PETRARCH'S INKSTAND.

Miss EDGEWORTH. Born, 1767. Died, 1849.

When the inkstand of Petrarch was presented to Miss Edgeworth, the gift was made to one by whose refinement and sensitiveness it could be most highly appreciated. It may be supposed she was more than ordinarily touched by it, when it hurried her into verse; for the "even tenor" of her thoughts accorded best with prose. She so seldom indulged in the sportive grace of metrical composition, that the following lines derive an additional value from their rarity, superadded to their intrinsic merit of sweet sentiment, gracefully expressed.

But not for the mere recording of these lines are they introduced in this volume; they afford the proud opportunity of gracing our pages with the name of Maria Edgeworth, whose numerous works are so honourable to Ireland-works bright with genius, and rich in usefulness. To her the highest place must be assigned among our lady writers; for her novels and tales are vivid not only with national character, but with the more general forms of universal life; and while they captivate by their entertaining qualities, inculcate the purest lessons of morality.

By beauty won from soft Italia's land,

Here Cupid, Petrarch's Cupid, takes his stand.
Arch suppliant, welcome to thy fav'rite isle,
Close thy spread wings, and rest thee here awhile;
Still the true-heart with kindred strains inspire,
Breathe all a poet's softness, all his fire;

But if the perjured knight approach this font,
Forbid the words to come as they were wont,
Forbid the ink to flow, the pen to write,

And send the false one baffled from thy sight.

In the three first lines Miss Edgeworth pays a graceful compliment at once to her countrywomen and her countrymen-to the beauty of the former, and the devotion which it commands from the latter.

YOUNG TYRANT OF THE BOW.

Rev. GEORGE CROLY, D.D.

YOUNG tyrant of the bow and wings,
Thy altar asks three precious things,
The heart's, the world's, most precious three,
Courage, and time, and constancy.

Yes! love must have them all, or none,
By time he's wearied, but not won;
He shrinks from courage hot and high;
He laughs at tedious constancy;

But all his raptures, tender, true, sublime,
Are given to courage, constancy, and time.

EPITAPH ON EDWARD PURDON.*
GOLDSMITH.

HERE lies poor Ned Purdon, from misery freed,
Who long was a bookseller's hack :

He lived such a damnable life in this world,

I don't think he'll wish to come back.

* This gentleman was educated at Trinity College, Dublin; but having wasted his patrimony, he enlisted as a foot soldier. Growing tired of that employment, he obtained his discharge, and became a scribbler in the newspapers. He translated Voltaire's Henriade.

DANCE LIGHT, FOR MY HEART IT LIES UNDER
YOUR FEET, LOVE.

Air-"Huish the cat from under the table."

JOHN F. WALLER, LL.D.

The editor would not do justice to his own feelings or the author's merits did he fail to notice this song as one of the most charming of its class: full of truth-admirably graphic-and thoroughly national in its sportive tenderness.

66

Aн, sweet Kitty Neil, rise up from that wheel-
Your neat little foot will be weary from spinning;

Come trip down with me to the sycamore tree,
Half the parish is there, and the dance is beginning.

The sun is gone down, but the full harvest moon

Shines sweetly and cool on the dew-whitened valley ;
While all the air rings with the soft, loving things,
Each little bird sings in the green shaded alley."
With a blush and a smile, Kitty rose up the while,
Her eye in the glass, as she bound her hair, glancing.
"Tis hard to refuse when a young lover sues-

So she couldn't but choose to go off to the dancing.
And now on the green, the glad groups are seen-
Each gay-hearted lad with the lass of his choosing;
And Pat, without fail, leads out sweet Kitty Neil-
Somehow, when he asked, she ne'er thought of refusing.
Now, Felix Magee puts his pipes to his knee,

And, with flourish so free, sets each couple in motion; With a cheer and a bound, the lads patter the groundThe maids move around just like swans on the ocean. Cheeks bright as the rose-feet light as the doe's,

Now coyly retiring, now boldly advancing

Search the world all round, from the sky to the ground,

NO SUCH SIGHT CAN BE FOUND AS AN IRISH LASS DANCING! Sweet Kate! who could view your bright eyes of deep blue, Beaming humidly through their dark lashes so mildly, Your fair-turned arm, heaving breast, rounded form,

Nor feel his heart warm, and his pulses throb wildly? Young Pat feels his heart, as he gazes, depart,

Subdued by the smart of such painful yet sweet love; The sight leaves his eye, as he cries with a sigh,

"Dance light, for my heart it lies under your feet, love!"

THE WIND AND THE WEATHERCOCK.

To

SAMUEL LOVER.

THE summer wind lightly was playing
Round the battlement high of the tow'r,
Where a vane, like a lady, was staying,—
A lady vain perch'd in her bow'r.

peep round the corner the sly wind would try; But vanes, you know, never look in the wind's eye; And so she kept turning shyly away

Thus they kept playing all through the day.

The summer wind said, "She's coquetting:
But each belle has her points to be found;
Before evening, I'll venture on betting,

She will not then go but come round!"

So he tried from the east, and he tried from the west, And the north and the south, to try which was best; But still she kept turning shyly away

Thus they kept playing all through the day.

At evening, her hard heart to soften,
He said, "You're a flirt, I am sure;
But if vainly you're changing so often,
No lover you'll ever secure."

"Sweet sir," said the vane, "it is you who begin ;
When you change so often, in me 'tis no sin;
If you cease to flutter, and steadily sigh,
And only be constant-I'm sure so will I."

EPIGRAM

ON THE BUSTS IN RICHMOND HERMITAGE. 1732.

DEAN SWIFT.

LEWIS the living learned fed,
And raised the scientific head:

Our frugal Queen,* to save her meat,
Exalts the head that cannot eat.

* Queen Anne.

EPIGRAM.

DEAN SWIFT. Born, 1667. Died, 1745.

The "witty Dean" as he has been justly called, was born in Dublin. His fame is too large and wide-spread to require any elaborate notice of the speciality of his genius here. But it should be noted, in a book so essentially Irish, that his memory must be honoured not only for his genius but for his unflinching patriotism, persevered in, as his friend Doctor Delany declares, “under many severe trials and bitter persecutions, to the manifest hazard of his liberty and fortune." As his greatest works are in prose, the highest examples of his pen cannot be given in a volume of verse, and song was not a mode of the lyre in which the Dean indulged; but some of his lighter effusions, which Doctor Johnson (who was not over-given to laudation) praises for their humour, raciness, and gaiety, may fitly take their place in such a collection-his epigrams especially, which exhibit that satiric power for which his name is so celebrated.

As Thomas was cudgell'd one day by his wife,

He took to the streets and fled for his life:

Tom's three dearest friends came by in the squabble,
And sav'd him at once from the shrew and the rabble;
Then ventur'd to give him some sober advice—
But Tom is a person of honour so nice,

Too wise to take counsel, too proud to take warning,
That he sent to all three a challenge next morning;
Three duels he fought, thrice ventured his life ;
Went home, and was cudgell'd again by his wife

ON MRS. BIDDY FLOYD;

OR,

THE RECEIPT TO FORM A BEAUTY. *

DEAN SWIFT.

WHEN Cupid did his grandsire Jove entreat
To form some beauty by a new receipt,
Jove sent, and found, far in a country scene,
Truth, innocence, good nature, look serene :
From which ingredients first the dexterous boy
Pick'd the demure, the awkward, and the coy.
The Graces from the Court did next provide
Breeding, and wit, and air, and decent pride:
These Venus clears from every spurious grain
Of nice, coquet, affected, pert, and vain;

Jove mix'd up all, and his best clay employ'd;
Then call'd the happy composition Floyd.

* An elegant Latin version of this poem is in the sixth volume of Dryden's Miscellanies.