El. XII.

Crush'd are the tyrants, pierc'd with thousand wounds,
The vanquish'd raven drops her heavy wing;
Borhame and Liberty the beach resounds,
And freed Eblana's joyful turrets ring.

Who like Borhame could launch the deathful spear?
Who stem the torrent of th' impetuous fray?

Or who like him his drooping vassals cheer,
And bless a nation with the happiest sway?

But what is he, who, by the midnight gloom,
Through yonder camp his fearless passage bends!
Sudden terrific fires the skies illume,

And the loud burst th' affrighted welkin rends.

Fir'd is the magazine, these sulphur'd stores,

Destin'd to waste Ierne's fruitful land;

Burst the rude guns that menac'd her fair towers,
And all by Sarsfield's unassisted hand.

Nor yet, blest city! is that worth no more,

80

Which erst in fighting fields thy sons did claim; Lo! Coote's strong arm controls the Indian shore, Whilst Niagara roars thy Massy's fame.

Equal in arts, thy polish'd sons excel,

Ierne's brightest ornaments of yore;

Who, like Fitz-Gibbon, clears Law's mystic spell,
Whilst wondering senates hang on Pery's lore!

Dulien

Southwell is thine, with every power to please,

The patriot's freedom with the courtier's

That noble art of elegance and ease,

To win and hold the captivated heart.

's art, go

With him how pleasing flew th' instructive hours,
By Castleconnel's sacred fountain laid ;

Whilst fruits and blossoms deck'd the high-arch'd
bowers,

And purple fragrance blush'd in every mead.]

Propitious Naiad of that healing stream,

Inspire my grateful breast thy praise to sing;
Thy cordial draughts restore the sickly frame,
And youthful vigour gushes from thy spring. D

What though thy shore can boast no gay parade,
No circus regular, no splendid rooms,

σ Lovely simplicity adorns thy glade,

σ

σ

And lavish Nature in perfection blooms.

Serene Contentment, with unclouded brow,
Sheds her soft influence o'er thy flowery dale!
Secure delights in sweet succession flow,

And Health inspires the animating gale.

Nor baneful dice thy evening hour molest,
Nor titled courtezan's uncomely smiles
Kindle the flame in youth's too eager breast,

Nor faithless wife the sacred couch defiles.

Chaste are thy damsels as the virgin train

Which through Thessalian groves Diana guides; Their hearts, their radiant eyes, untaught to feign, Whilst o'er each glance fair Decency presides.

Recount their names! I might as well display
Each flower that opens on the summer lawn,
Each shining gem that decks yön starry way,
Ere yet invidious morn begins to dawn.

Yet far from these did rough Misfortune's frown
Compel the woe-bewilder'd bard to fly; J
Hence from his bosom bursts th' incessant groan,
Th' incessant tear that swells his aching eye.

Ah! where is now Selinda's vivid smile,

That wont to shed celestial gladness round;

Her converse sweet, that could all cares beguile,
And pour the balm of pity in each wound.

し

Though friendly Chelsea yields its grateful shade; 3°

Though Thames' soft waters hush the willow'd shores,
And Nature's music quivers through the glade ?

Exil'd from her, not all that Nature boasts,
Not all the flaming treasures of the East,

Not all the sweets that crown Campania's coasts,
Could soothe the slightest pang that rends my breast.

ه

She was indeed-but hold! my racking brain,

Canst thou the glories of that form disclose? As soon (vain wretch !) attempt in frantic strain,

To point each dew-drop on the vernal rose. 14

Her eyes were brighter than the orient beam,
Her voice far sweeter than sweet Philomel;
Easy proportion harmoniz'd her frame,

Heaven gave a mind, and bade her to excel.

What have I done?-Sure some infatuate sire,
Or private rage, or private discord led;
God's sacred fane consum'd with impious fire,
Which th' angry power avenges on my head.

Welcome, Despair! thou king of horrors, come,
Crush this loath'd being to its primal clay, 50
Prepar'd, I wait th' inexorable doom,

And bid adieu to Hope's remotest ray.'

Forgotten be my name, my age, my birth;
Let black oblivion all my woes conceal :

These killing woes would poison future mirth,
And happy lovers shudder at the tale.

ELEGY XIII.

THE

TRIUMPH OF MELANCHOLY.

BY JAMES BEATTIE, L. L. D.

MEMORY, be still! why throng upon the thought
These scenes so deeply stain'd with Sorrow's dye ?
Is there in all thy stores no chearful draught,
To brighten yet once more in Fancy's eye?

Yes—from afar a landscape seems to rise,

Embellish'd by the lavish hand of Spring; Thin gilded clouds float lightly o'er the skies, And laughing Loves disport on fluttering wing.

How blest the youth in yonder valley laid!
What smiles in every conscious feature play!
While to the murmurs of the breezy glade
His merry pipe attunes the rural lay.

10

Hail, Innocence! whose bosom all serene
Feels not as yet th' internal tempest roll:
O! ne'er may Care distract that placid mien !
Ne'er may the shades of Doubt o'erwhelm thy soul !