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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COLESHILL: An ELEGY.
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 | The Shamrock |  |
417
COLESHILL: An ELEGY.
INSCRIBED TO T***** S******, Esq;
When, lonely, on far distant Climates cast,
The weary Pilgrim, resting from his Toil,
Chearless and pale, a World of Peril past,
Sees some known Relick from his native Soil;
The weary Pilgrim, resting from his Toil,
Chearless and pale, a World of Peril past,
Sees some known Relick from his native Soil;
Fix'd, bless'd Event! in pensive Joy he stands,
His Cares, awhile to soft Oblivion given;
He drops the Crosier from his trembling Hands;
He steals one Sigh from his lov'd Saint, and Heaven:
His Cares, awhile to soft Oblivion given;
He drops the Crosier from his trembling Hands;
He steals one Sigh from his lov'd Saint, and Heaven:
But, should, perchance, the sweet Memorial bear
Some Stamp of Worth peculiarly impress'd,
Should Friendship mark some kindred Traces there,
Then, then, what Ardors heave his panting Breast!
Some Stamp of Worth peculiarly impress'd,
Should Friendship mark some kindred Traces there,
Then, then, what Ardors heave his panting Breast!
418
So, even now, my pensive Bosom glows,
As o'er thy sterling Lines I cast my Eye;
My Pains, suspended, sink into Repose,
And lo! once more, my slender Reed I try.
As o'er thy sterling Lines I cast my Eye;
My Pains, suspended, sink into Repose,
And lo! once more, my slender Reed I try.
Though small my Skill to touch the various Lyre,
The Nine to me though Niggards of their Aid,
My humble Ivy dare to Fame aspire,
Beneath thy sacred Laurel's friendly Shade —
The Nine to me though Niggards of their Aid,
My humble Ivy dare to Fame aspire,
Beneath thy sacred Laurel's friendly Shade —
Well know'st thou Coleshill, Seat of calm Delight,
A swelling Mount, with bowery Dwellings crown'd,
How fair in Prospect breaks it on the Sight!
How rich the Eden of the Country round!
A swelling Mount, with bowery Dwellings crown'd,
How fair in Prospect breaks it on the Sight!
How rich the Eden of the Country round!
The Muse, still grateful, loves the sylvan Scene;
Nor is the Genius of the People rude;
Humanity, and Courage grace the Men;
The Nymphs all beauteous, sensible, and good.
Nor is the Genius of the People rude;
Humanity, and Courage grace the Men;
The Nymphs all beauteous, sensible, and good.
Bleak was the Night, and sore my Mind oppress'd,
When hither, first, I sadly bent my Way,
My frozen Blood scarce crept in my torn Breast;
And all one trackless Waste drear Nature lay.
When hither, first, I sadly bent my Way,
My frozen Blood scarce crept in my torn Breast;
And all one trackless Waste drear Nature lay.
419
Fierce beats the Tempest on my houseless Head;
Dire pealing Thunders round my Temples roll;
Wide o'er the Vale the foaming Torrents spread;
And instant Fate horrific chills my Soul.
Dire pealing Thunders round my Temples roll;
Wide o'er the Vale the foaming Torrents spread;
And instant Fate horrific chills my Soul.
Bless'd be the Hand, which then, with timely Power,
Humanely strong, and generously brave,
Approach'd the Traveller in his needy Hour,
And snatch'd the Poet from a watery Grave!
Humanely strong, and generously brave,
Approach'd the Traveller in his needy Hour,
And snatch'd the Poet from a watery Grave!
Bless'd too the ancient hospitable Pair!
Thrice bless'd their Mansion, humble though it be!
Whose honest Tongues bade cordial Welcome there;
She Baucis kind, and good Philemon he.
Thrice bless'd their Mansion, humble though it be!
Whose honest Tongues bade cordial Welcome there;
She Baucis kind, and good Philemon he.
In vain was press'd some Earnest of Regard,
The Meed of Virtue ne'er let Man forget;
They conscious Duty held supreme Reward.—
Blush, blush, ye Vultures of the sinking State!
The Meed of Virtue ne'er let Man forget;
They conscious Duty held supreme Reward.—
Blush, blush, ye Vultures of the sinking State!
Can Strangers thus be to a Stranger kind,
And every melting soft Sensation know?
And can the loveliest of her Sex be blind,
And not one Touch of generous Pity shew?
And every melting soft Sensation know?
And can the loveliest of her Sex be blind,
And not one Touch of generous Pity shew?
But such is oft the lovelorn Wanderer's Lot;
Such oft, sweet Bard, the Muse declares was thine;
Oft small Offences Years of Service blot;
And such, O Pain to think it! such was mine.
Such oft, sweet Bard, the Muse declares was thine;
Oft small Offences Years of Service blot;
And such, O Pain to think it! such was mine.
I saw a Maid of every Charm possess'd;
I thought her Soul, presuming Youth! my own:
Therania smil'd, then I indeed was bless'd;
Therania chang'd, and then I was undone.
I thought her Soul, presuming Youth! my own:
Therania smil'd, then I indeed was bless'd;
Therania chang'd, and then I was undone.
420
Could Poets paint the hapless Lover's Smart,
But Half his Anguish could the Reader see,
The vital Drops that visit my sad Heart,
Would shew less dear than her sweet Smiles to me.
But Half his Anguish could the Reader see,
The vital Drops that visit my sad Heart,
Would shew less dear than her sweet Smiles to me.
Her Soul was mine—she knew not to deceive—
And if she chang'd, mine was the Crime alone—
Must I my fatal Error ever grieve?
And must my Life, can Nothing less atone?
And if she chang'd, mine was the Crime alone—
Must I my fatal Error ever grieve?
And must my Life, can Nothing less atone?
Ignoble Breasts, with vulgar Notions fraught,
To fell Resentment may their Souls resign;
Great Minds should know, by purer Maxims taught,
“To err, is human; to forgive, divine.”
To fell Resentment may their Souls resign;
Great Minds should know, by purer Maxims taught,
“To err, is human; to forgive, divine.”
I had a Friend too, next Therania, dear;
So much belov'd, who could ungrateful be?
But, Bliss, we are told, comes always insincere,
In Love, in Friendship, so it proves to me.
So much belov'd, who could ungrateful be?
But, Bliss, we are told, comes always insincere,
In Love, in Friendship, so it proves to me.
Of Love, of Friend, of Health, of all bereft!
Bereft of all! O, 'tis too much to bear!
No Gleam of Hope! no Ray of Comfort left!
Death, Death alone can med'cine my Despair.
Bereft of all! O, 'tis too much to bear!
No Gleam of Hope! no Ray of Comfort left!
Death, Death alone can med'cine my Despair.
The Conflict's past!—no longer I complain,
No longer I my wayward Fate deplore;
Let but a few short Moments intervene—
The dull, insipid Dream of Life is o'er.
No longer I my wayward Fate deplore;
Let but a few short Moments intervene—
The dull, insipid Dream of Life is o'er.
Written at the Swan in Coleshill, on the Way to London, on seeing some Passages in a News-Paper, extracted from a Poetical Epistle, lately published by the Gentleman to whom it is addressed, whose Assistance and Friendship the Author shall ever consider amongst the happiest Incidents of his Life.
The Author owes this Tribute of Acknowlegement, for the benevolent Assistance he received from some of the Inhabitants of Coleshill, when, in the Month of December, a few Years ago, he was in imminent Danger of being drowned near that Place; a humane Waggener providentially came to his Relief, and saved him; as above described.
| The Shamrock | |