The Shamrock or, Hibernian Cresses. A Collection of Poems, Songs, Epigrams, &c. Latin as well as English, The Original Production of Ireland. To which are subjoined thoughts on the prevailing system of school education, respecting young ladies as well as gentlemen: with practical proposals for a reformation [by Samuel Whyte] |
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AN ELEGY.
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 | The Shamrock |  |
281
AN ELEGY.
Far from the busy Cares of Life,
In yonder Vale O let me stray;
And there, retir'd from Crowds, and Strife,
To sweet Oblivion give the Day!
In yonder Vale O let me stray;
And there, retir'd from Crowds, and Strife,
To sweet Oblivion give the Day!
Or, let me hie to where the Vine
In wanton Wreaths compleats the Bower;
There see the pearly Dew-drops shine,
And hang in Tears on every Flower.
In wanton Wreaths compleats the Bower;
There see the pearly Dew-drops shine,
And hang in Tears on every Flower.
As o'er the green Corn-Field he flies,
I'll hear the Lark's enraptur'd Lay;
See Morn's first Blushes gild the Skies;
And hail the Sun's ambrosial Ray.
I'll hear the Lark's enraptur'd Lay;
See Morn's first Blushes gild the Skies;
And hail the Sun's ambrosial Ray.
Ye Winds, be silent, while the Rail
With pleasing Sounds the Hour prolongs;
The Thrush, too, chaunts his amorous Tale,
And pours his little Soul in Songs.
With pleasing Sounds the Hour prolongs;
The Thrush, too, chaunts his amorous Tale,
And pours his little Soul in Songs.
282
Now, let my curious Eye survey
Yon Monument of deathless Fame,
That shall to every Age convey
Immortal William's glorious Name.
Yon Monument of deathless Fame,
That shall to every Age convey
Immortal William's glorious Name.
The Boyne's clear Stream, that flows fast by,
The Fields, the Groves array'd in Green,
The distant Hills, that prop the Sky,
Compleat the Beauties of the Scene.
The Fields, the Groves array'd in Green,
The distant Hills, that prop the Sky,
Compleat the Beauties of the Scene.
Sweet Prospect to a Mind at Ease,
That never felt the Sting of Care;
The happy Sunshine of whose Days
Was never clouded by Despair.
That never felt the Sting of Care;
The happy Sunshine of whose Days
Was never clouded by Despair.
Not even sweet Morn's ambrosial Ray
Brings aught of Joy to make me blest;
To drive one anxious Thought away;
Or chase her Image from my Breast:
Brings aught of Joy to make me blest;
To drive one anxious Thought away;
Or chase her Image from my Breast:
Vain are the Lark's, the Thrush's Strains;
(Sweet Balm of Pain, of Care, and Strife)
Fix'd in my Soul her Form remains,
And pulls the very Strings of Life.
(Sweet Balm of Pain, of Care, and Strife)
Fix'd in my Soul her Form remains,
And pulls the very Strings of Life.
Can that be she, that strikes my Eye,
Slow walking o'er yon flowery Mead?
Swift o'er the unbending Corn, I'll fly,
Nor crush the Cowslip's velvet Head—
Slow walking o'er yon flowery Mead?
Swift o'er the unbending Corn, I'll fly,
Nor crush the Cowslip's velvet Head—
'Tis nothing all, but empty Air—
When wilt thou cease, thou tyrant Boy?—
To plunge us deeper in Despair,
You cheat us with the Hope of Joy.
When wilt thou cease, thou tyrant Boy?—
To plunge us deeper in Despair,
You cheat us with the Hope of Joy.
283
I'll hope no more—Deceiver, go—
Thee, and thy treacherous Smiles I curse;
For, he, whose Lot is cast so low,
Is sure it never can be worse.
Thee, and thy treacherous Smiles I curse;
For, he, whose Lot is cast so low,
Is sure it never can be worse.
| The Shamrock | |