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'Tis but a gilded snare, to lure the eye
Of Love without affection, love miscall'd;
An hour's poor plaything for a trifling heart,
That scorns the toy it covets, unsincere.
Thou too canst wander mid the fragrant blooms
That decorate the pure Castalian spring,
And to sweet numbers lend a willing ear,
Such as exalt the soul with moral themes,
Improve affection, and to virtue give

That sacred glow, which bids her to look down
On all things mean with scorn and high-born pride.
Nor wilt thou him despise, tho' poor his song,
Who now by winding Isis, far away,

Amid his lonely musings thinks on thee
With fond regret, and praying for thy peace,
Awakes once more his long-neglected lyre;
So best awak'd, if haply it may speak
A soothing note of comfort, and awhile
Allay the anguish of a sorrowing friend.
Author of life and death, whose righteous hands
Dispense to thy poor creatures bliss or pain,
As fits them best! O hear the fervent pray'r
Of Friendship, pure and kind as brothers feel;
Send peace to her sad heart, and give her strength
In this dread trial; from her troubled spirit
Each dark and hideous image chace
away;
Plant solace only there, and hope serene,
And pleasures mild, and tranquil pure content,
And all thy dearest blessings, that can cheer
Our mingled journey thro' this vale of woe.
FEB. 1, 1797.

H.

LINES

On some Improvements in the Town of Belfast, superintended by the Marchioness of Donegall, Daughter of Edward May, Esq.

BY DR. DRENNAN.

DIRE was the magic, tho' the art was vain,
When Birnam Wood march'd forth to Dunsinane;
But here Delusion seems to cheat the view,
We look again, and find th' enchantment true.
With higher art our fair Magician grac'd,
Wields, at her will, the potent spell of taste;
In the charm'd circle, where she takes her stand,
E'en rooted trees obey her beck'ning hand;
Fast from their forest heights descend in file,
And, waving, wait the sanction of her smile;
Where the axe fell'd nor slacken'd in its toil,
Here, a new wood adopts the grateful soil,
Breathes health and fragrance thro' the ambient air,
And makes the Town reflect the Country fair;
Then wave again your branches, when you meet
This fair Enchantress with a whisper sweet;
Let ev'ry fibre strike a firmer root,

Let the green blood in swifter circles shoot;
To shape her name, strive ev'ry sportive spray,
Prepare ye Flow'rs, for her, your best bouquet,
And every leaf announce the radiant MAY.

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LINES

To a Fly, on its first Appearance in my Room after the severe Winter of 1794.

BY MISS PEARSON,

HA! whence com'st thou, with wing so clear,
Thus soon to brave the chilling year?
Come tell me little wanderer, tell
In what deep nest or dreary cell
Thou hast past the dark hybernal day,
Like me to keen despair a prey?
When first emerging from the night
Thou saw'st the warm, refulgent light,
Did'st thou not think thy lucid wing
Was made to fan eternal spring,
That but for thee the lily threw
Her silver bosom to the dew,

That blooms and fruits, and light combin'd
With verdure bright, and breezes kind
To charm thy little frolic mind ?
Alas! too soon November's blast
Wou'd teach thee how to rate the past,
Whirl thee on frosty winds to mourn
The joys that never must return,
Clog thy transparent wings with damp,
And all thy tender organs cramp;

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Bid thee detest the fragrant day
That woke thee in the breast of May,
And ask why heaven exerts its power
To form the insect of an hour.
"O no my friend," I hear thee cry,
Dare I a weak and tiny fly,

Dare I presume to grasp the plan
Which Men nor Angels e'er shall scan?
-My being has not useless been,

In me the Deity is seen

These pinions which assist my flight,
Shew every tint of blooming light,

Blended by that Celestial hand,

Which paints the skies, and clothes the land;
And while thy pensive eye shall view
My form minute and beauteous hue,
Thou may'st derive more vigorous power,
To bear misfortune's piercing shower,
Convinc'd the God who car'd for me,
Will ne'er my friend abandon thee,
I ask not why the breath divine
Is for so short a period mine,
But every talent dedicate

To fill the circle mark'd by fate;

With grateful haste I spread my wings,
When bright and sweet the morning springs,
To thank the great benignant God,
Who call'd me from the senseless sod
To drink the dews of essenc'd flowers,
And glitter in the sunny hours.
My infant race I guard with care,
Till instinct bids them rise in air;
And when autumnal evenings close,
I sink resign'd to deep repose.

But not to rear an infant brood,
To revel midst nectareous food,
Or gay in elemental light,

To show my beauty to the sight,
Is all for which I have to give,
Praise to the power who bade me live,
Last year thy hand with eager haste,
Oft snatch'd me from the dazzling waste,
When lur'd to sip thy fragrant tea,
I've fallen in the milky sea
That life thy great Creator gave,
Thy heart has felt delight to save.
Then shall I gracious heaven arraign,
Or dare to say I'm form'd in vain,
If I have call'd one virtue forth,
Or given one generous feeling birth?

FROM THE ITALIAN OF GUARINI.

THOUGH chang'd to pens were all the trees;
To paper, Heaven; to ink the seas;
Still, still, they'd not suffice, I swear,
Thy countless beauties to declare.

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Or though as many tongues had I,
As sands the shore—as stars the sky→
Still, still, toọ vast a task 'twould be
To name each charm I find in thee.

S, W. I.

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