain,
A deed so romantic is not counted vain.
These modern are also grown moderate times,
And Cupid keeps phrenzy for more sultry climes;
Now Plutus and he have got into a league,
And the archer has vow’d that he’ll banish the plague;
If at least on good terms they both can agree,
And where is he now that’s not fond of a fee?
I know not not of any who died in the vapours,
Of fools that are willing to leave off their capers;
I know not of any who whims lay aside,
Nor of one that takes potions for surfeits of pride;
I know no bad husband by counsel reclaim’d,
Nor a wife who sits mute when her spouse can be blamed;
I know of no miser that’s willing to give,
Once ounce of his treasure to bid the poor live;47 F(4)r 47
I know of no coxcomb that’s turned sedate,
Or knaves that are willing to forfeit the cheat;
I know of no virgin that’s willing to run,
The hazard of taking the veil for a nun.
Of fashions indeed I’ll say nothing at all,
As my skill in these matters is shallow and small:
On good breeding indeed I would willingly speak,
But I’m greatly afraid that she’s turn’d out a rake;
For to me it appears she’s much given to roam,
Tho’ I visit her often she’s seldom at home.
Now folk in the country whose taste must be blind,
Think no place like Dublin, polite and refin’d,
But for my part, I think, (don’t imagine I jest,)
What politeness I meet, is half state at the best,
’Tis more artificial than real I protest.
There are scrapes, bows, and curtsies enough to be seen
In the Drawing-room, Park, and in Stephen’s—green:
But if this be politeness, what numbers may pass,
Embellish’d like beaux, with the brains of an ass.48 F(4)v 48
For apes drest in doublets are daily seen here,
And a fox that has money’s as great as a peer.
Here fops, in abundance, to glance at the lasses,
Make a practice of wearing pebble eye glasses,
And some of the females tho’ bashful in face,
Return their grimaces with finical grace;
But I honour my sex! so relinquish the thoughts,
Of reciting their errors, or painting their faults;
They must be obliging: refuse if they should,
They might be consider’d unpolish’d and rude.
Yet I own there are many in this very clime,
That possess true politeness, and manners sublime,
Who are fully accomplish’d with scarce a defect,
Kind, courteous, and gentle in ev’ry respect.
I have heard great alarms ’bout tumbling of stones,
The burning of houses, and breaking of bones,
Such tales are too tedious for you to peruse,
They’d wear out your patience and puzzle the muse.
But there’s one sad disaster I cannot omit,
Relating at present, I’m just in the fit:
The theatre in Stafford-street ’midst of the play,
Ere the farce had befan, in a moment gave way,
And caps, hats, and bonnets were lost in the fray.
Rude Boreas descended the Tempest Shakespeare’s Tempest. arose,
And thunder’d as if the comedians were foes;
And who could complain of the god as unkind,
When the actors themselves had petition’d the wind.
One lady who chanc’d to escape with her nose,
Lost one of her shoes, and a couple of toes;
Her spouse spoke her comfort, forbade her to fret,
Went back for the toes, but not one could he get:
And perhaps the good man if his thoughts we well knew,
Felt less for her toes than he did for the shoe:
He told me the fact, so don’t think it is fun,,
For the man is a Monk His name is Monk. tho’ his wife is no nun.
I could tell you of many things foolish and vain,
Of high and low life, and broils in Pill—lane;G 50 G(1)v 50
But my muse doth not like on such subjects to treat,
She thinks them too mean, and besides it is late;
It wants but five minutes of twelve at the most,
And to-morrow I must send this off of by the post.
Elegy, To a Friend at Parting.
Say, why was Friendship form’d to soothe the mind?
And chase despondence from the sinking heart;
Since, like a meteor, fleeting as the wind;
It flies, and leaves behind such poignant smart.
Too soon from me, the dear delusion fled,
And left a dreary vacuum in its stead.
Ah why my Anna, did the fates command,
(Soon as our court to Friendship’s shrine was paid;)
Thee (so reluctant) to a distant land,
And point my steps to solitude and shade;
Without a Friend my lonely path to cheer,
Or give my woes a sympathetic tear?G2 52 G(2)v 52
Yet, should my Friend in absence feel more blest,
Or form a wish, that can’t with mine accede;
I’ll tear the fond idea, from my breast,
Tho’ deep regret should cause my heart to bleed;
The hopes of future pleasure I’ll erase,
And Stoic like, each rapturous thought deface.
But ah! sure this, this cannot be the case!
Her feelings are superior far to mine;
She cannot, no she will not be so base,
Her gen’rous soul abhors the mean design,
’Twere half unjust and more than half unkind,
To brand my Anna with a fickle mind.
Surpriz’d, I hear my gentle Friend reply,
How can such thoughts as these your breast possess?
Can distance, time, (she utters with a sigh,)
Cool my esteem, or make me love you less?
Like parted billows when loud tempests roar,
Absence shall tend but to cement us more.
New Friends you think in me may cause a change,
Amusement sometimes occupy my thought,
But would it not (forbid the thought) be strange,
If gayest scenes could make you be forgot?
No never shall you have the cause to fear,
While Friendship lives to bid me be sincere.
Yet must I still regret the harsh decree,
Which bids my Friend so far from me repair,
Who with such cordial warmth will share with me
The various ills, allotted me to bear;
Or, who, to such benevolence is prone,
To feel my grief, and claim it as her own.
With anxious care, how have I watch’d the hour
Counted the tedious moments as they stole;
Till Friendship came, and by her magic power,
Breath’d balmly incense on my drooping soul!
Adieu, ye blissful hours! no more I’ll hail,
Your sweet return, when night and shades prevail.
No more mine ear shall catch the welcome sound,
Soft stealing gently tapping at my door,
To find me sitting wrapt in thought profound,
Dissolve the charm, and break the hoarded store.
Fate steals these joys low whispering me, ’tis vain
To hope! they never shall return again.
Should sickness seize again this tender frame, This Elegy was written when the Author was recovering after a severe illness during which time the friend to whom it is addressed paid her the most unremitting attention
Accompanied by heart consuming grief,
No more shall Friendship urge her prior claim,
Or press my senses to a sure belief,
That ev’ry bitter draught she may direct,
Shall in the end produce a sweet effect.
Who will with kind concern my pillow screen?
And watch my slumb’ring eyelids as they close,
Ah, who will ask to share the dreary scene,
Deny themselves to add to my repose,
Who with such guarded caution mark the road,
That leads to health’s most permanent abode?
Oh! would some heavenly power its influ’nce lend!
Assign some cause to lengthen out her stay!
No matter what, if I’m allow’d my friend,
To gild the prospect of life’s darksome day.
To banish melancholy’s cheerless gloom,
And bid the vi’let in the desert bloom.
But reason bids me check the selfish wish,
Tho’ health itself, should on thy stay attend,
I would not be a barrier to your bliss:
Go! and may angel guards your steps attend,
Observe strict virtue, and her paths pursue!
Until we meet, no more to say, adieu!
Extempore, On seeing a Friend Dejected.
Say, would my dear Celia forgive,
Would she ever caress me again;
Should I tell her I’m led to believe,
There must be some cause for her pain?
Why fades the red rose on her cheek?
Or what damps her spirits so gay?
What rufles her temper so meek?
Or makes her to sorrow give way?
Hath fortune been harsh, or unkind?
Hath adversity frown’d out full sore?
Have Demons insulted her mind?
Or has fate not one comfort in store?
Can a soul of such virtue possest,
A mind with such reason endued,
Let despondence remain in her breast,
Dull visitant, cheerless, and rude?
Perhaps she’s unwilling to tell,
The cause to a stranger like me;
Who in nothing, but this doth excel,
A mind unaffected and free.
’Tis best to be cautious it’s true,
In revealing the thoughts of the heart:
So now I shall bid you adieu!
’Till the secret you’re pleas’d to impart.
The Wild Rose.
In Spring as I walk’d forth to take the fresh air,
And enjoy the sweet breeze of the Morn;
Passing over a Heath, that was rugged and bare,
I spied a wild Rose on a thorn.
I approach’d quite delighted, it’s leaves to survey,
So beauteous, they seemed to expand;
It’s tints were so natural, lively, and gay,
I was tempted to stretch forth my hand:
I’ll pluck it, said I, and transplant it anew:
’Mongst those of my garden I’ll place,
Where this sweet little Flow’r, (tho’ artless it’s true,)
May be cloth’d with additional grace.
While this moralizing, an unmanner’d clown,
In sport, without caution, or care;
Trod the poor little stem it was on to the ground,
And scatter’d it’s leaves in the air.
With just indignation I felt my heart swell,
And in anger I loudly exclaim’d,
’Twas thus unprotected, poor Ellen hath fell,
And thus was her innocence stain’d
Conviction, An Ode.
When folly’s voice my heart had stole
Down in her paths to stray,
Conviction whisper’d to my soul,
Unthinking mortal stay!
Reflect! a message shortly may
Without thy wishing come,
And call thee unprepar’d away
To thy eternal home.
Thou must resign these fancied joys,
Bid dearest friends adieu:
What then are earth’s alluring toys,
Or vain parade to you?
Acquitted or condemn’d you’ll stand,
Before the bar of God;
Be crown’d with joys at his right hand,
Or feel his vengeful rod.
There must for ev’ry moment spent,
A strict account be giv’n:
Haste then and of thy sins repent,
And turn thy thoughts to heaven.
Know, ev’ry talent misapplied,
Is noted down above,
But mercy’s arms, are open’d wide;
There lives the source of love,
Returning sinners to receive,
And make them fully blest;
With all a gracious God can give,
Immortal joy, and rest.
The Smile. To Anna.
Accept, dear girl, these artless lines,
They’re all I can bestow;
Till prosp’rous suns shall deign to shine,
And cheer this vale of wo.
When adverse storms their rage suspend,
And pleasure darts her ray,
A nobler gift I’ll give my friend,
More elegant, and gay.
But to instruction lend a while,
A pleas’d, attentive ear;
So shall the virtues on thee smile,
Thro’ each succeeding year.
Believe ’tis friendship’s self that speaks,
And bids thee timely shun,
The fatal errors, and mistakes,
Which numbers have undone.
Beware of flatt’ry’s syren voice,
Elude each dang’rous wile:
That would allure thee to the choice,
Which drowns in grief each smile.
Obedience is the test of love,
And you this duty owe:
To Him who reiguns supreme above,
And guardian friends below.
In acquiescence to his will,
Each passion reconcile;
So shall true pleasure on thee still,
Nor let the trifles of an hour,
Which charm the giddy throng:
E’er boast the fascinating pow’r,
To hurry thee along.
Still be that worth by thee possest,
The love of all to win:
The constant sunshine of the breast,
The smile serene within.
Bright be my Anna’s noontide ray,
And calm her evening sky.
Sweet as the fragrant breath of May,
Unruffl’d by a sigh.
Beneath this hoary willow,
I’ll lay my weary head;
The moss shall be my pillow,
And the cold earth my bed.
No more I’ll taste of pleasure,
Or hail the face of joy;
Remorse shall without measure,
All my repose destroy.
The birds in pensive numbers,
Before the rising sun,
Shall wake me from my slumbers,
For Cinda is undone.
No more by yonder fountain,
I’ll sit a spotless maid;
No more ascend the mountain,
Where guiltless I have strayed.
When no fantastic notion,
Had swell’d my heart with pride;
When virtue was my portion,
And innocence my guide:
No sign did then betoken,
To bid me danger shun,
My rest remain’d unbroken,
I was not then undone.
The little lambkins skipping,
And lowing herds around;
No more shall see me tripping,
With freedom o’er the ground.
No more the plains at morning;
At noon the shady grove;
Nor nature these adorning,
My anguish can remove.
For, from the east emerging,
Methinks the conscious sun;
As to the west he’s verging,
Cries Cinda is undone.
No more I’ll cull sweet daisies;
These and the violet gay,
When my rash finger seizes,
Shrink from the touch away.
The children of the hamlet,
No more shall call me blest;
When in my gown of camlet,
On Sundays I am drest.
Ah! no, they now forsake me,
And from my presence run;
Perchance they should o’ertake me,
Cry, Cinda is undone!
No village swain admiring,
His fond attention pays,
But horror struck, retiring,
Ceases on me to gaze.
My old companions slight me,
And eye me now with scorn.
The wretch that hath deceived me,
And left me here forlorn,
Forbears to shew his pity,
Or hearken to my moan;
Ye hills resound my ditty,
For Cinda is undone!
Could I recall the hours,
When lawless pleasure stole,
Away my reas’ning powers,
And plung’d in guilt my soul.
While Hesperus is lending,
To eve its pally ray;
Or to the centre winding,
Fair Cynthia takes her way.
Could sighs ascend to heaven,
If weeping could atone:
If mercy would be giv’n,
To save a wretch undone.
Here on my knees imploring,
With prayer I’d rend the skies,
Till sovreign balm restoring
My peace, should bid me rise.
But hush, any wild complaining!
For ev’ry hope hath fled:
My guilty tears are staining,
The ground whereon I tread.
Among these rocks I’ll wander,
Each former object shun:
And o’er my woes I’ll ponder,
For Cinda is undone.
To My Watch.
Beat on little Tell-tale, thy ticking shall chide,
This heart for it’s foolish delay;
Since for scenes of more moment I’m call’d to provide,
Than the trifling cares of a day.
Thy springs are in motion, thy fingers proclaim,
Time flies, and eternity’s nigh;
Incessant they bid me register my name,
In the Annals of Life, in the sky.
Why then my cold heart dost thou cease to perform
The task that’s by Wisdom assign’d;
Since life often proves but a short winter storm,
And time is more fleet than the wind.
Some moments have pass’d since I took up my pen,
To address thee, thou chattering thing;
In vain I attempt to recall them again,
Tho’ flying they leave me a sting.
Beat on little Tell-tale, continue to chide,
This heart, for it’s foolish delay;
If from rectitude’s paths, into folly it slide,
Tell it time for repentance won’t stay.
Dear Jenny beware of a cheat,
Nor listen to Cupid’s alarms;
For often we mar our own fate,
When blinded by flattery’s charms.
Tho’ William be fair as the sun,
And virtue should glow in his breast;
Yet mortals were often undone,
When most they had hop’d to be blest.
Believe me the archer’s a rogue,
Then trust not I pray to his wiles;
Should the flatt’rer get into vogue,
He might chance to deceive you with smiles.
Ah! hearken not then to his voice,
While yet you are artless and young;
Take care how you trust to his choice,
Or the accents that fall from his tongue.
Should love in the bosom bear sway,
Should you lean on its base for your bliss?
Bright reason will vanish away,
And you may be deceiv’d by a kiss.
Beware then dear Jenny of this,
Nor despise what true friendship would say;
Lest the archer in snatching a kiss,
Should steal your affections away.
On Receiving The Present of Some Quills From a Friend.
Your quills, my friend, came safe last night,
My thanks at least are due;
And the first line with them I’ll write,
Shall be address’d to you.
The feelings of a grateful heart,
Are all I have to give;
For every token you impart,
And all that I receive.
Dependent still on bounteous heav’n,
And gen’rous friends below;
A thousand favours daily giv’n,
Have made my cup o’erflow.
Yet after all I’m led to mourn,
And gifts reluctant take;
Because no equal kind return,
Is in my pow’r to make.
For let me here, this truth assert,
And seal it with a sigh;
That they who give, must feel more blest,
More happy far than I.
The Orphan’s Prayer.
God of the orphan, hear my pray’r,
To my request attend:
Preserve me from each youthful snare,
And be my constant friend.
Still o’er my untaught steps preside,
Conduct them by thy skill;
My heart by wisdom’s dictates guide,
To know and do thy will.
Thro’ all the paths in which I tread,
Thy guardian care display;
Shielding my unprotected head,
Along life’s thorny way.
Whate’er my wants or wishes be,
The former still supply;
The rest may I submit to thee,
Without a murm’ring sigh.
May no delusive, tempting wile,
Allure me to forego;
The conscious pleasure of thy smile,
For aught of bliss below.
May ev’ry action of my life,
The pow’r of virtue prove,
My breast be stranger to each strife,
That envious bosoms move.
O, may I wisdom’s steps pursue,
And mark the heav’nly road;
Still keep the pole star in my view,
That leads me to my God.
Ah! listen, ye fair, to my lay,
Ye giddy, and foolish inclin’d;
Who from virtue, are ready to stray,
And forfeit the peace of your mind.
Behold a poor female despised,
Who once was so highly esteem’d;
When the dictates of wisdom she priz’d,
And her paths the most perfect she deemed.
Ye innocent, thoughtless, and young,
Who the phantom of pleasure pursue,
Beware of the flatterer’s tongue,
I was once unsuspecting as you.
Nor dreamt of the ruin ensuing,
When the tempter had spread out his wiles;
’Twas flattery prov’d my undoing,
For Edwin deceiv’d me with smiles.
He spoke, I believed him sincere,
He vow’d I was dear to his heart:
Attentive, I lent him mine ear,
Nor thought he was practised in art.
Ye virtuous that never have stray’d,
From the ways of religion and peace,
Ah! pity a wretch once betray’d,
Who seeks for repentance and grace.
Thou Power whose nature is love,
Attend to a penitent’s pray’r:
Let mercy descend from above,
To rescue her swift from despair.
The Friends of the Day. To Stella.
Believe me, all night I have call’d on the muse,
And left to herself any subject to choose;
I invok’d, I intreated, but all was in vain,
She would not consent to enliven my brain.
I ask’d her the cause of this wonderful change,
Why her looks were so cold, and her manner so strange?
But she lent a deaf ear, and turning away,
Replied, ’Twas the fashion, and mode of the day.
I reminded her then, of the pleasure we had,
When her presence had formerly made me so glad,K 82 K(1)v 82
I inquir’d if her friendship had claim’d any part,
In the visits she paid to my head, or my heart;
If the cordial esteem which for me she profess’d,
Was aught but deception, or flatt’ry at best;
But smiling contemptuous, she slily did say,
Sincerity is not the mode of the day.
I besought her again to attend to my pray’r,
As she knew to her int’rest, I still was sincere;
You know said I, frowning, at different times,
I disclaim’d better work to attend to your rhymes.
That I never consulted—ease, food, sleep, or purse,
Whenever you call’d me to scribble a verse,
But to this no attention at all would she pay,
Only said, she was grown like the friends of the day.
Then the wish of my Stella I strove to commend,
Said Adonis was generous, and she was her friend;
That when others had basely deserted their place,
Neither time, tide, or fortune, her love could erase;83 K(2)r 83
That she always admir’d her e’en simplest theme,
But she urg’d modern friendship, was only a dream;
That Adonis had gone o’er the sea far away,
And might prove full as false, as the friends of the day.
How foolish! said she, will it seem in the end,
To have look’d on each wind, and each star as your friend:
When Phoebus indeed, is emitting his ray,
He may shine upon you, should you come in his way.
The moon’s borrow’d lustre afford you her light,
And stars in their orbits shine on you at night;
Yet think not for you this attention they pay,
In succession, of course, they must follow the day.
Don’t you mind, said she smiling, what Flavia profess’d,
And others by whom you were greatly caress’d,
How they vow’d that your converse was so interesting,
Your int’rest theirs; but I knew they were jesting:84 K(2)v 84
As into their thinking so often I press’d,
I believ’d them in earnest in what they profess’d,
While you would the tribute of flattery pay,
Disguis’d as its worn, in the mask of the day.
Said she, when prosperity smiles, I will come,
And be your attendant abroad, or at home,
With humble submission, I’ll visit your scull,
But it gives me the vapours to see you so dull,
Adversity is not well suited to please,
And it’s vulgar you know, not to be at one’s ease;
So when fortune’s propitious, my love I’ll display,
For this is the fashion, and mode of the day.
But do not reflect on my conduct as strange,
For Flavia avers it is pleasant to change;
That a steady attachment’s attended with pain,
It is out of the fashion, both awkward and mean,
Pray what am I worse than your friends in the town?
That orice made professions, but now can look down,85 K(3)r 85
With indifferent coldness, and each turn away,
And conform themselves thus, to the mode of the day?
These words she pronounc’d as she bade me adieu,
But ere she departed she pointed to you;
Said Stella is gen’rous, and I will allow,
To be guilty of falsehood, she would not know how.
That Adonis is constant, I will not maintain,
Till he comes back untainted from crossing the main,
Should she still have his heart, tell your Stella I may,
Chaunt her Epithalamium, on the happy day.
A Sense of genuine worth like thine,
Fond mem’ry still holds dear;
And friendship bids it claim from mine,
The tribute of a tear.
For thee shall numbers heave their sighs,
With sorrow most sincere;
And say in death’s cold bed she lies,
Who gave to grief a tear.
But upwards, lo! her spirit flew,
To a superior sphere;
Resign’d, she bade to earth adieu,
Nor dropp’d one parting tear.
Bright prospects of the world above,
To Stella’s view were clear;
A foretaste of redeeming love,
Had dried up ev’ry tear.
Yet dearest friends, shall mourn her fled,
And ceaseless grief appear,
While o’er her grave they oft shall shed,
The unavailing tear.
I too shall join the mournful scene,
For fancy brings it near;
Tho’ distance intercept between,
It can’t preclude a tear.
Affection joins the mutual sigh,
With those that lov’d her here;
Tho’ she is blest in yonder sky,
Unclouded by a tear.
But cease thy plaints, a seraph cries,
No grief can enter here;
Where springs of purest pleasure rise,
Unmingled with a tear.
See Stella, in yon plains of light,
No more perplex’d with fear;
There she’s array’d in robes of white,
Unsullied by a tear.
Forgive me, dear girl, in detaining so long,
This net from Adonis your friend;
But the thing was prophetic, so could not be wrong,
As the sequel, will prove in the end.
The sympathy’s sweet, and my heart would rebound,
With pleasure, to share it with those:
Oppress’d by affliction, in misery drown’d,
Or whose love hath destroy’d their repose.
The first instantaneous I’d haste to redress,
And nought should withhold me from thence;
But the latter I’d willingly linger to bless,
I’d keep them awhile in suspense.
To the child of misfortune I’d venture a tear,
His sorrows my pity should claim;
But Cupid’s a cheat, and believe me, my dear,
He’s but the twin brother of fame.
Both fickle and vain, he would make you believe,
When from friendship he steals the soft guise;
His professions sincere, and not meant to deceive,
The accomplish’d, the simple; and wise.
Be cautious then Mary! nor suffer your heart,
Too free from its centre to rove;
For believe me, both false, and envenom’d’s the dart,
That’s dipt in the philter of love.
To My Umbrella. These lines were composed during a shower.
Come grateful shade and shelter me,
From the approaching rain;
The falling drops can’t injure thee,
They wet, but will not stain.
Yet should their heaviest force prevail,
And tempests bend thy springs;
’Twere easy, soon the breach to heal:
These are but trivial things.
But ah! the drops that daily fall,
From fortune’s cup in mine;
Are mix’d with dregs of bitt’rest gall;
Yet why at this repine?
Some drops of joy are mingled too,
Transparent, sweet, and pure;
Tho’ these may seldom come, and few,
Their efficacy’s sure.
But thou dost serve my head to screen,
From the increment blast;
Now sol’s enliv’ning rays are seen,
The storm will soon be past.
And soon perhaps, those ills may cease,
My sky grow brighter too:
And scenes of pleasure, days of peace,
May open to my view.
The muse had determin’d on sending a line,
To a pair that had lately arriv’d
At the temple of Hymen; to honour his shrine,
With their vows, I imagin’d, the task would be mine,
But of this I was strangely depriv’d.
For just as I dipped my quill in the stand,
The post boy came up to my door,
With a packet exceedingly large in his hand:
I snatch’d it, and instantly paid his demand,
Breaking open the seal to be sure.
The contents would be useless, and vain to disclose,
But let it suffice me to say,
For a moment, it serv’d to destroy my repose,
I discarded the muse, and in fury arose,
Flinging pen, ink, and paper away.
But tho’ at the best I’m not over polite,
Yet I fancied I acted absurd:
So I call’d back the muse, but she heard not for spite,
And this made me conclude, that my friend acted right,
In taking the youth at his word.
And never may either have cause to repine,
At the lot they have mutually chose!
May the sun of prosperity constantly shine,
On their heads, in their hearts! may the blessing divine,
Give them pleasure, content, and repose!
The Farewell. Written by Request.
Farewell every fleeting pleasure!
Dearest joys, adieu! adieu!
Since my soul’s most precious treasure
C——s, I must leave in you.
Long have I conceal’d my passion,
Strove to quench the burning smart,
Which all other flames surpassing,
Still consumes this love-sick heart.
Once I thought to gain her favour,
Vainly hop’d she’d make me blest:
Now, that hope is fled for ever,
From this fond distracted breast.
Keen despair my soul possessing,
Ev’ry comfort now doth steal;
Farewell, dearest, choicest blessing!
Absence must my anguish heal.
Providence. A Fragment.
Why grieve? ’cause fortune doth not shine,
Propitious to you wish and mine,
Kind Providence hath kept in view,
Some nobler bliss design’d for you.
If not these favours he’d confer,
For Providence can never err.
Go ask the great, let these confess,
If gold can purchase happiness?
Is not the mind with virtue stor’d,
Superior to earth’s glitt’ring hoard?
Hence, spurn its trash, call fortune blind,
Your’s be the riches of the mind.
Monody, on the Death of Frederick Augustus Brice, M.D. Late of Cavan.
Haste Clio, strike the mournful sounding lyre,
Bid grief with all her sable train attend;
Let each gay object into shade retire,
While I deplore the exit of my friend.
My friend, This gentleman was one of the author’s most particular and esteemed friends. Oh! yes, his gen’rous bosom glow’d
With ev’ry virtue that could grace the name;
For while a father’s care for me he shew’d,
Unmeasur’d kindness soften’d ev’ry claim.M 98 M(1)v 98
Yes, he possess’d the mind sincere,
Where ev’ry trust I could repose,
Without disguise unbosom all my woes,
He too, my griefs would share.
When adverse clouds had low’r’d,
Or sickness seiz’d this frame,
The balm of consolation then he pour’d:
’Twas then of friend he claim’d the sacred name.
But now no more when fortune frowns severe,
To him I’ll haste my troubles to disclose;
No more the healing med’cine he’ll prepare,
Or chide this heart for brooding o’er its woes.
Alas! those limbs that once with pleasure sped,
To cheer my heart, and raise my drooping head,
Lie cold and lifeless now among the dead.
How often to his hospitable dome,
He hail’d me welcome with an honest smile,
True friendship bade me claim it as my home,
And melancholy’s self his converse did beguile.99 M(2)r 99
While mem’ry lives, hence gratitude sincere,
Shall from this bosom steal the frequent sigh,
Thoughts on his fate shall still command the tear
To flow spontaneous from the streaming eye.
I saw him lately This was the last day that he spent with his amiable family—on the next, he was seized with the fatal disorder which terminated his useful life. in life’s gayest bloom,
With ev’ry seeming comfort bless’d,
His blooming offspring Five lovely children—two sons and three daughters, the eldest of them not more than fifteen years of age. round him plac’d,
And the lov’d partner of his social bliss:
O then a father’s truest joys were his,
E’en all that fond affection could excite,
No gloomy care was nigh,
To interrupt their mutual joy,
Pleasure beam’d in ev’ry eye,
And all was chaste delight.
Ah! this was bliss too exquisite to last,
For soon misfortune’s chilling blast,
A sudden veil o’er all these blessings cast,
And whelm’d them deep in sorrow’s saddest gloom.
Ah! what is life, or what hath earth to boast,
But vain delusive happiness at most;
When even in the zenith of our joys,
Some sudden stroke of fate, our brightest hope destroys!
Thus with my friend when ev’ry pleasure smil’d,
And fortune own’d him as her fav’rite child,
In one dread moment was he call’d to leave,
These scenes to moulder in the loathsome grave.
Th’ infectious fever seiz’d his frame,
And spread its fierce malignant flame,
The monarch of the grave appear’d,
And his resistless shaft uprear’d;
Soon he perceiv’d the fatal blow,
Impending o’er his head,
And now in tones of agonizing woe,
He call’d his tender wife and children round his bed:
These were the fetters that had bound his heart,
And made his soul unwilling to depart.101 M(3)r 101
Ah! but for these he had resign’d his breath,
Without regret, and smil’d serene on death.
Ye tuneful nine draw near,
Whose lays have charm’d his raptur’d ear,
Come in your sable robes array’d,
In all the guise of sorrow clad,
Pay the last grateful tribute to his shade,
Whose mem’ry claims the most exalted lay,
That merit can demand, or friendship pay.
His country now a valued gem hath lost,
Of which she well might boast,
No narrow views were his, no thirst of gain.
No bigot zeal his bosom fir’d;
His breast with genuine worth inspir’d,
Did ev’ry low pursuit disdain.
Well may the poor lament his fate,
For they have now a guardian lost:
Who on their woes without reward did wait,
Nor fee demanded, or expected cost.102 M(3)v 102
Where e’er affliction pour’d its moan This part of his character is not iun the least exaggerated—all who were acquainted with him, even his enemies, (if he had any,) will allow him to have been generous, benevolent, and humane.
Each object of distress he sought,
His hands with gifts, his heart with pity fraught,
Their wants reliev’d, or seized on, as his own.
I heard him heave the pensive sigh,
For other’s woes; I saw him touch’d with grief,
I saw his hand administer relief,
And the big tear of pity in his eye.
But ah! what anguish can compare,
With that, which rends each tortur’d breast,
Of the lov’d objects of his fost’ring care
Ah! they have lost the faithful guide,
The best of fathers, the sincerest friend,
Who gentlest counsel with reproof did blend.
To them no kind indulgence he denied,
His sole ambition was to see them blest.
Their friend is gone—nor shall they henceforth prove,
The fond endearments of paternal love.
His gentle partner long may mourn,
Her brightest ray of comfort fled,
And oft her steps by melancholy led,
Bending sadly o’er his urn,
The tear of mis’ry there shall shed.
Her weeping orphans too, shall join,
And annual as the season shall return,
On wings of sad remembrance borne,
I’ll mix in unison with theirs,
Heart rending sighs and friendship’s tears:
Eve’s dewy star shall blend its drops with mine.
Swift time on hasty pinions flies,
And flying drops his mask;
Mortals he bids be greatly wise,
And oft repeats the task.
His wheels by quickest motion mov’d,
Convince me as they run;
No moment should pass unimprov’d,
No duty lie undone!
Sophia. A Hapless Tale.
Sol’s setting rays had ting’d the west,
And faintly glimmer’d thro’ the trees;
The warbling throng retir’d to rest,
Mine ear scarce caught the passing breeze.
I saw the god of day retire,
And night spread forth her sable veil;
When near yon lonely Abbey’s spire,
I heard Sophia’s mournful tale.
As o’er the tombs she took her way,
Dim were the stars, and Cynthia wan,
Unheeding did her footsteps stray,
And thus her tale of woe began:N 106 N(1)v 106
Once I was young and gay like thee,
No anguish did this breast conceal;
From ev’ry care my heart was free,
Ah! stop and hear, poor Sophy’s tale.
I sought my aged parents cot,
As frantic o’er the heath I stray’d;
They too were gone, for in this spot,
A green sod on their heads was laid.
Rest, lightly rest—thou, turf, she said,
While I my destiny bewail;
Then sinking on their clay cold bed,
She clos’d her eyes, and mournful tale.
Flavia to Her Physician, On Feeling her Pulse.
Sir, Flavia sends her thanks this morn,
For past attention paid;
Hopes should her malady return,
You’ll lend your future aid.
She vows she does admire your skill,
As matchless, tho’ she’s sure
That something else affects her still,
You have not strove to cure.
When you had felt her pulse last night,
She thought you then could tell;
That all within was scarcely right,
Tho’ all without seem’d well.
If a proficient in the art,
She begs you may reveal,
What med’cine suits a wounded heart,
Or love-sick minds can heal!
Ah! write prescriptions if you please;
For more than she I ween,
Are full as bad in this disease,
As some are in the spleen.
She knows not how she caught the flame;
But if you can remove,
The cause, she’ll spread your lasting fame,
When the effects she’ll prove.
But tho’ she has her case reveal’d
She hopes you’ll be so kind,
To keep the secret close conceal’d,
’Till a fit cure you find.
The Lamentation. To a Young Lady.
Ah! me, for what merciless end was I born,
Without crimes, judge, or jury, thus mangled and torn,
How could those fair eyes which so oft I amus’d
Bear to see me ill treated, and grossly abus’d!
When in embryo formed and closely conceal’d,
What would you have given to see me reveal’d,
When fully adorned I sprang from the press,
You admired my features, fine figure, and dress:
So nicely connected was every part,
That you vow’d I was nature devoid of all art.
So many perfections, in me were combin’d,
You declar’d ev’ry excellence met in my mind,
My manners were polished, my notions refin’d.O 114 O(1)v 114
Tho’ at distance from courts, nor in colleges bred,
Both knowledge and learning grew up in my head
I could treat on each subject with eloquent ease,
Make blockheads admire, and news-mongers gaze,
The patriot, statesman, mechanic, and clown;
Thought me better accomplished than any in town.
The merchant caressed me, and critics were loud
In extolling my talents and wit, to the crowd;
I aided the medical gentleman’s skill,
And the notary thank’d me when mending his quill:
Each glorious achievement by me was made shine,
And I oft stimulated the pious divine.
In short I was ev’ry thing justice can draw;
Nay, more than all this, for I understood law.
I was fit for all parties, at tea-table chat,
Yes, in this I excelled when all others were flat,
And here did the fair ones by whom I’m condemn’d,
Allow me their sanction and call me their friend.
But now when imprison’d, forsaken, distress’d,
Say where have they fled, who such friendship profess’d?115 O(2)r 115
To which of these Advocates, shall I apply,
To procure my reprieve, and forbid me to die?
The patriot vows that he cannot attend
To my cause, tho’ he’d wish, to act as my friend:
While affairs of more moment the statesman detain,
He must think for the King, nor consider my chain,
The merchant declares, he would willingly bail
My neck from the gallows, but customers fail;
For behold while he’s speaking, fresh trouble ensues,
He’s a bankrupt himself, and of course, must refuse.
The physician, has too many patients in hand,
And the parson must pray, for the sins of the land.
The law hath prohibited justice to speak,
And with scribbling the notary’s nerves are grown weak.
My genius, the critics, have wholly forgot,
The mechanic, and peasant despise me in thought:
Why should we, say they, since the great one’s deny,
Their favour, make foes for ourselves: let him die!
Ah why, to preferment, at first did I rise,
Or why did the light ever dawn on these eyes?116 O(2)v 116
Why was I impelled to the temple of Fame,
To enrol in her list, and distinguish my name!
Since honours, and merit must shortly expire,
Be doom’d to the tree, or consume in the fire!
After all my acknowledg’d good sense, and fine parts,
My admirers to marble do oft turn their hearts,
While not one, to lament my sad fate do I see,
Save a Muse who was never indebted to me.
Yet why should I think my misfortune so strange,
Since all things in nature are given to change!
But I mourn for the millions as well as myself,
That might have lain by pretty safe on the shelf,
Had not cruel fashion instructed the fair,
In political ringlets to curl up their hair. These lines were composed while a lady was curling her hair with a newspaper
The Pot Hooks. These lines were occasioned by a gentleman sleeping with a pair of pot hooks under his pillow, and saying in the morning that he dreamed of a certain lady.
What curious revolution hath took place?
Since pot hooks can decide the doubtful case;
Can make the man believe he has a heart,
Susceptible of feeling Cupid’s dart.
Can form a telescope for either eye,
And bring the object of his wishes nigh;
Can paint her image so exactly true,
And make him all her charms with rapture view.
Of all the household goods this earth contains,
Knives, forks, tongs, pokers, dripping-pans, or chains,
This piece of sordid metal is the last,
I would conceive to be of such a cast.
Sagacious pot hooks! if thy power be such,
We cannot prize, or rate thee over much;118 O(3)v 118
Hail courteous steel! if such thy influence be,
No oracle should we consult but thee,
No more by scullions shalt thou be betray’d,
In dirty corners so neglectful laid;
No more on sooty crooks shall thou be swung;
’Mongst famous hero’s shields I’ll have thee hung:
No more shall angry Cyclops forge thee wrong,
But form thy anchor genuine, firm and strong,
Nor tongs, nor poker, with thee e’er shall vie;
While fame exists thy merit to descry:
Away sly miner! Cupid. take thy lasting flight!
Beg Æsculapius to restore thy sight.
Go! seek thy bread by some more honest means,
Than quivers, darts, and lovers’ torturing pains:
No more thy random shots shall pierce the heart;
While pothooks live to contravene thy dart.
Boast not Maria, of those charms,
Which shortly must decay!
Nor lull’d in earth’s deceitful charms,
Throw real joys away.
Know each attraction nature gave,
In spite of art must die;
Must shortly in the silent grave,
Forgotten, useless lie.
But oh! the soul by grace inspir’d,
By wisdom’s dictates mov’d;
Shall shine, where virtues are admir’d,
Are heighten’d, and improv’d.
No flatt’ry shall my verse convey,
I scorn a task so mean,
A nobler wish my muse shall sway,
A thought without a stain;
May no unhallow’d passion taint,
Maria’s gentle mind;
Be all that virtue’s self can paint,
Be gen’rous, just, and kind!
To a Lady, who requested a few Stanzas on receiving the present of a Gold Breast Pin from a Gentleman, in the form of a Dart, with a Heart placed in the centre.
Dear Jenny, not one of the Nine,
But in earnest, last night I invok’d,
To favour your case, with a line,
But they seem’d either deaf, or provok’d.
So then to determine the cause,
To Apollo I instantly hied:
He at first made an angry pause,
And half frowning, at length he replied:
No wonder the Muses are deaf,
And refuse to attend to your prayer:
For the object you sue for, (in bried,)
His vows and his heart’s insincere.
Tho’ Cupid is none of my son,
And tho’ blind I must give him his due,
His achievements are honestly won,
’Tis wedlock the boy has in view.
Tho’ by random he send forth his fires,
Or by stratagem bosoms assail:
It’s a generous flame he inspires,
’Twere pity he should not prevail.
But the object whose suit you’d maintain,
Is unworthy the trouble you take;
He is fickle, conceited and vain,
Besides I am told he’s a rake.
I’ll tell you of late what he did,
He to Vulcan applied for a Dart;
Don’t you think he deserves to be chid?
For he placed in the centre a heart.
This did he present to the fair,
For the freedom he vow’d to atone;
But time shall convince her, (with care,)
The metal was none of his own.
So now should you wish to indite,
If the Muses would visit your skull;
At the rake you must vent all your spite,
And shew him his error in full.
Then, Jenny, I’ll leave it to you,
To determine what method I’ll take;
What reward do you think will be due?
Should I chance to reform such a rake.
Elegy to Old Pen.
Poor pen, quite worn to the stump,
Tho’ late so sprightly, fair, and plump,
Thy ill-tim’d fate I sing:
Once happy with thy mother goose,
’Till pluck’d for Man’s ungrateful use,
From ’neath her fostering wing.
I saw thee once in high repute,
Thy talents could each subject suit,
And every ear have pleas’d:
On those that never had a soul,
For music form’d, thy accents stole,
As if enchantment seiz’d.
Cold stoic bosoms thou hast warm’d,
And age by thee was often charm’d,
And half it’s years forgot;
Yet, must thou now, in foul disgrace,
Guiltless, condemn’d, turn’d out of place,
Upon the dunghill rot.
Ah! could’st thou not have leave to house,
In some lone corner like a mouse,
Tho’ not like mouse to eat:
But fate commands, it must be so,
That thou, an outcast hence must go,
However soon, or late.
Poor thing, how transient is thy date,
How inauspicious is thy fate,
That after all thy toil,
And faithful service that is past,
There’s none a pitying look to cast,
But at the thought recoil?
The Sun beheld thee gay at morn,
Trimm’d out the inkstand to adorn,
As fine as quill could be:
But noon beheld thy swift decline,
By whim, or caprice made resign,
The post assign’d to thee.
Yet not for wicked actions spurn’d
For theft, or lies, or murder, turn’d,
So basely out of doors:
No thief, or bankrupt e’er wast thou,
No guile, low cunning, perjur’d vow,
Or witchcraft e’er was your’s.
Thy own imprudence ne’er betray’d,
(If aught of evil thou hast said,)
Thy tongue to speak amiss:
No malice rankled in thy heart,
To make a neighbour’s feelings smart,
Thou hast been clear of this.
No fault hadst thou but one alone,
And this might be considered none,
If rightly all would weigh
Thee in the balance fair between,
And shew the world how thou has been,
So useful in thy day.
But merit seldom gets it’s due,
And gratitude is found with few,
In these degenerate days;
Tho’ some can readily bestow,
The artificial tear of wo,
And sigh to purchase praise.
Some with defects, and more ’tis true,
Fall full as innocent as you,
With few their fall to moan:
E’en such poor Pen hath been the fate,
Of many noble, wise, and great,
To go as thou hast gone,
The Fly. To Anna.
Ah! Anna, why so cruel grown,
So treach’rous to betray;
That little insect which hath flown,
For safety in thy way.
Let go the hold, ope wide thy hand
It will not rest with thee;
See how its flutt’ring wings expand,
Impatient to get free.
Poor little thoughtless thing! hadst thou,
For shelter fled to me;
Thou had’st been free to rove ere now,
At perfect liberty.
Ah! Anna, let the captive go,
I’ll thank thee in its stead;
Hence—should misfortune aim her blow,
Ne’er may it touch thy head.
Virtue This greatens, fills, immortalizes all—. Truly Great.
Should dame fortune bid me rise,
’Bove my fellow mortals soar;
Pointing me to fancied joys,
Eager, bid me thirst for more.
Should ambition spread her wiles,
Pleasure paint each scene anew,
Fame support me with her smiles,
Merit give me more than due;
Yet know, my soul, in ev’ry state,
Virtue alone can make thee great!
Were my manners most refin’d,
And my form exceeding fair;
Ev’ry youthful charm combin’d,
All my movements light as air;Q 130 Q(1)v 130
Were I noblest of my sex,
Gentle and politely bred;
Should nature ev’ry grace annex,
Sparkling wit adorn my head,
Courteous, smart, genteel and neat,
Virtue alone can make thee great!
Should the treasures of the East,
All their glitt’ring gems diffuse:
Perfect nicety of taste,
The orient pearls rich beauty choose:
Should I thus my frame adorn,
And cosmetic odours join,
Graceful the toilet’s task perform,
And fashion’s flaming meteor shine:
Yet these with all the pomp of state,
Would whisper, Virtue’s only great!
Should imagination raise,
Me, above the vulgar crowd:
Servile parasites give praise,
Flatt’ry sound her trump aloud:131 Q(2)r 131
Were I skill’d in ombre play,
Or the dice’s anxious throw;
Could I dance, and sing all day,
Make the passions ebb and flow;
Were I in all the arts complete,
Virtue alone can make thee great!
Could I scale some lofty mount,
Nigh yon loud resounding shore;
Rural beauties all recount,
When I’d view each landscape o’er:
With my pencil could I paint,
All those beauties nature gave,
With the artist’s just restraint,
Form exact the swelling wave:
My heart at this might feel elate,
Yet Virtue only’d make me great!
Should deep science ope her store,
Learning’s vast extent be mine;
Bright ideas swift explore,
Things both moral and divine:132 Q(2)v 132
Should philosophy be mine,
Newton’s self could I excel;
Talents most distinguish’d shine,
Ev’ry thought to volumes swell:
Could I on noblest subjects treat,
Virtue alone would make me great!
Were I on some desert isle,
Where no flow’r or plant doth grow;
Could I fertilize the soil,
Bid the rose and vi’let blow:
Could I by a single beck,
Tigers tame at my desire,
Could I salamander like,
Live unhurt amidst the fire;
Should endless health be giv’n by fate;
Virtue alone would make me great!
Should the Graces all conspire,
Weave for me a triple wreath;
Should the Muses ’stow their fire,
And Apollo on me breathe;133 Q(3)r 133
Should I chance to win the bays,
Be with blooming laurels crown’d,
Genius with her brightest rays
More than half enclose me round:
My soul would cry insatiate,
Virtue alone would make me great!
Were Herculean strength my own,
Æsculapius’ famous skill;
Were I on some lofty throne,
Could I highest stations fill,
Wield the sceptre or the rod,
Exercise a monarch’s sway,
Nations conquer by a nod,
Make a vanquish’d world obey;
Should prostrate kings upon me wait,
Virtue alone could make me great!
When old age comes stealing on,
Warn’d to bid these scenes adieu;
May I view my ev’ning sun,
Set to rise in lustre new!134 Q(3)v 134
Wrinkles may deform the face,
Spoil the tincture of the skin;
Sickness ev’ry charm erase,
But should all be calm within,
These pleasing thoughts will indicate,
Virtue alone can make me great!
Stanzas, On receiving a Consoling Letter from a Friend.
Tho’ dormant long my Muse hath lain,
Should Friendship sweetly speak,
I cease my silence to retain;
My feelings are awake.
At that glad sound my numbers flow,
And grief itself gives way,
Her gentle voice abates my woe,
With sweet resistless sway.
With rapture I peruse each line,
Transcrib’d by that dear pen;
As by a sacred touch divine,
It cheers my soul again.
My sorrow’s hush’ed into a calm,
My inward tumults cease:
Reviv’d by Friendship’s cordial balm,
It quite insures my peace.
Her power, tho’ teeming ills corrode,
Afflictions can beguile;
Can smooth misfortune’s rugged road;
And bid disaster smile.
Hail, Friendship! life’s best comfort hail!
When other joys are fled;
Thy soothing power shall still prevail,
To raise my sinking head.
The sun has arose; but his beams can’t convey,
One gleam of refulgence to me;
At the shrine of despondence a tribute I’ll pay,
Absorpt in deep Anguish I’ll spend this sad day,
Brave Nelson in wailing for thee.
My sons have ye heard? your brave champion’s no more.
He has bidd’n a final adieu
To earth; his last conflict is certainly o’er,
He is landed indeed on eternity’s shore,
Alas ! ’tis too fatally true.
Ah! why, matchless hero, so soon hast thou fled,
So quick from our sight diasappear’d;
Our glory, and boast, and our enemies dread,
Ah! why did death’s curtain envelope the head,
Whose bosom, no danger hath fear’d,
Thus Britain bemoans the dread loss of her son,
Who so justly with laurels was crown’d,
Who so many atchievements with honour had won,
Such conquests obtain’d, and such wonders had done;
And sorrow encompass’d her round.
And shall ocean the loss of her hero sustain,
Without sharing with Britain in woe;
Where now is the chief who her rights shall maintian,
Her fleets and her honor preserve from a stain,
Who dreadless, their leader shall go?
Oh! that out of his ashes a phœnix might spring,
And valiant as he might arise;
To be cloth’d with such honours, as he, by our king,
To our nation more triumphs, and victories bring,
And like Nelson, be rais’d to the skies.
The clouds were black, the winds were high,
The rain in torrents from the sky,
Pour’d through the gloom of night:
Those mental clouds which thoughts annul,
Left not a vein within my skull,
Dispos’d to read, or write.
I thought, yet scarce knew what to think,
I dipp’d my pen twice in the ink,
And laid it down again;
When looking round upon the wall,
I saw a little spider crawl,
From ’neath its silken chain.
Careless it seem’d to move awhile,
And then to its accustom’d toil,
With hasty steps it ran:
This inference from hence I drew,
Which now enclos’d I send to you;
Make of it what you can:
If little insects void of thought,
Are thus by nature’s instinct taught,
To exercise their pow’rs;
What should our active minds engage?
Not the false phantom of an age;
Let nobler tasks be ours.
To a Friend,
Who requested a few lines on the Pleasures of Memory.
Would busy thought or care afford me leisure,
To your request I’d willingly attend;
This grateful heart would beat with anxious pleasure,
To gratify a dear, and much lov’d friend.
But first, permit me freely to inquire,
What could induce you this request to ask?
You know my muse hath long unstrung her lyre,
She feels no joy in her once pleasing task.
Is it to think of childhood’s fond employment?
When free to rove, kind nature left my mind?
Or pore o’er friendship’s nobler, sweet enjoyment,
When first her wreaths were round this heart entwin’d?
Is it o’er former joys, you bid me ponder?
If so, most willingly I shall obey;
In melancholy’s maze I’ll gladly wander.
Come, Mem’ry, hence I yield me to thy sway.
But yet, unmask’d I do not wish to meet thee,
Fond as I am of brooding o’er my pain;
Unwelcome oft thou camest thus to greet me,
Thy busy images perplex’d my brain.
Could she whose bosom is so sympathizing,
Bid me on Mem’ry’s aid reluctant call?
Foe to my peace, she’s daily tantalizing,
She sinks, and quite o’erwhelms me in the fall.
There was a time, when oft I had invited,
This courteous nymph with me to make her stay;
But ever since my prospects have been blighted,
I strove to chace her from my thoughts away.
But, ah! forgive, nor yet believe me cruel,
I still revere, I love this sacred shade;
I still behold her as a precious jewel,
Whose sparkling gems, make little minds afraid.
But now in Lethe, rather would I bury,
All past rememb’rance, had I my request;
A draught of this might make me sometimes merry,
Were recollection banish’d from my breast.
But see! with hasty strides she quick advances,
On this side joy, she slily steals between;
At former scenes, officiously she glances,
And makes me think, or dream I once have been.
E’en now in fancy’s robes she comes attir’d,
Bids gay delusions swarm around my pen;
Then points the sting of wo: my bosom’s fired,
Sudden I start, and am myself again.
Yet trust me, Ann, were Mem’ry self departed,
Were ev’ry hope of future pleasure flown;
With her were ev’ry lov’d idea blasted,
I’d court her aid to think of thee alone.
A Trip to Bundorin. This place is so universally known, and so much frequented in the summer and harvest seasons, that it is almost unnecessary to say any thing of it here. It is a small village near the sea shore, pleasantly situated for bathing; but not well accomodated with comfortable lodging places. It lies within three miles of Ballyehannon.
In a Letter to a Friend.
I presume, my dear friend, is desirous to know,
What treatment we’ve got and how matters do go;
So I’ll lay by my stocking, and wind up my clew,
Till I tell you what pass’d since you bade us adieu.
Already you know how our trunks were all tost,
Our cheese filch’d away, and our groceries lost.
Soon after you left us, the sun hid his face,
Rude Boreas blew hard, and the rain pour’d apace,
And to add to our woe, and the rest of the mischief,
Our driver got drunk, and the horse became restive,
While our courage had nearly forsaken us quite,
For we fear’d we should be overtaken by night.S 146 S(1)v 146
But still we had hopes that our stars would be kind,
In sending us lodgings, complete to our mind.
Our misfortunes we bore with a middling good grace
Until we arrived at the door of the place,
In which we expected to make our abode,
And forgot what disasters we met on the road.
We thought we were fix’d when we drove to the door,
So leapp’d off our seats in great haste, to be sure.
The landlady welcom’d us all with a smile,
And inquiring for you, she detain’d us awhile;
Then made a preamble full ten times too long,
And vow’d she was sorry her house was so throng;
As she would, if convenient, give us of the best;
But from this we were left to conjecture the rest.
Had you seen our distrss you’d have smil’d I presume,
When she courteously handed us into a room,
Which was small, dark, and narrow, most sadly confin’d,
Without ceiling, or plaister, to keep out the wind.
You see, said our hostess, with dignified air,
The very best room that my house has to spare.147 S(2)r 147
And many are glad to put up with a worse,
Who have pride in the head and much cash in the purse.
Had you seen our bed-chamber, you’d have surely been scar’d,
The floor was quite damp, and the beds small and hard.
But stay, I have told you a fib by the half.
The beds were of feathers, the bolster but chaff.
Here echo prohibited bells to be rung,
And spiders profusely rich tapestry hung.
The room was set out with stool, table, and chair,
Not by any means clean, and much worse for the wear.
A mirror, not destin’d to make one look fair,
And a straw mat to kneel on when going to prayer.
In a corner a cup-board was plac’d in the wall,
To hold those materials for which we might call:
Knives, forks, cups and saucers—but sure such a set,
Of houshold utensils, were never yet met,148 S(2)v 148
Without much admiration, we ey’d them all o’er,
Then took some refreshment, and went to the shore.
Where the lame and the lazy, the coward and brave,
Shrunk back from the margin, or plung’d in the wave.
Alas! then how little we thought of our fate,
Or suspected that more evils upon us did wait!
An idea of this never enter’d our heads,
So after our tea, we repair’d to our beds,
Where we hop’d to get sleep, tho’ not ease See the description of the bed in the preceding page by the bye,
But O, not one slumber could veil the clos’d eye:
For in the east chamber upon the right hand,
Where the window you know is just facing the strand,
To our mutual annoyance, an ill manner’d wight,
Kept snoring so loudly the most of the night,
That sometimes we thought there were thunder and rain,
Or that Neptune’s long trident, was parting the main.149 S(3)r 149
’Twixt the noise of the ocean, and sound of his nose,
Our fears kept awake to redouble our woes;
For me I was tempted to curse my sad fate,
And to pray that Olympus might fall on his pate,
Or else that the cords might give way in the bed,
Or that Vulcan might forge a steel case for his head;
When Aurora appear’d, and bade me beware,
Nor attempt to present to the skies such a pray’r,
Because, said the goddess, (and look’d with a frown,)
’Tis the nature, and not the intent of the clown.
When she utter’d these words, with speed I arose,
From a couch where no mortal could hope for repose:
Nay if Momus or Morpheus on such had been plac’d,
Not so much as a slumber their eyelids had grac’d.
I wak’d my companions; we went to the sea;
To wash (not our sins, but) our sickness away.
When breakfast was over to market we sent;
(You know at Bundorin we seldom keep Lent,)
A joint of good mutton was speedily bought,
And home by the butcher was instantly brought.150 S(3)v 150
We cook’d some for dinner, the rest was laid by,
As the wants of to-morrow we wish’d to supply;
But O, a vile dog with wide ravenous jaws,
Stole our mutton away ’twixt his teeth and his paws,
And fate too determin’d our stomachs to cheat,
For the landlady’s pig our potatoes did eat.
Our costly rice pudding, and gooseberry tart,
Were spoil’d past all using, which griev’d us at heart,
Yet all our ill luck had not made us repine,
If we had not invited some strangers to dine.
Now, our two days adventures I’ve told you at large,
So I hope you will lay no neglect to my charge;
But I’m growing so weary of scribbling and thinking,
That I must take a walk, for my spirits are sinking;
But when I return I’ll take up my pen,
And acquaint you with all that may happen till then.
A Trip to Bundorin.
After rambling all morning (for which I am blam’d,
Round the bridge of the fairie The Fairy Bridge, (so called,) is a very romantic spot, situated on the top of a high rock, just impending over the sea, and so exceedingly narrow, that it would be dangerous to stand on it. It reminds one of Dover cliff, especially when the tide is coming in. description of And dizzy ’tis to cast one’s eyes so low!I’ll look no more,Lest my brain turn, and the deficient sightTopple down headlong. for wonders so fam’d;
As my last before this you’ve had time to peruse
My pen I resume to impart you more news.
Since I wrote you before we’ve got matters arrang’d,
Some lodgers have fled, our apartments are chang’d,
And we’ve got things adjusted, that once were amiss,
I’m certain my friend will be glad to hear this.
The tempest is hush’d, and the weather is fine
And butterflies now are permitted to shine,152 S(4)v 152
Ev’n reptiles are here quite cheerful and gay,
And asses are merry as midges in May.
Ev’n mules which at home can’t be led, walk’d, or driv’n,
Can here assume tempers both gentle and even;
While magpies and parrots can prate to excess,
And turkies, like peacocks, can splendidly dress.
For crows, hawks, and vultures, and birds of all kinds,
Are drove to this ocean by different winds.
Here nonsense, and good sense, and no sense at all,
In torrents impetuous about mine ears fall;
And I’m sometimes so plagu’d, when to bear it I try,
That my brains and my bonnet are driv’n awry. It is astonishing to see the cheerfulness and gaiety which prevail among people of every description that frequent this place.
Something more interesting I now come to tell;
Æsculapius hath sent down his physical shell,
And has giv’n us a doctor polite, and well bred,
Who fears no distemper, no danger doth dread;153 T(1)r 153
For often, tho’ this may appear somewhat strange,
Round the coast he at midnight for water doth range,
Then a bumper distributes, clear, wholesome, and large,
His labour is gratis he scorns to charge;
And he does things so well, without bustle or haste,
That scarcely like physic his medicines taste.
He attends to his patients both early and late,
And when he is absent, depends on his mate:
For with one he is favour’d, whom all should admire,
For he’s active, exact, and as proud as a squire.
But a shocking disaster befell them last night,
Both the doctor and mate got a terrible fright. The Doctor was a very facetious gentleman, who took great pleasure in administering the Salt Water as a cordial to those who were his acquaintance. If the maid neglected providing it in the evening, he would go for it himself after night, and sometimes at a very late hour.
I’m informed that this is the time of the year,
When ghosts in this country are wont to appear,
When hobgoblins, and satyrs, and witches and elves, The opinion is prevalent among the illiterate in this place, that not only departed Spirits appear, but that Fairies hold their revels in particular places, and frequent their houses though invisible to them.
Creep forth from their caverns like spiders off shelves.T 154 T(1)v 154
At the dread hour of twelve, when all nature’s asleep,
Save fairies that revel, or lovers who weep,
To bed went our gentry, and barr’d the door sure,
Believing from ghosts, they were safe and secure.
But unlike to us mortals a spirit can dart,
Like a fly, thro’ a key hole exceedingly smart;
Thus sprang up the sprite, over table and chair,
The gentlemen start, and in terror declare,
That they were not nervous, nor teaz’d with the spleen,
For the thing more than once they had visibly seen.
One hid in the bed, while t’other loud bawl’d,
And Winny the house-maid was speedily call’d;
As if they depended upon the poor maid,
To question the ghost and thus have it laid.
Pale, trembling, affrighted, now Winny arose,
Nor waited to put on the half of her clothes,
For they that are bound (of course) must obey,
But when Winny appear’d not a word could she say.
She cross’d herself thrice, while trembling she gaz’d,
And seem’d like a statue so stiff and amaz’d.155 T(2)r 155
At length she exclaim’d, What a pitiful case,
Oh! how can one look at a ghost in the face?
May the Virgin defend us, I’m greatly afraid
Some horrible witchcraft against us is laid.
But I’ll go and call Dermot. Stay, gentlemen, stay,
For I’m sure he’s so stout that he’ll chase it away.
Ho! Dermot, get up, Oh! how can you sleep,
Don’t you hear what a racket these heretics keep?
They’re sufficient to frighten one out of one’s wits,
There are some of them likely to fall into fits.
So let them, says Dermot, fast snoring again,
And all Winny’s efforts to rouse him were vain.
So herself must perform the wonderful task,
What brought the thing there she must speedily ask;
And thus she began, like the one in despair,
After taking a minute to mutter a pray’r—
Oh! if you be ghost, or whatever you be,
That’s come here to frighten the lodgers or me;
Or if you’re the goblin I saw in the dark,
When last night I was milking the cows in the park;156 T(2)v 156
Or if any thing earthly, I bid you depart,
Lest when daylight appear you painfully smart.
But I’ll see what you are when the candle I light.
Says Winny, resolv’d to examine the sprite.
But behold! when she view’d it (without beard or wig,)
The wonderful ghost was no more than a pig,
Which had come to salute (if our doctor say true,)
His mate who was courteous, to give him his due.
And further, asserted, he thought it was right.
That pigs, well as monkies, should too be polite.
Superstition thou dire and wide-spreading pest
Who securely abides in the ignorant breast,
When, when shall our reaosn thy folly dispel,
And discredit those tales which thy votaries tell?
I hope no more goblins, or dogs shall intrude,
To fright us at night, or demolish our food.
And now you may venture to come when you please,
We can give you a bed to repose on at ease.
Could Henry prove faithless, ah! no,
He never inconstant will prove;
Would he leave his Amanda in wo,
And forget both his duty and love?
Forbid it, ye heavenly pow’rs!
His breast is a stranger to guile:
Time quick chase away these dull hours,
And bring us together to smile !
With confidence still I’ll look up,
Tho’ parted, alas! by the main;
This bosom shall cherish the hope,
We’ll meet and be happy again.
Misfortune itself cannot sever,
True friendship; nor love disarrange
Impossible! never, no, never!
For Henry’s not given to change.
Would he leave his poor babes, to deplore,
The loss of a father so long?
Will he listen with rapture no more,
To the sweet lisping prate of their tongue?
How often with pleasure caressing,
Their innocent faces he view’d?
And while they look’d up for a blessing,
Their cheeks with his tears he bedew’d.
Oh! had you been present to view,
The fond, inexpressible gaze,
That he took, when he bade them adieu,
While the father stood dead in amaze,
You’d ask would he leave us for ever,
Alone in this desert to range,
Impossible! never, no, never!
For Henry’s too gen’rous to change.
For him I’m entwining a wreath,
Of flow’rs to embellish his shield,
On which blithe Favonius shall breath,
And blossoms it daily shall yield.
My babes as they’re culling these flowers,
Shall ask me again, and again;
As I’m passing away the dull hours,
What my rural employment doth mean;
I’ll tell them they once had a father,
Whom fate bade encounter the seas:
They’ll weep as they’re going to gather
More flow’rs my sorrows to ease.
And ask, Will he leave us for ever,
Among these bleak mountains to range?
I’ll answer with sighing, No! never!
Will Henry so cruelly change.
Written by request.
Adieu all ye objects that used to divert,
Since Friendship hath hid her dear face;
No more let Apollo his music exert,
Her form from my mind to erase,
No more let the Muses their influence shed,
If not in assisting my lay;
To attune my sad lyre, and tell how she fled,
How swiftly she vanish’d away.
When Autumn advanc’d, and the leaves left the trees,
And winter came travelling on:
Her presence prevented my bosom to freeze,
Like the rays which proceed from the sun.
No more let Dan Phœbus his lustre display,
Nor Cynthia her brightness disclose:
Nor the lily appear in its splendid array,
Since the thorn hath infected the rose.
Say where, charming nymph, hast thou taken thy flight,
Whom still I adore to excess;
In th’ morn when I wake, and in slumbers at night,
Thy shade I am wont to caress;
If I knew where to find out thy secret retreat,
My footsteps I’d instantly turn;
Or if thou art dead, I’d lament thy sad fate,
And thy dust I’d collect in an urn.
I’d visit it oft, and shed on it a tear,
When I think of the moments now flown;
The shepherds and nymphs of the forest should hear,
And echo return my sad moan.
And often when mortals are wrapt in dull sleep,
And nature is hush’d to repose:
I’d begin my sad strain and most bitterly weep,
’Till the winds shall re-echo my woes.
She returns! and all nature is smiling and gay,
Bright Sol in refulgence doth shine:
The lark mounts aloft, and the birds on each spray,
In musical harmony join;
The clouds are dispers’d, and the skies are quite clear,
The vallies new verdure assume:
More lovely the tints of the vi’let appear;
And the rose sheds a sweeter perfume.
Ah! why, charming nymph, didst thou wander so far,
Why leave me in anguish to sigh?
Whose aspect’s more cheering than yon brilliant star,
That rolls in its orbit on high.
More beauteous than Venus, tho’ fairer she seem.
More blooming than Hebe thou art;
Thy voice, so attractive more soothing I deem,
Than all the allurements of art.
Ye Hours, and ye Graces, come swift to my aid,
To Poets still dear as their lyres;
Ye muses descend and revisit this shade,
’Tis Friendship my numbers inspires.
In her absence I mourn’d, lamented, and cried,
While trembling my footsteps pursued
Her shade by the rivulet’s clear running side,
And I mingled my tears with the flood.
But now she’s return’d, and my heart’s fully blest,
No more will I grieve or complain:
Despair shall depart, and content fill my breast,
No sorrow my bosom shall stain.
No more all forlorn thro’ the plains will I rove,
While Friendship vouchsafes to be nigh,
No more I’ll resound my sad tale thro’ the grove,
To the winds I will utter no sigh.
Occasioned by a Gentleman paying his Addresses to a Lady.
When Orpheus tun’d his pensive lyre,
Tho’ hope and fear his breast alarm’d;
’Twas love the subject did inspire,
And gloomy Pluto must be charm’d.
His moving lays the monarch hears,
His bridge no longer he detains:
But quite disarms him of his fears,
And frees Eurydice from chains.
’Tis said that mountain, hill and dale,
Were animated by his lay:
His soothing numbers did prevail,
To tame the savage beasts of prey.
That rocks and trees forsook their place,
And tigers listen’d to the sound;
That rivers too forgot their source,
Yet not a single Kidd was found,
To leave its dam, or verdant mead,
To listen to his melting strain;
For them no spell his music laid,
Heedless, they brows’d, or skipp’d the plain
But lo, Hibernia boasts a spell,
With which the Thracian dare not vie;
Harps The lady’s name was Kidd, and the gentleman’s Harpur. have more charms, yes Kidds* The lady’s name was Kidd, and the gentleman’s Harpur. can tell,
For they have found the reason why.
From a Gentleman to his Grand-daughter.
With heart elate and joy most true,
My little Flow’r half rear’d I view,
With pleasing wonder I behold,
Its tender leaves so soon unfold;
And still look forward to the day,
When these shall shine in fair array;
May no rude whirlwind, boast the pow’r,
To blast, or rob me of this Flow’r!
O! if a parent’s fervent pray’r,
Can pierce the skies and enter there,
My ardent wishes thence I’ll send,
That God himself may be her friend;
That guardian angels still may screen
My child, thro’ ev’ry ruffling scene;
Till virtue form her mind replete,
And make her meet for ev’ry state;168 U(4)v 168
I’ll view her then with fond surprize,
Joy shall once more relume these eyes,
To see my Flow’r divinely drest,
Of ev’ry winning grace possest,
That can adorn the female mind,
Taste, manners, reason, sense refin’d:
This, this shall soothe in life’s decline,
And make me ev’ry care resign.
Ode to Misfortune.
Resolve me when, unsocial guest,
When shall this too, too anxious breast,
Be from thy pow’r set free;
Why dost thou steal my peace away?
Or why so ceremonious pay,
Thy sad devoirs to me?
Why point me to the gloomy shade?
Why with deep care my soul pervade,
My noontide bliss destroy?
What fury could thee, thus inspire?
To wreck on me, thy vengeful ire,
And banish ev’ry joy!
Full soon was thy envenom’d dart,
Securely levell’d at my heart,
With all its baneful pow’rs;
Thy arrow left a sting behind,
Which still shall wound this conscious mind,
And dim my brightest hours.
’Tis thou that bade me taste of woe,
And caus’d the streaming tears to flow,
In torrents from mine eyes;
By thee, did adverse storms descend,
And rob me of my dearest friend, The Author’s Father.
And veil in clouds the skies.
’Twas thou bads’t melancholy come,
Made reason from her centre roam,
And virtue bad’st repine;
Bad’st fell despondence hold the rein,
And grief the sleepless eyelids stain.
Such tasks, sad power, are thine!
How blest the birds on yonder sprays!
That thoughtless chaunt their cheerful lays,
Nor know what sorrows mean!
The flocks which browse in yonder fields,
They share the bounty, nature yields,
Devoid of care or pain.
On these no dire misfortunes wait,
They feel but once the stroke of fate,
A moment! tho severe.
But, ah! for me the goddess fills,
Her cup with draughts of endless ills,
And whelms me in despair!
Yet might not fortitude draw nigh?
Might she not check the bursting sigh,
And mis’ry’s shaft repel?
Might not philosophy attend,
And bid me claim her as my friend,
And in my bosom dwell?
Ah! no, the thought’s absurd and vain,
They both my suit with frowns disdain,
Nor give the wish’d relief;
Philosophy forsakes her post,
Like friends untrue, when wanted most.
To my request she’s deaf.
But lo! a voice salutes mine ear,
My soul is all awake to hear,
In silence most profound:
’Tis reason bids me feel her sway,
Her mild behest I shall obey,
There’s music in the sound.
Lo! patience waves her golden wand,
Obsequious to her blest command,
I bow at virtue’s shrine;
Hope, resignation, mark the way,
And bid me hail the joyful day,
When grief shall not be mine.
Ode to Sincerity.
Fain would I dwell, sweet Nymph, with thee,
Call thee my friend and ever be,
Delighted at thy stay;
I’d leave the vain fallacious throng,
Whose hearts ne’er dictate to their tongue,
In error’s maze to stray.
Come unadorn’d with specious guile,
And on thy vot’ress deign to smile,
Nor ever hence depart.
O wouldst thou deign to be my guest,
No storm should drive thee from my breast,
Or tear thee from my heart.
While sycophants, for empty fame,
Assume thy garb, and take thy name,
Yet farthest from thee flee;
Thy influence shall my soul command,
And spite of all I’ll firmly stand,
A constant friend to thee.
Let flatt’ry boast its tinsel’d shew,
Unmeaning compliments bestow,
With artificial grace:
Be thine the task to probe my thoughts,
To point out my minutest faults;
And every folly trace.
To a Friend,
Who complained of being Dull.
You tell me your spirits are low,
And dull as the sad cypress tree;
Pray what has affected you so,
Or makes you quite distant with me?,
Your breast is as frigid you say,
As the frost when enchaining the rills;
But if Phœbus his beams would display,
The snow would depart from the hills.
Or should the sly archer draw near,
If aright he’d direct his full aim,
Your dullness would soon disappear,
And your frigidness turn to a flame.
And then should the fortunate swain,
Who, hopeless perhaps did admire;
The end of his wishes obtain,
’Tis Hymen would kindle the fire.
But now I presume, you’ll reply,
Such notions ne’er enter’d my head;
The youths are grown timid and shy,
And love is extinguish’d and fled.
Nor yet do I wish to be caught,
In Hymen’s too durable chain;
So now I’ll prohibit the thought
Till somebody offer the rein.
The Reluctant Kiss.
What fury, ye stars, could impel the rash youth,
To snatch such a merciless kiss;
It must have been certain distraction forsooth,
That could have induced him to this.
But why cruel man did you not with more ease,
Attempt those fair rubies to taste,
Alas! I’m afraid you’re not form’d to please,
You always transact in such haste.
Ah! how could you bear to have made such a flaw,
Which reflects on your honour a stain;
In kissing an angel you fractur’d her jaw,
And made her reluctant complain.
’Twas fully an hour, for I counted the clock,
As I anxiously sat by her side,
Ere her spirits appear’d to recover the shock,
Tho’ each mind-soothing balm was applied.
But methinks I o’erhear you with fervour reply,
(Poor youth, how I pity your case,)
I fear’d the dear creature would think me too shy,
In performing my part with a grace.
Say what could bewitch me, rash man that I was,
On her charms so attentive to gaze;
If that could have prov’d the unfortunate cause,
Of exciting disgust, and amaze.
O! had she her charms so brilliant conceal’d,
Nor emitted so splendid a ray;
Th’eclipse, it is true, might at length have prevail’d,
And I march’d in triumph away.
Yet tell me who could the temptation withstand,
Or the snare inadvertantly shun?
Then trust me ’twas this that caus’d my rash hand,
To commit all the mischief it done.
Ye youths of rough manners I pray you be wise,
And in future take care how you act;
A shade in a mirror The lady was sitting opposite a large looking glass. might dazzle your eyes,
For experience has prov’d it a fact.
Beware how you trifle with stars in their sphere,
Or make bold with the moon in her orb;
Lest the thunder of Jupiter quickly appear,
And your senses in frenzy absorb.
The Enchanted Butterfly.
An insect rare of modern taste,
Arose, when Sol had grac’d the East;
And thus in fervent mood express’d,
The wish that labour’d in his breast:
O, that some courteous fairy pow’r,
Would steal from ev’ry fragrant flow’r,
Its tinsel’d hues, and me invest,
With silken wings, and dazzling crest!
E’re yet his wish had pierc’d the air,
Propitious nature heard his pray’r,
And quick as thought his form was grac’d,
In perfect symmetry of taste:
Hence, phœnix like, up quickly springs,
A beauteous butterfly with wings.182 Y(3)v 182
The transformation seem’d so strange,
Himself could scarce believe the change:
And basking in the sunny rays,
He flew a thousand diff’rent ways:
Then to a chrystal riv’let came,
And view’d his image in the stream;
While admiration fill’d his breast,
To see himself so gaily drest.
He was indeed a fly of spirit,
And without doubt deserv’d some merit,
For who’d a grov’ling insect lie?
That could become so fine a fly.
None of his tribe could now compare,
With him so gaudy, nice and rare.
All this he saw with conscious eyes,
And look’d with scorn on meaner flies:
Yet felt an anxious inclination,
To mix with those of higher station;
And now become a fly of fashion,
He thought he should indulge his passion,183 Y(4)r 183
In quest of pleasure then he went,
And roam’d till morn and noon were spent;
Thro’ many a fragrant shrub he flew,
And rifled flow’rs and sipp’d the dew;
Insatiate o’er their sweets did run,
Nor ended till the setting sun,
Had bade the labour’rs task be done.
At length fatigu’d and thirsty too,
He stretch’d his wings and homeward flew,
But coming to a river’s side,
He saw its murm’ring current glide—
With rapture, he conceiv’d he must
Stop his career and quench his thirst.
This river was of such a nature,
It chang’d the look of ev’ry creature.
All those who drank or look’d in there,
Must see themselves just as they were.
Upon the bank he spied a bee,
That of the water drank so free,184 Y(4)v 184
That now the butterfly in haste,
Stoop’d down to drink but could not taste:
Hold, says the bee, my honest friend,
And to my words attention lend:
If here you wish to quench your thirst,
Know you must take your wings off first.
You have your wings, the fly replied,
Then, why should I lay mine aside?
Take off my wings, indeed! not I,
How fool, without them could I fly?
A fine advice upon my word!
Both idle, thoughtless and absurd!
Are not these gifts of nature free
For me to wear as well as thee?
You argue with vast eloquence,
Pray take your own, and cast them hence!
Friend, says the bee, I would resign
My wings; but know they’re really mine,
From my own sires they are descended,
And shall be mine till life is ended.185 Z(1)r 185
The changing seasons of the year,
Shall make no change in them appear;
Not thus with you: you’ve always shone,
In borrow’d plumes; your haughty tone,
Belongs not to your reptile race,
Devoid of sentiment and grace.
’Tis therefore right, your wings to cast;
You’ve been enchanted this time past.
Nay, do not think so hard’s the task,
For if you’d drink you must unmask.
This river is so clear and pure,
That no disguise it can endure.
Pray strip, and stand not thus in pain,
You may get other wings again.
With much reluctance, now the fly,
Strips off his wings, and lays them by,
But still with providential care,
He hides them, govern’d by despair,
Of getting others half so fine;
For still his own he thought divine.Z 186 Z(1)v 186
Resolv’d, if here he could not find,
Those pleasures suited to his mind,
To re-assume his garb again,
And hide the odium of his stain.
And now disrob’d upon the brink;
Before he stooped down to drink,
He stood, and straight began to think;
For in the stream he saw his form,
An abject, mean and ugly worm;
He shrunk confounded, sore amaz’d,
And wonder’d more, the more he gaz’d;
Then turn’d away in sad affright,
Who would not start at such a such a sight?
To see so nice, so gay a creasure,
Deform’d in ev’ry limb and feature:
He could not bear the thought, and shame
Made him thus bitterly exclaim:
Fool that I was! to part my wings,
Those pretty, shining, beauteous things,
Which made me look so fine and gay,
To cast them for this Bee away.187 Z(2)r 187
Oft have they made me be admir’d,
Whilst thirst of fame my bosom fir’d:
See, how my fellow flies can soar,
In air, or sport upon the shore!
While I remain an abject worm,
And all reproach my altered form.
I might have drank at other springs,
With pleasure, and retain’d my wings.
Ah, fool! what could thee thus entice,
To take a silly Bee’s advice?
Fie on my rashness! why did I
Associate with this vulgar fly,
Who recommended to my taste,
This water as a sweet repast?
What shall I gain but foul disgrace,
By stepping thus out of my place?
Would I had kept my rank and state,
Tho’ death itself had been my fate!
But why stand brooding o’er my pain?
This won’t my dignity regain;188 Z(2)v 188
My former wings are still secure,
This remedy at least is sure.
So to the Bee he bade adieu,
In angry mood, and straight withdrew;
Snatch’d up his wings, and with a grace,
Resum’d his form, and took his place
Of pleasure with his fellow flies,
Who all beheld him with surprize.
He got his wings fresh dizen’d o’er,
And seem’d more gay than e’er before;
Then vow’d his plumes did far outvie
Each species of the butterfly.
’Twas thus a youth his suit preferr’d,
To fortune; and his pray’r was heard;
His utmost wish the goddess granted,
Bestowing that for which he panted,
Thus favour’d ’bove his expectation,
He soon forgot his humble station:
For mem’ry’s often known to fail,
When prosp’rous breezes swell the sail,189 Z(3)r 189
So he his former self forgot,
Nor backward would direct his thought,
Until persuaded by the Bee,
(A real friend) himself to see,
In cool reflection’s faithful glass,
Which shew’d him what before he was;
But quite disgusted at the sight,
He from the mirror took his flight,
The cousel of his friend he spurn’d,
And to his vain pusuits return’d.
To folly hence his life he gives,
While to forget himself he lives.
Thanks to a Subscriber.
Addressed to a Friend.
To you, dear sir, if Flavia’s name, This Lady, once a professed friend of the author, said vauntingly, that her name had been given merely in compliment to the gentleman to whom these lines are addressed; and that he had even got it by constraint. In compliment was giv’n;
The favour lays on me no claim,
’Tis you should make it ev’n.
Then let your gratitude be shewn,
By lending her an ear;
Tell her it’s for your sake alone,
That it’s inserted here.
I never thought, her name at best,
Could dignify my list:
Tho’ you have honour’d her at least,
To let it there exist.
On you no honour it confers,
No more than me, of course;
For Flavia ev’ry where avers,
You got it half by force.
But on her taunts with equal scorn,
And just contempt I look,
And shall the trifling sum return,
Should she restore my book.
’Tis by the heart my friends I mete,
Their features there I trace;
So, think no act of kindness sweet,
That wears a double face.
It’s not the gems which glitter most,
Most precious we should deem;
’Tis th’intrinsic worth they boast,
That merits our esteem.
Say ye, who Flavia’s outward form,
Impartially have view’d:
If e’er her inside claim’d a charm,
Of equal magnitude.
Sincerity, good nature too,
Those inmates of the mind:
In her are transient as the dew,
Inconstant as the wind.
But hold! ’tis nature we should blame,
Nor Flavia judge so rude:
For probably she would, says Fame,
Be constant—if she could.
- Page 7—line 53—read Light as air, he the carpet did cautiously tread,
- and erase the word he in the next line.
- Same page, last line but 3, read To polish your verse, make your subjects refin’d,
- Same page—last line, for seal read seal’d.
- P. 14—l.4, for Here read There.
- Next Stanza but one, read Fine manners and address complete, He must possess, but must not know.
- P. 15—line 1, For Or read Oh!
- Same page, line 3, read The pictures far too fine, I vow, T’ exist elsewhere than in the thought.
- Same page, line 12, for And read With.
- Page 17, line 86, read Low lies her head, her heart shall ache no more,
- P.17, l. 174, for encircled read encircled
- Same P. line 119, for know read known.
- P. 17, l. 1, for bad read bade.
- P. 28, l.8, read Myself I’d quite forgot.
- P. 31, l. 58, for And read who.
- Same pagestanza, last line but one, for not read but.
- P. 318, l. 2, for comes read come.
- Same page, l. 5, for so read in.
- Last line but 3, read— lab’ring from night till morn.
- P. 39, l. 3, for mind read know.
- P. 173 l. 2, erase the apostrophe in the word fates.