"The robber's creed, the murd❜rer's test, "In Gallia's false embroid'ry drest, "Were rights of injur❜d man; "And much he rav'd of Priests and Kings, "Of order that from tumult springs, "And Nature's equal plan. "And thus (the general ear abus'd, "And deadliest hebenon infus'd "To quench the virtuous spark ;) "Deep in his bosom's gloomy cell "The poor man's heart was taught to dwell, "A prison damp and dark. "Ah! how unlike the jocund breast, "Of Truth and Joy the halcyon nest, "Our Erin's antient pride; 66 "The harmless taunt, the noisy joke, "The Demon spies the alter'd scene; "Henry!-the merry pipe no more "Assembles on the rustic floor. "The lightly-bounding throng; "No quenchless laughter shakes the croud, "While the rude plaudits echo loud, "To hail the jovial song. "Far other orgies claim them now; "Scarce have warm tears bedew'd the grave "Vaunt not, O France, to honour lost, His mercy far from Erin's hills, "Shall dash thy shatter'd sails. "I see, I see a gallant band, "Is Henry there ?— -Alas! in vain, "That mind, whose pinions soar'd so well, "Forgets its plighted care. ( "Let him, whose deeds at int'rest aim, "On shielded outrage build his fame, "Sedition's venal slave; "To nobler views thy thoughts expand, "Thy King, thy God, thy native land, "To serve, adore, and save! "Rouse, Henry! rouse-nor slumber still 66 Thy pen, thy tongue may yet fulfil "A Patriot's noblest part. "Arrest, arrest the felon hand, "That deals dark murders round the land, "And mangles Erin's heart!" He ceas'd; but Henry's eager eye While yet on Henry's list'ning ear The charm'd air vibrates soft and clear With sad and solemn sound. 1798. EPIGRAM. FROM morn till eve, throughout the day, I romp'd with Phillis-all the while The next day came-the morning low'r'd,' 2. VERSES ON A SILK WORM. Addressed to Mr. Thomson, on his unfinished plan of a Poem, called the Castle of Indolence, in imitation of Spenser. By Thomas Morell, D. D. formerly Fellow of King's College, Cambridge. As when the silk-worm, erst the tender care He rests supine, imprison'd in the maze, The which himself did make, the gath'ring of his days. So thou, they say, from thy prolific brain, And, lulled by thine own enchanting lays, But Venus, suff'ring not her fav'rite worm, When lo! eftsoons from the surrounding gloom Like thine own hero* dight, fliest o'er the plains, Chaunting his peerless praise in never-dying strains. AN EPIGRAM. THE LUCKY FALL. Two wanton Cupids took their stands. And nestling there, I heard him say, "Thanks, friends! THIS suits me quite as well." BATISTO. The Knight of Industry, the hero of the poem. |