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No charms to such can fame impart,
They cannot free th' imbruted soul,
From guilty gain, and gold's controul,
To prize the treasures of a noble heart.
Their scorn unmerited pursues the band,
Who bleed, in Britain's cause, on ev'ry land,
Where swells the canvas to the gale,
To waft the British thunder far?

Where spread the dazzling files of war?—
That valiant sons of Erin fail,

To claim their share, in ev'ry glorious day;
Beneath the cross, that marks Britannia's sway?

Yes Erin, thou may'st claim, lov'd soil,
Full many a bright and glorious name,
Of men, that felt the patriot aim,

Of Sage, unwearied, by the midnight oil,

Of mighty Orator, with thunder arm'd :

And tuneful Bards thy list'ning rocks have charm'd.

See Usher Erin's mitre bears,

And Berkely modest virtuous Sage.

Her's was the Drapier's nervous Page;

Her's Congreve's Wit, and Southern's Muse of Tears;

Her Echos learn'd the tender Parnel's strain.
And Burke's reflected glories gilt her plain.

Boast of our isle, immortal shade !
From depths of science how thy tongue,
Pour'd the rich fervid stream along,
Till tyranny and rapine shrunk dismay'd!
Whether you travell'd to th' Atlantic shore;
Or India mourn'd from fell
oppressors sore.

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Lov'd native soil, and genial skies,
Dear to my sight and to my soul !
Nor age nor sorrows shall controul

The patriot throb that bids my bosom rise.

For thee my fruitless sighs shall ever breathe

And prayers for Erin dwell upon the tongue of
Death.

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Go then to Rome! and hope in Rome to find
The Rome, thy classics pictur'd to thy mind!
Ask, disappointed, where the wonder lies?
And hail the imperial ruin with thy sighs!.

Those walls, those massive fragments, dark with rust,
Those coloseums crumbling into dust,

Those are thy Rome! See, frowning from the ground
Her
very ashes breathe a menace round!
Imperial mistress of a conquer'd world,
Her last destruction at herself she hurl'd;
Now the sole index of the Roman name
Is Tyber still in motion, still the same.
Learn hence the paradox of Fortune's reign,
The fixt are gone; the unsteady still remain

V. D'A.

THE ARAB'S DAUGHTER.

BY J. K.

"TAKE courage, love, the burning breeze,
"That sighed among thy locks, has past;
"On Lebid rest, those tender knees
"Sink mid the horrors of the waste.

"Beneath yon cliff a limpid rill

"Flows sparkling from the desert cave, "And o'er the brink with living thrill "Their foliage the mimosas wave.

"Soon shall thy languid beauties press

"The moss, that cloathes the fountain's side, "And sleep beguiling thy distress

"Through every nerve shall sweetly glide."

With mournful softness Abra smil'd,
Then bathed in tears her eyes she bent

To trace once more beyond the wild
The palms, that hid her father's tent.

Their leaves had fanned her infant brow,
And often, with her lute beloved,

Alive to pleasure's purest glow,

Beneath their branches she had roved.

"Tis just," she cried, "

my fainting frame "Should languish mid the noontide beam,

"I left my Sire to grief, and shame,

"Entranced in passion's frantic dream,

"But ere the evening tints decline,

"This fevered pulse will beat no more, "Still thus to press my cheek to thine, "Breathes comfort on my dying hour. "Love whisper'd; I should bless thy youth "And, in misfortune's gloomy day, "My smile thy pensive heart would soothe, "Soft as the emerald's dewy ray.

"Yet droop not thus in deep despair,

"Nor, when these limbs to earth are given, "Think, thy poor Abra slumbers there, "But trace her 'mid the stars of heaven.

"No terror chills my brow resigned, "As the death-angel hovers near; "His pinions rustle in the wind,

"He frowns, and lifts the shadowy spear.

"In darkness rolls my dizzy brain,
"To realms of rest my spirit flies;
"Lebid, we soon shall meet again
Among the bowers of Paradise."

66

EPIGRAM.

NED calls his wife his counter-part
With truth as well as whim;
Since every impulse of her heart
Runs counter still to him.

TO MISS BANNATINE.

BY MR. J. THELWALL.

MARY, if rightly in thy beaming eyes I read thy gentle heart, we were not form'd For foes; and had we met in happier hours→→→ When no discordant feuds had rent in twain The bonds of blest affiance that should link Man to his neighbour-in that blush I read, (That blush of sweet ingenuousness) how soon Our souls had sympathiz'd. Then had we held, Not transiently, as now, the boon of chance, This stinted converse, nor, with formal phrase, Imp'd the cold forms of courtesy; but, oft, In free communion, round the social hearth, Enjoy'd such gentle interchange of soul' As intellectual beings best beseems;Improving and improv'd. Then had we talk'd(Thy home observance with the glean'd remark Of my excursive wanderings oft compar'dPleasing diversity!) Then had we talk'd Of Scotia's towering hills, of Cambria's dells, Luxuriant Vecta, and the fertile plains Of southern Albion; of the lot of Man, Born to hard toil, or to aspiring state,To sufferance or infliction! and, perchance, Oft interweaving some disastrous tale Of undeserv'd misfortune, had digress'd To such sad strains of moral sympathy

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