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Rhapsodies

By W. H. Ireland

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DEDICATED, By Permission, TO LADY HUNLOKE, OF WINGERWORTH, DERBYSHIRE.
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DEDICATED, By Permission, TO LADY HUNLOKE, OF WINGERWORTH, DERBYSHIRE.

When first I trod through fashion's airy maze,
I own the tinsel charm'd my wond'ring gaze;
The magic spell my youthful mind confess'd,
I gaz'd, admir'd, and was supremely bless'd:
But soon accustomed to the outward glare,
I bent upon the scene a vacant stare;
For under this gay tissue I could find
No energies that stamp the soaring mind;
Genius had yielded to gay Folly's power,
Since that prov'd sterling which amus'd an hour;
Study was irksome, erudition nought,
He gave most pleasure who display'd least thought;
The mind neglected, and corrupted taste,
Prov'd ev'ry attribute at once debas'd.

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That heaven-created man should sink so low,
And veil the lustre of bright Reason's glow;
That he should stifle, without sense of shame,
The cries of nature and the love of fame,
Excited in my breast the pitying sigh,
While sorrow's gem bedew'd my pensive eye;
But what avail'd the sigh, or starting tear,
The gentle counsel of a friend sincere;
Disease had canker'd the internal part,
And poison'd each warm current of the heart.
The sad conviction flush'd upon my brain,
I own'd the truth that thrill'd my breast with pain;
I pitied, and determined from that hour
To shun the scenes that were bereft of power;
The wand was shatter'd, and the spell dissolv'd;
'Twas prudence sanction'd, and I felt resolv'd.
But ah! kind Fate had blessings left behind;
Amid this chaos was a breast refin'd;
A being fram'd to chase these dread alarms,
And make me own that fashion still has charms:
Yours, my dear madam, was that genial soul;
I paus'd, you smil'd—I own'd the sweet control:
You spoke, I list'ned—Reason was the theme;
Arous'd once more as from a transient dream,

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In you I found the graces of the mind;
You made me own my judgment was unkind;
For had I put in force my stern decree,
Your soul's perfections had been lost to me;
'Twas this conviction made me first desire
To dedicate to you my humble lyre;
By which I prove, however weak my lay,
That I plead guilty when I go astray;
And though no pray'r my error can excuse,
Sincere contrition you will not refuse;
Your smiles can banish ev'ry mental pain,
Forgive the error, and I live again.