Poetical fragments of the late Richard Alfred Millikin ::

He's sunk to rest—his Harp's unstrung,
On weeping willows it is hung,
O'er sighing reeds—where oft' he sung,
By his own River's side.
On whose green banks he loved to stray,
From the high source in mountain glen,
Thro' deep defile, and rushy fen,
To where it winds in spreading plain,
Thro' Flora's blossom'd way.

xxxvi

Where oft' the muse had loved to guide
His barque along the grassy side,
To meet the wave where navies ride,
In broad and ample bay.

xxxvii

Whether by learning's lamp he staid,
By science led, with her delay'd,
Or with the muse delighted stray'd
By Luvia's winding stream;
His learned lore, his Harp's sweet sound,
His science drawn from depths profound,
In playful mood were scatter'd round,
Virtue his dearest theme.
The glowing good, the various art,
Of all that fills the human heart,
To him was fully known:
Yet never slightest word exprest
By him could pain the meanest breast,
And goodness still he ever drest
With lustre by his own.
Gone is my muse of graphic lore;
For he who long her semblance bore
To me, thro' nature's wilds no more
Can guide my erring way.
Adieu,—for now I may not claim,
Of all that binds the brow of fame,
One sparkling leaf,—for with him came
The light that shone upon my name,
Extinguished is the ray.
Let wealth erect with lavish cost,

xxxviii

The praise of fools by pride emboss'd,
Their every deed forgotten, lost;
Their fame lies on the tomb.
Unlike to that which memory rears,
For him, where ever fresh appears,
Nurtured by love's, by friendship's tears,
Virtue's unfading bloom.

H. K.

POETICAL FRAGMENTS.

ODE TO THE LEE.

------ Vos signa tubæque
Ite procul. ------
Tibul.

Hail lee rever'd! along thy reedy shore,
In the gray silent eve in museful mood,
The doric strain to thy soft wave I pour,
Thy velvet banks or solemn woods among,
Where oft with uncouth pipe my youth hath woo'd
The gentle powers of song.—

Amid thy osiers green in summer heat,
Full oft my hours I've pass'd sincerely pleas'd,
To view the gorgeous day from mossy seat,
Or cool emblossom'd vale, when from the main,
In all his eastern pomp, he forth had blaz'd,
Or left the weeping plain.—

Perhaps, regardful of some tender blade,
Some little humble plant by careless eye
Unmark'd, I there may wond'rous lessons read,
(A book with wisdom fraught if rightly scan'd)

There learn how rudely art essays to vie
With nature's master hand.—

The buzz of busy insects o'er my head,
The multitudes that rove the fields of air,
And chaunt their various song in sun or shade,
And all the changeful life that mov'd around,
Have call'd my thoughts to him, whose ceaseless care
To all alike is found.

Thy shades have heard my first essays of love,
When Sylvia's beauty then awoke the fire
That long hath burn'd; to sooth her ear I strove,
With rudely caroll'd lay, alas! how rude;
But she would listen as I touch'd my lyre,
With kindest promptitude.—

And her to please (my highest wish) I strove,
And that obtain'd, the happiest bard was I,
With hazle crown'd and many a flower inwove,
That gem the grassy downs, a prize more sweet
Than bard olympic gain'd, when seated high
He sang the courser fleet.—

Thy murmurs bland would soothe my pensive mind,
As oft reclin'd beside thy lambent wave;
Thy rushy margins whispering to the wind,
Joined to the prattling of the slender brook,
A varied melody and sweetness gave;
And all the charm partook.—

The various changes of the chequer'd year,
Hither my steps attracted from the crowd,
Pale frowning winter arm'd with icy spear
Rattling in shining mail to ruin prone;
Each leafy bower with ruthless hand t'enshroud:
His storms in vain hath blown.—

Then, by new pleasures drawn, I fondly go
To skim thy level face with shining heel,
To trace the leveret through the dimpled snow,
In active sports to rouse life's languid fire;
But all unfond the harmless kind to kill,
Or with their foes conspire.—

When spring with gentlest step returns in tears
To see the ruin wintry wars had done,
And with mild genial breath each wound repairs,
Decking with spicy wreaths thy shorn brow;
Then on thy lawns I hail the approaching sun,
And the bless'd change avow.—

When thirsty summer drinks each chiming rill,
My fervid limbs thy limpid flood receives,
Or the cool zephyrs on the russet hill
I court; and frequent join the cheerful hinds,
When yellow autumn heaps her golden sheaves,
Or her shrill bugle winds.—

And not unmindful of the bards of yore
The lights of other times, their simple strains

Deep in my mind I lay, a valued store,
Beneath your shades: the sire of past'ral song,
The learn'd swain who piped on Mantuan plains,
To whom all powers belong.—

And he who sweetly mourn'd his Bion dead,
Bion who could with melting force complain,
Nor Rosalinda's shepherd be unread
That whilom charm'd his Mulla's lucid stream,
And oft remember'd be that polish'd swain,
Who sang along the Thame.—

Oft too for him shall drop the pitying tear,
Who on thy banks his tuneful harp unstrung,
With broken numbers sweet could win the ear;
And though with skill the lyre he early ey'd,
A wild unmeasur'd strain at length he sung,
Then broke his harp and died.—

While other streams more pompous praise may boast,
The Thames her navies throng'd and peopled shore;
Proud Taio,—waves that kiss a golden coast,
The Rhine her banner'd sides and shouts of war,
And all, alas! her grapes distain'd with gore;
And Neva own a Czar.—

Yet on thy plains where love and peace are found,
How calm cou'd I life's gaudier prospects lose;

To thee by every tenderest cincture bound,
Thy vocal glades in each returning year
At the first blush of spring and at the close,
Thy constant praise should hear.—

Theocritus.

Virgil.

Moseus.

Spencer.

Pope.

De La Cour.

SCOPAS.

—AN ODE.

They by heaven unfavoured are,
Who the muse's meed deny:
Blessings they shall never share,
Blessings shall for ever fly!—

Scopas, mighty victor! see,
Olympic wreaths his brow adorn;
Short his date of life must be;
Short his glory—long his scorn.—

See him urge the headlong car,
Blazing o'er the dusty plain,
Mark his smoking track afar
The distant goal beholds him gain.—

Hark! who strikes the silver lyre?
The bard sublime his triumph sings
Tells the glories of his Sire,
And a long race of mighty kings.—

Who profane omits the praise
Due to heaven! unhappy dies:
The bard a grateful tribute pays
To the twin brothers of the skies.—

The banquet see profusely spread:
Burnish'd vases crown'd with wine,
Copious pour the beverage red,
Of the luscious bleeding vine.—

Hear how flush'd with victory,
He disdains the honour'd bard:
Bids him from his presence flee,
Slighted of his just reward.—

Hark! now at the sounding gate
Two travellers impatient knock:
Travellers should never wait—
Bid the shining bolts unlock.—

Sudden from the festive hall
They the slighted bard require,
For Simonides they call,
Master of the silver lyre.—

Obsequious goes the honour'd bard
But no travellers are there,
Scopas meets a just reward—
They the mighty brothers are.—

Hark! the loud tremendous roar!
The gilded dome a ruin lies:
Mighty victor now no more,
Scopas mid his triumph dies.—

ODE TO A CLOCK.

Busy tongued intruder, peace!
To alarm my pleasures cease;
Rude announcer of decay,
Thy uncivil lectures stay:
Thou who with thy constant bell
Ring'st of time the passing knell.—
Vain thy moral hint to waste,
When the little hour is past:
Never more to see the light,
Little feather'd fleeting spright!
Yet suppose the hour is flown,
Other hours are tripping on;
Fraught with ev'ry prospect gay,
Gilded with the purple ray.
Who can call these moments waste,
While such wine as this we taste?
Time is only lost to those,
Sunk in indolent repose:
All the time that's lost to me,
Is, when pleasures cease to be;
Whilst I live let me enjoy,

Still let care the grave employ.—
Loose robed pleasures lead the dance,
Drollery with eye askance,
Wit awake the latent smile,
Of the laugh old age beguile.
Why of time's swift flight complain?
Whilst so many flasks we drain,
Whilst we dance, and whilst we sing,
Ply grey tyrant, ply thy wing,
What, if thou deny'st to stay,
And from pleasure fly'st away;
And delight'st to dwell with pain,
Or with sorrow to remain;
Fly O time! nor tarry here,
Since thy tribute is a tear;
I thy stay no more entreat,
Purchased at so dear a rate.—

SONNET WRITTEN IN BLARNEY CASTLE.

Ye hollow ruins, naked now and hoar,
With reverence thy lonely halls I trace,
And tread thy echoing vaults with solemn pace;
Whilst I those scenes of former pomp explore,
I pay a sigh to heroes dead of yore;
Whilst from a jutting pinnacle I hear

The Raven scream, and mark these chambers drear,
Where the loud harp was vocal heretofore;
And Iron chiefs, red from the recent war,
Would lay their arms aside, and frontlets grim,
And stoop to love, toying with damsels trim;
Or at the board enjoy the festive roar,
Whilst thronging vassals hail'd the bidden guest:
O! day too short for such a night of rest.

ON MODESTY.

See where she comes! transcending human praise;
With down-cast eyes that ever love the ground.
Not with more crimson hue
Looks the pure virgin rose,
Than does the blush that vivifies her cheek,
The glowing emblem of the spotless mind:
The tint that nature gives
To innocence alone.

Far other colour stains the face of guilt:
Far other flushes her confusion mark,
Than Modesty receives
From Truth's immortal touch.

The zone of Chastity entwines her waist,
And Virtue's shade sits close around her neck,
As loving to be near
Perfections so divine.

Look up, sweet maid! and with one awful glance,
Yon public harlot, impudence, confound;
That would confront thy step,
And blast the charms she wants.
Look up! and thou shalt see the convert bend
Beneath the sun-beam of thy sacred eye,
And weep to touch the hem
Of thy celestial stole.

SONNET.

[I met her in the fields and thought it spring]

I met her in the fields and thought it spring,
So thick the hedges seem'd with blossoms spread:
I heard the birds within the branches sing,
And saw the cowslip lift his yellow head:
There seem'd a happy change in nature's face
And all things laugh'd and seem'd revived again;
I thought her smile did wintery glooms efface;
And from my bosom fled her inmate pain.

Then straight I ran a flowery wreath to bind,
She turn'd and fled, and left me all alone;
Alas! the blossom I could only find,
Was drifted snow there by the winter sown;
And where the perfum'd cowslip should be found,
Were yellow leaves that wither'd all around.

ODE TO THE MEMORY OF THE PATRIOT POLES.

Written in the Year 1796.

O'er sad Masovia's ravaged plains,
Where sullen, silent, anguish reigns,
The Muse directs her flight:
There mourns o'er many a hero's grave,
Who died his country's rights to save,
And sunk in glorious fight!

She there shall wake the solemn shell,
Whilst freedom's voice the dirge shall swell,
And mingle grateful verse;
There tears shall dim the patriots eye,
And there full oft the deep drawn sigh
Shall valour's bosom pierce.

Sleep, honour'd dust, whilst o'er each grave
Meek Spring a verdant wreath shall weave:
Her sweets shall Summer share;
There Autumn shall bestrew her leaves,
And Winter as along he raves
Shall pause, and murmur there.

There fancy oft shall rapt behold,
The fairy people dress the mould,
When twilight dulls the scene;
There visionary hosts shall stand,
To meet in air the Russian band,
And wave their banners sheen.

In future times the hind shall say,
As delving in the hallow'd clay,
Their mould'ring bones he rears;
Lo! these were they by freedom warm'd,
Who for their native country arm'd,
And fell amid her tears.

And round the spot the swains shall bend,
And with full hearts due praises blend,
And share an honest pride:
There as he eyes the hillock'd sand,
The herdsman shall uncover'd stand,
And turn his flocks aside.

KNOP.

—A FAIRY TALE.

[_]

An old Irish fable states that in a Danish intrenchment on the road between Cork and Middleton Knop a Fairy chief, kept his court; where often at night travellers who were not well acquainted with the road, were led astray by lights which were seen, and music which was heard, within the fort.

Knop, within thy cavern'd hall,
Where thou keep'st thy fairy court;
There attendant on thy call,
Airy chiefs and knights resort.—

There the festive roar of mirth,
Oft attracts unwary feet:
Feasts of momentary birth,
Nightly routs, and concerts sweet.—

Oft athwart the midnight gloom,
Lights alarm the fearful eye;
There the herdsman dreads his doom,
Within the bog or brake to lie.—

With hair erect, and hasty stride,
The cow-boy there pursues his way;
When heifers oft at evening tide,
By thee, O Knop, are led astray.—

The housewife, conscious of thy power,
Marks the taper burning blue;
While children dread the gloomy hour,
That thou thy airy flights pursue.—

What chance befel the sturdy wight,
Who in thy cave misguided fell:
All in a dark and dreary night,
Bewilder'd in a mazy dell.—

Deluded by a faithless sound,
He luckless left the beaten way;
And wand'ring, soon thy cavern found,
Directed by a glim'ring ray.—

‘Now save ye all,’—he boldly cried;
‘A lodging here I humbly crave;’
‘If men ye be who here abide,’
‘O, now a weary trav'ller save.’—

By hands unseen straightway compell'd,
He took his seat beside the board;
Whilst all in wonder he beheld
A table with rich viands stor'd.—

By hands unseen the dishes came,
The liquor flow'd. the goblets flew;
The torches blaze a brighter flame,
And sweeter still each object grew.—

Now swelling thro' the vaulted rooms,
The loud exulting harps resound;
The lute a softer tone assumes,
Till ev'ry sense in rapture's drown'd.—

The village cock gave note of day,
Up sprang in haste the airy throng;
The word went round, ‘Away, away,’
‘The night is short, the way is long.’—

The music died upon his ear,
The banquet vanish'd from his eyes;
The torches instant disappear,
And thro' the rock the uproar flies.—

But now the wight in wonder lost,
Beheld himself as fast to fly;
With equal speed the woods he cross'd,
And scamper'd over mountains high.—

And now fresh cause for wonder grew:
Between his legs a calf he spied!
A calf that over forests flew,
And cross'd deep vallies at a stride.—

Then to a river's side they came;
He quick was on the other shore:
‘Now, by my God!’ he cried, ‘the same
‘Was never done by calf before.’—

The sacred word was scarcely spoke,
When down he tumbled to the ground;
The vision fled, the spell was broke;
He woke, and all deceitful found.—

SONNET.

[I saw the morn her orient wings unfold]

I saw the morn her orient wings unfold,
And up the east direct her rosy flight,
And Flora all englitter'd in her bower,
Display her multitude of pearls so bright,
Wooing the glance of Phæbus from afar:
I saw the spring array the naked year
In vesture all of green, with gems emboss'd
And purple wreaths profuse, and leafy crown:
I saw pale Cynthia in her silver car,
Amid her circling orbs illume the sky,
And shed her modest glory o'er the night—
A soothing sight to the lone pilgrim's eye:
But never did I sight so joyous see,
As is the smile of her I love to me.—

THE ROSE.

A rose bud fresh in morning dew,
Its ruddy lip display'd;
Young Phillida to pluck it flew,
And oft in vain essay'd.—

For shielded by its kindred boughs,
It bloom'd protected there;
But Phillida impatient vows,
The blushing sweet to wear.—

Her tender hand then stretching far,
The boughs opposed with scorn;
But soon alas! a trickling scar,
Declared a latent thorn.—

The crimson drops ran quickly down,
And dyed the rifled spray;
When sudden with an angry frown,
She cast the flower away.—

Thus, when your hand I fondly press'd,
Although the wound unseen:
My fault'ring tongue too soon confess'd,
The pain I felt within.

Like Phillida, ah! could I gain
The prize, I'd patient bear;
Nor ever of the wound complain,
Might I but win my fair!—

TO MISSES W. AND H. ON DRINKING THEIR HEALTH'S.

O! dea certe.

To poets dreams the rosy queen of love
No more confine, behold her live and move
Above the painter's or the sculptor's art;
See the bright power revealed in ev'ry part.
To lovely W---ll this joyous board shall be,
An altar sacred to her deity:
Whilst we her priests with fervent vows adore,
And to her beauty just libations pour.—

Whilst crouds admire in charmed attention bound,
See H---re diffuse her gentle influence round
Her eyes, that speak a heart of tend'rest mould,
Benignly radiant all that heart unfold;
That harmony of shape bestow'd to few,
This liquid ruby claims, its tribute due.—

THE PROGRESS OF MUSIC.

AN ODE.

When in the dome empyreal of high Jove,
To list'ning Gods enraptured Hermes struck,
His sounding shell; then first in heaven awoke
Music divine, and her first song was love:
Venus' self inspired the measure,
Such as sooths the soul to pleasure.
Attending deities approved the strains,
Thronging from the bright domains:
Jove smooth'd the terrors of his face,
And bade his awful thunder cease,
All heaven rejoiced, and from th'ambrosial bowers
A glorious train proceeding gay with flowers,
With ever living wreaths the lyrist crown'd;
And Herme's honours flung thro' all th'ethereal round.
Amphion next upraised the lyre,
Who by Hermes early taught,
Swelled the bold strain with all the master's fire;
And vent'rous to excel, he paths untrodden sought.
With added chords enriched the Grecian lay,
And thro' the realms of fancy wing'd a glorious way!

Apollo, from his glowing car,
Heard the thrilling sounds afar;
Stoop'd from his fiery course with eager ear,
The mighty strain to hear:
To list'ning spheres his golden lyre he strung,
And his own bright transcendent glories sung.
To sounds before untouched the song he rear'd,
Astonished heaven his numbers heard;
And God of Music hail'd the unconquer'd bard.
Next Orpheus touch'd the trembling chord,
And all the wonders of the lyre explor'd:
Pity and love he sung with magic sway,
Whilst Savage nations list'ning to the lay,
Their barbarous actions stayed:
And gentler grown,
The master own;

And wonder at the change that music made.
Whilst oft in secret solitude he sung,
The woods and rocks around attentive hung:
The forest tribes lull'd by his numbers sweet,
Shook off their fierceness at the lyrist's feet:
Even Tartarus, and all its horrors quell'd
By music's power;
Pluto, amaz'd beheld!
The dreaded sisters in their Stygian bower
Attentive sate:
And while the bard enchanting play'd,
Awhile their busy task delay'd,

And gave a pause to fate.
Even Cerberus, to roar,
As he touch'd the lyre, forbore.—
The list'ning furies laid their whips aside,
And bade the torments of the damn'd subside:
The ghosts forget their pains,
And silent stand around the infernal plains;
'Till hell, consenting to restore the wife,
Gave back his lov'd Euridyce to life.
From him Musus caught the heav'nly flame,
And sang of wars, and the revolving spheres;
And Thamyris next rose to deathless fame,
And praised the Gods, despising worldly cares.
Hesiod appears, a venerable bard!
And legislative songs he most prefer'd;
'Twas his the actions of the Gods to unfold!
He sang the love inspiring queen,
Rising from the Cyprian main;
O'er men and gods to hold her sway:
Whilst unnumber'd flowrets sweet,
Beneath her soft ambrosial feet,
For ever blush and mark her rosy way:
And of the Grecian Deities, in order, told.—
But Homer rose, the lyre he boldly smote!
Wide to list'ning realms remote
The mighty song instructive flew;
And ages yet unborn shall pay him honours due.
Hark! in his song the noise of battle ring,
Resounds the war, the brazen bucklers sing;

Still in our view Pelides' anger low'rs,
And woes again oppress the Grecian pow'rs:
Ulysses' wiles the wise debates prolong,
And honey trickles from old Nestor's tongue:
The sages counsel, and the chiefs obey;
Now Troy recedes, and now the Greeks give way;
O'er flying hosts rebounds the furious car,
And tow'ring Ajax turns the tide of war.
Amidst the din, Tidydes storms amain,
And harness'd dead deform the sanguin'd plain!
Priam from far surveys his hero's deeds;
Again he mourns—again his Hector bleeds:
Scamander's waves the moving ranks defile,
Shouts the exulting foe, and flames the funeral pile,
Sublimest Pindar! next on eagle wing
Prodigious soar'd; and while each lab'ring string
Confess'd the master as he sang the chase,
In numbers rapid as the Olympic race,
The envious gods his lays to death consign'd,
And but a remnant left of all behind.—

A FRAGMENT:

IN IMITATION OF OLD ENGLISH POETRY.

A doughty knight yclad in armour brighte,
Was wending on a lone and mirksome way;
Whilom upon a damp and dreary nighte,
Where noughte appear'd mought travelled knight embay:
Ne house for entertainment, none was there
Where knight or pilgrim their foreswank mought eye;
But bushey brakes yblighted all and bare,
Where flitting elves were fond theire pranks to ply,
And selcouth baleful sights were rife to fearful eye.

There as he chaunc'd withouten drad to steer
His wary course, the welkin 'gan to lower,
And forthwithe wighty ran the Levin clear,
And the blent Brond gan groul in fearful stowr:
Sith shelter none appear'd, none way accoid,
Straight thro' the glade believe he sturdy strode;
Nor boskets none impede, ne oughten noy'd;
'Till rising briskly all askaunt his roade,
Eftsoons a palace high with gelt embellish'd glode.

Undaunten then he vell'd his puissant blade,
And straight approach'd, but suddain 'gan to gnarre
Huge beasts that walethen there and bragly bade
Ingate to straunger, and all entrance marre:
And over walls with threat'ning gazement stood,
With bronduous and gleaming spears in honde,
Knights, with habergeons ydyed in bloud,
From which breme guise full many a wight has conn'd,
That knight or squire with such, no shew of favour fond.

At length a gorgeous barbicon unsparr'd,
Forth came a bellebon in courteous wise,
Ypaying much respect and meek belgard,
That queen, no less she seem'd in such fair guise;
The knight 'gan frize, and stond in stupid traunce,
To see such beauty fiker, none more fair,
When from her honey mouth these wordes: [OMITTED]

THE RED-BREAST:

A Tale for Children.

[_]

WRITTEN FOR THE CASKET OR HESPERIAN MAGAZINE.

How dumb the tuneful! THOMPSON.

Upon a bleak December's morn,
When snow was on the hills;
When icy chains had bound each thorn,
And silent were the rills.

A red-breast that was wont to sing,
And cheer each lonely bower;
Now pensive droop'd his weary wing,
Beneath a sleety shower.

Tom, sliding on a pool fast by,
On archest tricks intent,
The little wanderer chanced to spy,
With cold and hunger spent.

Then for a pebble sought around,
And crouch'd beneath the tree;
Close cleaved the pebble to the ground,
And mock'd his cruelty.

His little sister, in whose breast
The seeds of virtue grew,
Her gentler nature thus express'd
‘Would you be so done to?’

‘Ah! do not kill, she mildly said,
The pretty harmless bird;’
Tom, all abash'd hung down his head;
And utter'd not a word.

But she, in joy, could not withhold,
A crust, her morning store;
Whilst Tom's repentant silence told
‘He'd cruel be no more.’

Then to the bush she gently stole,
And strew'd the crumbled bread;
Her tears confess'd her pitying soul,—
She found poor Robin dead.

ELEGY ON A FRIEND.

If unharmonious flow these humble strains;
If to the Critic eye their faults appear;
Lo! here the Muse in no feigned grief complains,
Tis wounded Friendship pours the genuine tear.—

For she from pompous phrase disgusted turns
Her sorrowing song courts not the public ear;
Retir'd to silent Solitude, she mourns
Where none but Echo may her wailing hear.

Let Pride, insulting to the titled dead,
O'er their frail dust the trophied marble raise;
In vain the monumental honour's paid,
If Infamy belie the Sculptor's praise.—

What tho' for him no Grecian columns rear
Their forms august to catch admiring eyes,
The Spring shall spread its choicest verdure there,
And earliest flowrets ope their tenderest dyes.—

There hush'd the winds their softest breath shall blow,
There shall the woodlark chant the live-long day;
No noxious plant shall there polluted grow,
Where sacred Virtue sanctifies the clay.—

Ye gentle nymphs who Taio's banks adorn,
Attend with sighs a hapless stranger's grave;
Nor pass, ye youths, the lowly sod in scorn;
For know, that pity dignifies the brave.—

His was the breast that throb'd at mis'ry's call,
His was the hand that wiped the wretch's tear,
That eager stretch'd to stay a Brother's fall
Or dissipate the writhings of despair.—

On him the milder virtues beam'd serene,
His honest heart forbade a vicious thought;
Oft too, to glisten in his eye was seen,
The sympathetic dew from sorrow caught.—

When the bright day it's transient course hath run,
And all the beauties of the forest fly;
Look, from the western hills the setting sun
Leaves a long track of glory in the sky.—

So sinks the good man to the silent tomb,
But that his fame shall find a longer date;
The wreath that virtue twines shall ever bloom,
The sun that gilds his name shall never set.—

Mr. John Simcocks who died in Lisbon whither he went by the advice of his Physicians.—

SONNET TO SPRING.

[_]

WRITTEN FOR THE CASKET.

Now the grim wint'ry prospect cheers apace,
And frequent buds Spring's soft approach declare;
Her rosy steps once more with joy I trace
Along the meadows late so bleak and bare,
And mark the hours her purple wreaths prepare;
By primrose hedge, or violet spangled slope,
With which the morning trims her shining hair;
When snow-drops pure their dewy eye-lids ope,

And breath her odours 'neath the blossom'd cope
Of wilding tufts, with coral gems o'erlaid;
Whilst all around I view the grassy scope
With tinkling flocks and browsing herds bespread,
Forgetful of the pinching northern gale
That strip'd with icy hand, each hill and flow'ry vale.

THE VIOLET AND TULIP,

AN ALLEGORY.

Down in a little silent dell
A simple Violet loved to dwell,
To plain and rustic manners bred
She still hung down her bashful head;
Unfond to meet the gazer's eye,
For rural Nymphs are ever shy.
Yet still amid the homely croud
'Twas universally allowed,
That she had charms which well may vie
With many a flower of gaudier dye.
The Daisy at a distance sigh'd
While Primrose dangled at her side,
Constant as any modern beau
That feigns a pang he ne'er can know.
The Blue-bells from a noble race
Descended, own'd the flower had grace;

And might, if polished in the Town,
Put many a boasted flowret down;
Poor Periwinkles praised her air,
And Daffodils confess'd her fair;
It happened as the story goes,
That near the spot a Tulip 'rose,
A haughty German of high birth,
And used to grow in sifted earth;
But time that lays the proudest low,
Had here condemned the flow'r to blow;
By some rude Gard'ner cast away,
And doom'd to dwell in humbler clay.
Now like some vapoured city fair,
Order'd into the country air,
The Tulip plays off many a grace,
And proudly shews her painted face:
The neighbour plants amazed behold,
Her purple petals streaked with gold,
Her slender stalk of tenderest green,
Her graceful form and courtly mien;
And gape as folk are wont to do
(Poor country folk) at objects new.
While she despises this and that,
Calls some disgusting, others flat;
But most the vi'let she disdain'd,
And of her insolence complain'd;
I wonder such a minx, said she,
Could push thus into company;
Or with her little aukward ways,
Can think (poor silly wretch to please;

Pray know your betters, Miss, she cries,
And keep your distance if you're wise;
'Tis pretty time o'day indeed,
When I must talk to such a weed,
That thus so impudently grows
Beneath, forsooth, my very nose.
Madam, replied the modest flow'r,
We all confess your Sovereign power;
And own that with so rich a dye
'Twere vain for Violets to vie;
And humbly make but this request
Your ladyship may let us rest.
Just then a Bee came buzzing by
And on the Violet cast his eye,
Thrice humm'd around her azure breast,
Then on her lip a kiss impress'd;
Whilst Tulip all neglected lay,
Tho' blazing in her proud array;
Hence humbled vanity may see
'Tis only sweet attracts the Bee.—

SONG.

[Sweet is the time when love is young]

Sweet is the time when love is young,
Light float the downy hours along,
No storm pervades the skies;
In mutual flame how sweet to burn
Each tender hope, each wish return,
And glance approving eyes.

But when misfortune's baleful train
Blast with their frowns his gentle reign,
The fond delusion's flown;
With clouded brow the God appears,
His rosy wings are wet with tears,
And all his sweetness gone.

SONNET. ON THE DEATH OF A YOUNG CLERGYMAN.

With eyes still red from sorrow's recent flow,
Again to court the weeping muse I come,
To mix my murmurs in the general woe,
And hang this wreath on thy respected tomb.

Let laurel'd busts o'er mouldering victors rise,
And marble pomp the regal dust declare;
O'er thee more grateful heave the widow's sighs,
And frequent tears fall undissembled there.

How sweet the flowers that paint Arabian fields,
How bright the morn in orient splendor dress'd;
Brighter the glory far that virtue yields,
Sweeter the memory of the good who rest.—

How few in life could e'er such honours buy,
Like thee so prais'd to live, like thee lamented die.

The Rev Alexander Lamilliere.

FAIR ELEANOR;

OR THE KNIGHT OF THE BLACK CASTLE.

Fast o'er the hills the evening grey,
Her dusky mantle spread;
And westward far the lingering day,
A glimmering twilight shed.

When from his Cell a holy wight,
Went forth with air sedate;
Beneath the shelter of the night,
Unseen to ruminate.

A slender wand he careful bore
His tottering steps to guide;
The Cross, and beads his order wore,
Hung graceful by his side.

His hoary locks, and wrinkled brow,
A length of years confess'd;
His head that age began to bow,
Reclined upon his breast.

A modest air his face o'erspread,
And courteous was his smile;
His heart that science long had fed,
The world could not defile.

Beside an Abbey's mouldering walls.
He stands awhile to rest:
And straight to meditation falls,
And smites his aged breast.

Now in the east the lamp of night,
In awful grandeur rose:
And beaming with the new born light,
The rich horizon glows.

The ambient surface of the deep,
With orient surges roll'd;
The craggy shore o'erhanging steep
Seem'd lashed with liquid gold.

The Hermit view'd the scene around,
With holy, calm delight,
And O! he cried who shall be found,
Worthy thy glorious sight.

Thou who cans't shed the liquid day,
And poise the starry sphere:
Canst bid the tranquil zephyr play,
And furious tempests tear.

Thus while his pious soul he spoke
And contemplating stood
A distant sound his rapture broke
Far issuing from the flood.

And soon a stately barque appear'd,
With canvas floating wide;
And to the shore straight inward steer'd,
Fast bounding o'er the tide.

'Twas silence all, save from the strand
The breakers lowly sigh'd:
The vessel now approached the land
And dashed the the surf aside.

And now a voice attracts his ears,
That utter'd plaintive woe;
And all astonished now he hears,
A solemn dirge and slow.

Soft stealing on the floating breeze,
The mingled Anthem rose;
Now low, then swelling by degrees,
And now still fainter grows.—

He heard, and wondering stood the while,
The mourning train drew nigh;
While from behind, the hollow'd pile,
Re-echoed every sigh.—

A sad'ning scene,—the Hermit wept,
And straight with pious care,
To meet the troop in silence stept,
And utter'd silent prayer.—

And then the Chief he thus address'd,
With courteous words and kind;
Still prompt to succour the distress'd,
In me a brother find.—

Say whence, right valiant knight and where,
Thy journey sad I pray?
Before thee lies a mountain drear,
And perilous is the way.—

Kind father, then the knight replied,
My journey here must cease;
I come to lay a hapless bride,
In yonder holy place.—

From Spain I come, and this my care,
The lady of a knight;
Erst called Eleanor the fair,
Of beauty dazzling bright.—

Her husband late of British land,
The holy Crosier wore;
And 'gainst the Moor a high command;
For Spain he gallant bore.

What boots it to the valiant dead,
The tear let fall in vain:
Pierced by a Moorish spear he bled,
On Murcia's sanguin'd plain.

Fair Eleanor with grief oppress'd,
Soon left this world of pain;
And to fulfil her last request,
I've cross'd the heaving main.

The story of this hapless pair,
Would melt the coldest heart;
Which, while we this sad rite prepare
I shall recount in part.

The yielding sod was laid aside,
The last retreat of man;
The mattock rang, the Hermit sigh'd,
And thus the Knight began.

In Cornwall once there liv'd a knight,
Of high and matchless fame;
And to commence my tale aright,
Fitz Maurice was his name.

It was a deathless name he bore,
His greatest joy and pride;
The sword his mighty grandsire wore,
Still graced his lordly side

And many a trusty knight and squire,
In costly mail arrayed,
Stood ready all at his desire
To draw the temper'd blade.

High on a rock his Castle stood,
That long o'erlooked the tide;
And o'er the rude assailing flood,
Still frown'd in Gothic pride.

And flanked with strong and stately towers,
With battlements on high;
Whereon approach of hostile powers,
With ease he may descry.—

With regal cheer his table flowed,
Where strangers well may feed;
For bountifully he bestowed,
On all who stood in need.—

His heart was of that princely mould,
That scorned each sordid view,
And many a virtue now untold;
His manly bosom knew.—

One only daughter fair had he,
As fair as might be found;
Nay, one so wondrous fair as she,
Dwelt not on English ground.—

And many a lord from foreign land,
This maiden's love besought;
But she to all refused her hand,
That was not to be bought.—

For thus she said, who gains my heart,
Shall have my hand beside;
For by this hand my better part,
Shall never be belied.—

Her loving father wondering stood,
To hear his daughter speak;
While tears of joy a tender flood,
Ran down his manly cheek.—

And O! my child he fondly cried,
A father's blessing take;
Thy wishes ne'er shall be denied,
All for thy virtue's sake.—

But soon he did repent him sore,
That he this promise gave;
This promise that in sorrow bore
His gray hair to the grave.—

For, wounding to his lineal pride,
She loved a Shepherd swain;
For whom in silence long she sigh'd,
And long concealed her pain.—

One day as from his turrets high,
He view'd his wide domains;
Where wood crown'd hills were seen to vie,
With flower enamel'd plains.—

His daughter with the shepherd swain,
In converse he espied;
Beneath the shrubs that skirt the plain,
Fast by the green wood side.—

Then straight up rose his anger red,
Fierce glared his martial eye;
And O! he cried shall it be said,
My honour thus should die.—

Thus far the knight did so relate,
When sadly by his side,
The Hermit fallen from his seat,
All breathless he espied.

Then careful did he strive to raise,
The old man from the ground;
And ply assistance various ways,
But all in vain he found.

At length suspended life began,
Its feeble course to bear;
And down his cheeks successive ran,
The dew drops of despair.

“I am,” he cried “Oh! hold, my heart
That bursts to find relief;
That Father, who with piercing smart,
Now feels a Father's grief.

O lead me to my long lost child,
She who was once so dear;
'Tis she” he cried, with accent wild,
And sunk upon the bier.

O Eleanor!” he cried “arise,
Thy poor old Father see;
Look up, and bless these longing eyes,
That long have wept for thee.”

And then he rent his snow-white locks,
And tore his silver beard,
And sigh'd so piteous, that the rocks
To sigh again were heard.

“And have I been, O! heaven” he cried,
A Father for this end?
Let not thy mercy be denied,
But here my sorrows end.”

And then her cold and lifeless head,
He to his bosom press'd;
In one deep sigh his sorrows fled
And closed his eyes in rest.

Now in the east the matin fair,
Declared approaching day:
The Knight interr'd the hapless pair,
And mournful sought the sea.

IMITATIONS OF SHENSTONE.

Have you seen my dear Phillis, ye Swains?
I have sought her I know not how long,
I feel it an age by my pains:
Ah! do not my anguish prolong.—

The groves I have traversed all through,
And the grot where she oft has reclined;
She has left me who loved her so true,
And ne'er one so constant will find.—

Alas! silly maid did she know,
What dangers on beauty attend;
Ah ne'er from my arms would she go,
These arms that her steps should defend.

Ah! why did I venture away,
And leave her who should be my care;
Some swain on that sad luckless day,
Has deceived her because she was fair.—

But she comes,—to the winds then my sighs,
Whence arose all these fears in my mind?
I see I'm to blame in her eyes,
I was cruel, and Phillis is kind.

Would Phillis approve of my lay,
How constant her praises I'd sing:
My pipe then should welcome each day,
And rival the songsters of spring.—

Did she smile when the chaplet I wove,
How cheerful I'd rifle each spray;
Sweet myrtles (the garland of love)
Fresh pluck'd in her tresses should play.—

Ah, why was my ribbon declined,
That I bought her last Valentine's day?
And why did she then so unkind,
Throw the blossoms I gather'd, away!

Was it because Strephon was there?
Young Strephon who lives in the vale:
Can his flocks or his garden compare,
Or his cottage with mine in the dale?

Green shrubs set in order around,
My dwelling embrace, and my door
Like an arbour with tendrils is crown'd,
That would tempt one the scene to explore.

A stream murmurs pleasingly by,
Where my flocks can refresh in the noon:
And the poplars that shadow it nigh,
Exclude the bright sunshine in June.

The linnets those branches among
All the day with their music delight;
Nor wanting is Philomel's song,
To soften the sadness of night.

Yellow cowslips my meadows bespread,
My hedges with wildings are lined:
That when the warm summer is fled,
Would shelter my flocks from the wind.

In my garden I planted a plot,
When Phillis was wont to be there;
With pains I enrich'd the dear spot
That Phillis its pleasures may share.

From her slights I retire to this shade,
Which, like me, all in sadness appears:
I believe that my flowrets would fade,
Unless sprinkled so oft with my tears.

While my passion she hears with a frown,
Oh! can she young Strephon believe:
When she knows he has been to the town,
And there learn'd the art to deceive.

My manners are simple and plain,
Yet I fear I shall never improve:
Fine words the unguarded may gain,
But Truth is the language of love.

ODE TO LOVE.

O! thou whose eyes the shadowy art
Durst not in living tints impart,
But veil'd in mystic shades those orbs of fire
Whose potent blaze of various hue,
What human nerve could hope to view,
And not in pangs of keenest force expire?

Where'er thy living altars burn,
Healing rest shall ne'er return;
Still fed by sighs the scorching pyres ascend,
And tears, thy frequent off'rings fall;
Relentless power, that humblest all,
Thou, only thou, the stubborn heart can bend.

Thou, of Pity, eldest born,
Thee thy mother's smiles adorn,
And languid softness that the soul can tame,
And on thy guileful steps attending,
Rosy wreaths with myrtle blending,
Stands young Desire to fan thy purple flame.—

But oh! who shares that dang'rous joy,
And thee adores, relentless boy,
Shall all too late, in fruitless pangs deplore
His wasted health and plunder'd rest
And hope that heals the wounded breast,
And find his peace and liberty no more.—

THE WITHERED LEAF:

IN IMITATION OF SHAKSPEARE.

When winter 'gins her dreary reign,
And nipping frosts do bite full sore,
And bitter blasts do howl amain,
And mountain tops are whiten'd o'er,
Then falls the wither'd leaf from ev'ry tree,
That in the Spring time was delight to see.—

The black-bird's note no more is heard,
And woods shake off their summer's coat
And wily snares are then prepar'd
And fowler's gun is heard remote,
While oft the wither'd leaf falls down unseen,
As if its spring of youth had never been.—

Then herdsmen house their woolly care
And chirping ice the youth delights,
And lasses then their kerchiefs wear,
And lords in feasting waste whole nights;
Nor heed the wither'd leaf fall from the tree,
Which in the spring time was delight to see.—

ODE TO THE MEMORY OF ANN FULLER:—

(The young and lovely authoress of Allen Fitzosborne* .—the Son of Ethelwolf &c.) WHO DIED OF A DECLINE.—*

Who shall command the swelling tear?
When youth untimely loads the bier,
Within its' coral fount to dwell;
Ah! who the gushing grief repel:
What callous heart refuse a sigh,
What tongue unmoved by sorrow lie.—

But when with youth the graces fade;
And genius mourns a sister dead:
And virtue weeps a votary flown:
And wit laments a favourite gone.
Shall not some solemn rite declare,
The grief that all so truly share.—

Lo!—o'er thy sod an humble muse,
These mountain flow'rets freshly strews;
The wild Thyme and the scented Heath,
And the Sweet briar with spicy breath;
And gives beside, to virtue dear,
By few deserved—the muse's tear.—

And there shall pour the plaintive lay,
At dewy morn and twilight grey:
Whilst to her quick and forming eye,
The tribes of airy forms shall fly;
That tread the mists with downy feet:
And swell the dirge with cadence sweet.—

O'er that soft breast the muses lov'd,
O'er that fair form by all approved;
With whisper soft at ev'ning tide,
The weeping loves shall long abide:
And fancy oft shall linger there,
And many a waving wreath prepare.—

And pity there with throbbing breast
And glossy eye shall love to rest,

And horror in the midnight storm,
Shall frequent stand a wither'd form,
And fear with wildest step shall come,
To gaze upon her Fuller's tomb.—

And more by vulgar eyes unseen,
Beings of light in azure sheen;
Shall come with morning's rosy beam
Their little share of grief to claim,
And sip the tears that night had shed
Upon their poet's lowly bed.—

There memory full oft appears,
With scroll of long recorded years,
And fond renews the faithful page,
Removing oft the rust of age;
And smiling marks her gentle name,
With freshning lustre still the same.—

But who are these that silent stand?
A hoary venerable band,
In steel-wrought vests, their helmed brows
Bound with green victorious boughs,
They point to earth, and bending low
A smile of fond regard bestow.—

Lo! these the chiefs who erst repell'd,
The haughty Dane with conquest swell'd,
And by his gent'ler mien confess'd,
'Tis Alfred leaves his honour'd rest;

And bends a vot'ry at her tomb,
Who bade his laurels brighter bloom.—

ERIN'S SON.

When Britain rose in dread array
To stop the haughty stride
Of him, whose wild destructive sway
Spread ruin far and wide,
Appall'd, the nations heard the roar,
Dismay fill'd every subject shore;
'Till Erin gave her gallant Son,
The brave, victorious Wellington.—

And mighty, mighty, was the name
That led Britannia's files;
And glorious was the martial flame
That fill'd the British Isles;
Hibernia in the front of war,
And Scotia mustering from afar;
With Albion, follow Erin's son,
The brave, victorious Wellington.—

On Lusitania's plains he fought,
And humbled Gallia's powers;
And low the Gallic Eagle brought
At Salamanca's towers:

Vittoria's height the victor view'd,
And flying France again pursued.
While conquest followed Erin's son,
The brave, undaunted Wellington.

Who shew'd the road to Victory,
To Europe half enslav'd;
Who set the haughty Spaniard free,
The Lusitanian saved?—
When down the Pyrenees afar
France saw descend th'o'erwhelming war;
She felt her power, her name undone,
And bowed to conquering Wellington!

SONG.

[Lovers vainly try to banish]

Lovers vainly try to banish,
From their hearts the tyrant boy,
But their efforts idly vanish,
To remove the painful joy.—

Some attempt to heal their anguish
In absence from the cruel fair,
Hear her sighs, again they languish
Love's delicious chains to wear.—

Some their ardent flame to smother,
Seek relief in floods of wine,
Love will come a bold intruder
And around their cup entwine!

GOOD AND ILL:—

A SONG.

Oh! who would say this world's a vale,
Where nought but tears and sorrows flow,
Where gusts of ill the breast assail,
And ever piercing thorns grow.

Oh no! with equal hand bestow'd,
The good and ill of life we share,
Some flowers will deck the roughest road,
And pleasures mingle with our care.

The longest journey ends at last,
The wildest sea has got a shore,
Spring follows still the wintry blast,
And time has yet its joys in store.

TO CYNTHIA.

Pale goddess, by thy ray serene
I fondly tread the level green,
Where Lee in beauty rolls,
His smooth and ample tide,
'Mid fields in flowers profuse and woody knolls,
Thy silver lamp my guide.

To thee I tune a rural shell
In some lone seqester'd dell,
Where hums the secret rill
Thro' shrubs that tangling meet.
Or gurgling brook that flies its native hill
With limpid current fleet.

For these the gentle sounds thou lov'st to hear,
These Cynthia suit thy sad and chaster ear,
And not the trumpet's clangour,
Or the nerve-wounding fife,
Thee more delights the lute's harmonious langour
That shuns the voice of strife.

Thou shalt my frequent steps direct,
When by thy calmer radiance deck'd,

The murmuring streams and groves
And meadows mildly bright,
Invite to converse sweet the timid loves;
Beneath thy kinder light.—

And fays, as poets feign, and fairy throng,
And elfin's light, the pride of antique song,
To the warm fancy then
Appear from hall or bower,
In gaudy troops to ride o'er flood and fen,
Exerting fairy power.

But when the rose of morn with blushing light,
Buds in the laughing East, each fading sprite
To rocky dens retreating,
Break off their airy show;
And then fond lovers endless vows repeating
At parting fonder grow.—

RISE OF THE TIMES.

Alack that Man should ever be
So prone to warfare as we see,
War, that enhances every thing
That commerce or the seasons bring.

You ask what makes the leather rise?
It is the war the tanner cries;
Though cows do still wear hides he sees,
And bark still grows upon our trees.

Woollen or linen can't be cheap
In War, though we have flax and sheep:
Nay, every thing we eat or wear
'Tis war, that curse of man, makes dear.

An aged Matron went to buy
A candle once to light her sty;—
And finding that the price was more
By a full farthing than before.
The shop-man ask'd, how came it so?
He cried, “the War—the War you know.”

The ancient dame up turn'd her eyes,
And with a sigh for mankind cries;
Alas!—Alas!—and do they fight
These luckless times by candle light.

A LOVER'S OATH.

By Diana's silver car,
By the bright Hesperian Star
By Aurora's blushing cheek,
By pale Eve with farewell meek;

By the golden noon day bright,
By the sphere bespangled night,
By the nectar breathing rose,
By each tender plant that blows
By the daisy sprinkled plain,
By the azure bosom'd main,
By the flowry margin'd rills,
By the woods and by the hills,
By all pretty things that move,
By yourself all sweets above,
You and only you I love.—

THE BEGGAR BOY

[_]

WRITTEN FOR THE CASKET

Relieve a hapless child of want,
Whose breast ne'er feels one throb of joy;
A slender boon in pity grant,
To help a wretched beggar boy.—

The heir to misery and scorn,
I first inhaled this vital air;
Thus to inherit sorrow born,
My hopeless lot I still must bear.—

The birds that roost on every tree,
Their feathers all from cold defend;
The cattle shelter'd too we see,
For bounteous nature is their friend.—

But wretched I, no shelter find
The poor are friendless every way,
From summer's heat, or wintry wind;
No friendly roof invites my stay.

These rags I wear but ill supply,
That want which nature bids me feel;
I cannot from misfortune fly,
But must endure each change of ill.

I'm spurn'd by the scornful brow,
And pamper'd wealth disdains my cry;
They mock the wants they never know,
And jest on grief with tearless eye.

Ah!—fortune changes many a way,
Unwarned gusts oft vex the tide;
An hour may dull the brightest day,
Or sink the haughty crest of pride.

O you, whose hearts of tender mold,
Keep pity as an inmate there;
To you my piteous tale is told,
To you who feel what others bear.

Then grant the little boon I ask,
For little serves the child of care;
To heaven I'll pray (a pleasing task)
That you may be rewarded there.

EXTRACTS FROM THE RIVER SIDE.

From some cold rock in woody covert hid,
Clear springing forth with pure unsullied drops,
Or bubbling out, with soft and tuneless fall
From the drear bosom of some barren wild,
Remote, and hopeless of the mower's toil
Or waving Ceres; where the bending waste
From the bleak summits of two neighbouring hills
Forms a rude plain; the river comes, at first
Distinguish'd only by the tufted rush,
Or wat'ry cresses, that its course denote
Seen verdant mid the rigid desart brown,
And seldom seen but by the Fowler. He,

With vent'rous foot, the yielding surface treads
From tuft to tuft—he knows the place alone
And shuns the faithless green, that hides below
A treacherous abyss; while as he toils
With measured step and slow, his faithful dog
Careful amid the marshy covert tries,
And plunges often in,—up springs the snipe,
And whirrs on rapid pinion 'gainst the breeze,
Sole habitant of these neglected swamps,
Except the Heron, who perhaps at times
Attracted here for prey, far down the glen
Beside a clump of flags, silent and still,
Scarcely distinguished by his slender form,
Stands lonely; startled at the deadly sound
With outstretch'd neck, he rises o'er the fen
With heavy beating wing, unwieldy, slow,
A doubtful burthen on the mountain air,
And then, his lengthened neck into a curve
Contracting, wheels into the middle sky,
And far away he floats, screaming aloft,
Complaining of the bold intruder, man.

[OMITTED]

As yet a slender urn the River pours;

A little nameless rill, that trickles down
Obscure amid its rudely channel'd bed;
Divided oft in many a slender vein
By the heaped ruin of the mountain flood,
Through which it drips; till with collected stream
It spouts from ridge to ridge, then sinks again
And chafes and murmurs, 'till a smoother bed
Spreads it abroad a silver current clear,
Dimpling along round many a pointed stone
And shews a lengthen'd train of broken light;
Then sudden falls into a yawning rift,
And thence escaping, glances rapid down
Compact and smooth; and now on either side
Receives the offer'd tributes of the hills,
That trickling fall from many a pendent rock
Mid tangling brambles that begin to clothe
Its mossy sides, and oft discoloured seen
By min'ral dross from the adjacent ore,
That in the secret chambers of the hill
Lies far and deep.—Here where the frequent drop,
Has scooped a hollow in the neighbouring rock,
Of old repute the healing spring is found,
Abstergent, whose unfailing pow'r subdues

The slow consuming malady, and lifts
When other med'cines fail, the wasting wretch
From death.—------

[OMITTED]

Now see beyond yon ivied arch where wide
Over its sandy floor the river spreads,
Into a shoal, and ripples in its course.
There the mute angler o'er the pebbly brim,
Close where the shallowing river forms a strand,
Stands patient, hopeful of the scaly prize,
Eying the gilded fraud with skilful glance
While from his hand bends the long pliant rod,
Artfully tremulous; rewarding well
His toil, if Phœbus hide his burning head
In friendly clouds; but if with ardent beam
He furious shine, and brighten every rill,
Vain task indeed, to whip the spangling stream
With fruitless line toss'd idly.

[OMITTED]

------ Close on the velvet marge,
On a rich glebe, reflected from the deep,
Embraced with shadowy elms and sycamore
With ivy bound, a venerable pile

Lifts its sharp pointed ruins, once the seat
Of monkish ease, and dark religious pomp.
There many an antique monument is found,
Illegible and faithless to its charge,
That deep insculped once held in measured phrase
The mighty acts of those who lie below,
And many an uncouth shapeless figure grim,
Rude effigies of heroes dead of yore,
Or sage and letter'd saints whose pious hands
Those ponderous masses raised.—forgotten now
They and their monuments alike repose.—
—Ah'! what avails
The arch sublime, or graceful colonade,
The marble porch or, heav'n-aspiring dome,
That art its powers exhausted to adorn?.

[OMITTED]

------ All the pride of rule
The pomp of triumph and the laurel wreath
Pluck'd in the sanguin'd field, ev'n in the roar
Of half a world's applause, at last must fail
Though every hero had a muse to sing,
And to his valour raise an epic strain.
Where are your trophies all, ye mighty men

Banners and 'scutcheons, cenotaphs, and arms
Wrested from foes in battle! do they lie
Oft in a corner of some ruin'd pile.
—Yes poor Ephemera
This is the end of all your hoped applause
To lie forgotten—yet be not appal'd
The world can give no more, its gifts are sands
That fly as veers the blast—
—Dare to be virtuous then
And look above this perishable mass,
—Despise what earth can give
And fix upon that crown a steady eye
That patient suffering and unshaken faith
Receive above the clouds, ------

[OMITTED]

Or should we eastward bend our varying course
To where the Nile his fruitful current rolls
Proud in the ponderous ruins that enrich
His venerable course, whose Naiads late
Hid their affrighted heads, with terror fill'd
At Brontii thund'ring in Britannia's cause.—
But stay my reed, this proud exulting strain,
Another mood befits our alter'd state,

Low on his funeral bed the victor lies,
Embalmed and bathed in a nation's tears
O! victory too dear, O! conquest won
With too much price, that cost a Nelson's life.
Sad Trafalgar beheld him from her cliffs,
Beheld him conquer, and beheld him fall,
While every white wave all bedrop'd with gore
That roll'd with boding murmurs to her strand
Brought some ill omen of the dreadful fight
That sunk the naval hopes of France and Spain.
What could they do? 'twas Nelson gave the word
And at the sound pale horror from the poop
Of every hostile ship that stood the brunt
Of British fire, and Britain's hearts of oak,
With trembling hand let fall the staff of war
To grace the laurell'd ship that bore him home.
And see the Victory, with sails that bear
The tatter'd records of that fatal day,
Nears with her charge Britannia's sadden'd shore,
And views her ports with mourning faces throng'd
While on his sun-burnt cheek the gallant tar
Wipes the involuntary, silent tear.
What sound is that, by every crooked coast

And hollow rock and every sandy bay
Repeated shrill, from off the heaving main?
It is the genius of the green sea flood,
That mourns with Albion for her darling son,
Making her moan to every hanging crag,
And bleak protruding cape that round her isles
Whitens contending with the ocean spray:
And every wave that curls his azure head,
From Calpe's rock or Gades' votive isle,
To Kilda's solitary shore, and thence
To Labrador, or from the stormy cape
Of Terra del Fuego to the coast
Of Coromandel and her towns conveys
These mingled tidings, wide from coast to coast,
Great Britain conquers, gallant Nelson dies.

On yon bold prominence, around whose base
Winds the broad river with unruffled course,
A mighty castle rears its ancient walls
Brown in the rust of time, sublime and sad
With over hanging battlements and towers
And works of old defence, a massy pile.
Within these naked halls what silence now,
Where once the roar of festive joy was heard
And antique revelry, with swell of harps
And minstrel songs of chiefs once great in fight,
Now seldom visited, but by the few
Who in such deep retirement love to sit,
(Far from the walk of mirth at times remote)
And muse upon the ever changing round
Of earthly things, and in these ruins see
The fall of empires and the fate of kings,
Here once, as legendary story tells,
Lived Desmond, rich in many a wide domain,
And bleating flock, and herd of fruitful kine,
Nightly secured, for in those ages rude
By force not law Men held uncertain wealth,
And neighbouring chiefs, for plunder or for pride
Their vassals mustering, on each other's pow'rs

Waged petty war; hence all those tall remains
Of former strength, that mid' our verdant fields
Stand venerable, by th'enquiring eyes
Of curious men oft seen, whom ancient lore
And relicks of the times long gone delight.
Desmond a daughter had, sweet as the morn,
Who many a petty potentate had sought
With honourable suit, but Brune obtained
The love of Aunagal, a youthful chief
Of princely lineage and vast domain.
A neighbouring prince, O'Connor, hot with rage
At offer'd love disdained, determines quick
By force to seize the maid, and levies round
A numerous host; and in those early times
Not rude in warlike arts, the spear and bow
They well could exercise in distant fight
Or in close conflict point the bloody skein;
Full use had they of ev'ry active limb,
Not cramp'd, nor stiffen'd by luxurious ease,
But firm to bear the hardships of the field,
And resolute in ev'ry danger they,
Whether to harass a retiring foe,
Or in retiring patient to endure;

A hardy race, and able to perform
Great deeds of manly strength, in manly strife.
Marshal'd with horse and foot O'Connor sends
A desperate threat to Desmond, who prepares
His extreme force the chieftain to resist,
Who now is on his frontier, and proceeds
To waste with fire and sword. Soon on the field
Desmond appears in arms, but cautious leaves
A chosen band to guard his castle, where
Entower'd close the lovely maiden wept
Her father and her love with ceaseless tears.
All day in conflict fierce and doubtful fight
They dyed the field with mutual slaughter red
'Till Desmond fell, feeble in hoary age,
And Brune retreats beneath the castle walls
Determined there to try (or perish brave)
The worst that fortune in her frowns may do,
And long the fight maintain'd with desperate rage
Till night soft closing, Connor seem'd to fly
With loss of men and horse cut numerous off,
But to the woods retired; and ere the dawn
Determines furious by one bold assault,
To win the castle, and in silence now

The troops approach, no clank of steel is heard,
Whisper'd from rank to rank the orders fly,
They trail their spears, and ranged in mute array
Come in long file, close by the river's side.
Mean while within the castle walls close throng'd
Needful refreshment Desmond's troops receive,
And due repose after the toil of fight,
While Brune with words of comfort sooths his bride
Who wails her aged sire, when loud alarm
Of horn and shout is heard, the scouts return
Precipitate, and, through the hall, the news
Of Connor at the gate re-echoes round.
Behold them in their haste, how throng'd, how loud
The buz of hasty preparation; quick
With spear or bow snatch'd up they sally forth,
The gates can scarce discharge them in their speed,
Their armours clash and bow-strings intertwine,
Forth like a swarm they rush, whose hive some swain
Disturbs at evening tide, or that wise race
The frugal ants, their small republic crush'd
By labouring peasant's heel. The groans of death
Numerous around denote the conflict dire,
'Till Brune with Connor meets whose arm he sought

And now a fight, such as no modern times
Ee'r saw, between the furious chiefs ensued:
They met with spears, but in the plated folds
Of Brunes tough shield the spear of Connor rang,
Who now defenceless, death expected quick
But Brune, disdaining victory so gained,
His, cast indignant down. and bade approach
His rival, who now, by the moon's broad orb
Which on the face of Brune shone full, descried
His foe's majestic front and manly form,
And thus address'd the chief—“Full well young Prince
“Dost thou deserve the beauty which thou seek'st
“Were it from any but O'Connor's arm
“Thou'dst win the prize—but honour, pride and shame
“Forbid me to resign my right—advance.”—
Approaching both, few steps, they drew their blades
Flashing like meteors from their harness,d thighs,
Each was a span in breadth, which now upraised
Gleam'd horrible athwart the moon-light beam
Like the long streaks which, in the northern sky
Darting their fires, are by the untaught hinds

The portents dire of bloody fields believed.
Now on the chiefs all turn'd their eyes, and stay'd
The busy conflict, and in silence stood
Waiting the issue of so dread a fight,
'Till Connor fell, deep gored with gaping wounds
And e'er the morn look'd pallid from the east,
His mourning host retired.—

THE END.

University of Virginia Library

LINES ON THE DEATH OF RICHARD ALFRED MILLIKIN.

POETICAL FRAGMENTS.

ODE TO THE LEE.

SCOPAS.

—AN ODE.

ODE TO A CLOCK.

SONNET WRITTEN IN BLARNEY CASTLE.

ON MODESTY.

SONNET.

[I met her in the fields and thought it spring]

ODE TO THE MEMORY OF THE PATRIOT POLES.

KNOP.

—A FAIRY TALE.

SONNET.

[I saw the morn her orient wings unfold]

THE ROSE.

TO MISSES W. AND H. ON DRINKING THEIR HEALTH'S.

THE PROGRESS OF MUSIC.

AN ODE.

A FRAGMENT:

IN IMITATION OF OLD ENGLISH POETRY.

THE RED-BREAST:

A Tale for Children.

ELEGY ON A FRIEND.

SONNET TO SPRING.

THE VIOLET AND TULIP,

AN ALLEGORY.

SONG.

[Sweet is the time when love is young]

SONNET. ON THE DEATH OF A YOUNG CLERGYMAN.

FAIR ELEANOR;

OR THE KNIGHT OF THE BLACK CASTLE.

IMITATIONS OF SHENSTONE.

ODE TO LOVE.

THE WITHERED LEAF:

IN IMITATION OF SHAKSPEARE.

ODE TO THE MEMORY OF ANN FULLER:—

(The young and lovely authoress of Allen Fitzosborne .—the Son of Ethelwolf &c.) WHO DIED OF A DECLINE.—

ERIN'S SON.

SONG.

[Lovers vainly try to banish]

GOOD AND ILL:—

A SONG.

TO CYNTHIA.

RISE OF THE TIMES.

A LOVER'S OATH.

THE BEGGAR BOY

EXTRACTS FROM THE RIVER SIDE.

(The young and lovely authoress of Allen Fitzosborne* .—the Son of Ethelwolf &c.) WHO DIED OF A DECLINE.—*