Peace to the gentle soul that could deny
His invocated voice to fill the cry!
And let me still the sentiment disdain
Of him, who never speaks but to arraign:
The sneering son of calumny and scorn,
Whom neither arts, nor sense, nor soul adorn:
Or his, who to maintain a critic's rank,
Though conscious of his own internal blank,
His want of taste unwilling to betray,
"Twixt sense and nonsense hesitates all day;
With brow contracted hears each passage read,
And often hums and shakes his empty head,
Until some oracle adored, pronounce
The passive bard a poet or a dunce;
Then, in loud clamour echoes back the word,-
"Tis bold, insipid, soaring, or absurd.
These, and the' unnumber'd shoals of smaller fry
That nibble round, I pity and defy.
FROM the man whom I love, though my heart I disguise, I will freely describe the wretch I despise;
And, if he has sense but to balance a straw,
He will sure take a hint from the picture I draw.
A wit without sense, without fancy a beau,
Like a parrot he chatters, and struts like a crow;
A peacock in pride, in grimace a baboon,
In courage a hind, in conceit a Gascon.
As a vulture rapacious, in falsehood a fox,
Inconstant as waves, and unfeeling as rocks!
As a tiger ferocious, perverse as a hog,
In mischief an ape, and in fawning a dog.
lu a word, to sum up all his talents together,
His heart is of lead, and his brain is of feather:
Yet, if he has sense but to balance a straw,
He will sure take a hint from the picture I draw.
WHILE with fond rapture and amaze
On thy transcendent charms I gaze,
My cautious soul essays in vain
Her peace and freedom to maintain:
Yet let that blooming form divine,
Where grace and harmony combine,
Those eyes, like genial orbs that move,
Dispensing gladness, joy, and love,
In all their pomp assail my view,
Intent my bosom to subdue;
My breast, by wary maxims steel'd,
Not all those charms shall force to yield.
But when, invok'd to beauty's aid,
I see the' enlighten'd soul display'd;
That soul so sensibly sedate
Amid the storms of froward fate!
Thy genius active, strong, and clear,
Thy wit sublime, though not severe,
The social ardour, void of art,
That glows within thy candid heart;
My spirits, sense, and strength decay,
My resolution dies away,
And every faculty oppress'd,
Almighty love invades my breast!
LET the nymph still avoid and be deaf to the swain
Who in transports of passion affects to complain,
For his rage, not his love, in that frenzy is shown,
And the blast that blows loudest is soon overblown.
But the shepherd whom Cupid has pierced to the heart
Will submissive adore, and rejoice in the smart;
Or, in plaintive soft murmurs, his bosom-felt woe
Like the smooth gliding current of rivers will flow.
Though silent his tongue, he will plead with his eyes,
And his heart own your sway in a tribute of sighs;
But when he accosts you in meadow, or grove,
His tale is all tenderness, rapture, and love.
To fix her 'twere a task as vain
To count the April drops of rain,
To sow in Afric's barren soil,
Or tempests hold within a toil.
I know it, friend, she's light as air,
False as the fowler's artful snare;
Inconstant as the passing wind,
As Winter's dreary frost unkind.
She's such a miser too in love,
Its joys she'll neither share nor prove:
Though hundreds of gallants await
From her victorious eyes their fate.
Blushing at such inglorious reign,
I sometimes strive to break her chain;
And reason summon to my aid,
Resolved no more to be betray'd.
Ah, friend! 'tis but a shortlived trance,
Dispell'd by one enchanting glance;
She need but look, and I confess
Those looks completely curse or bless.
So soft, so elegant, so fair,
Sure something more than human's there;
I must submit, for strife is vain,
'Twas destiny that forged the chain.
YE swains of the Shannon, fair Sheelah is gone,
Ye swains of the Shannon, fair Sheelah is gone,
Ochone, my dear jewel,
Why was you so cruel
Amidst my companions to leave me alone?
Though Teague shut the casement in Ballyclough hall; Though Teague shut the casement in Ballyclough hall; In the dark she was groping,
Och! the devil himself could not stand such a fall.
In beholding your charms, I can see them no more,
In beholding your charms, I can see them no more,
If you're dead, do but own it;
Then you'll hear me bemoan it;
For in loud lamentations your fate I'll deplore.
Devil curse this occasion with tumults and strife!
Devil curse this occasion with tumults and strife!
O! the month of November,
She'll have cause to remember,
As a black letter day all the days of her life.
With a rope I could catch the dear creature I've lost! With a rope I could catch the dear creature I've lost! But, without a dismission,
And be hang'd with disgrace for deserting my post.
BEHOLD! my brave Britons, the fair springing gale! Fill a bumper and toss off your glasses:
Buss and part with your frolicsome lasses; Then abroad and unfurl the wide flowing sail.
While British oak beneath us roils,
And English courage fires our souls;
To crown our toils, the Fates decree
The wealth and empire of the sea.
Our canvass and cares to the winds we display,
Life and fortune we cheerfully venture;
And we laugh, and we quaff, and we banter;
Nor think of to-morrow while sure of to-day.
The streamers of France at a distance appear!
We must mind other music than catches;
Man our quarters, and handle our matches;
Our cannon produce, and for battle prepare.
Engender'd in smoke and deliver'd in flame,
British vengeance rolls loud as the thunder!
Let the vault of the sky burst asunder,
So victory follows with riches and fame.
While British oak beneath us rolls,
And English courage fires our souls;
To crown our toils, the Fates decree
The wealth and empire of the sea.
COME listen, ye students of every degree,
I sing of a wit and a tutor, perdie,
A statesman profound, and a critic immense,
In short, a mere jumble of learning and sense;
And yet of his talents though laudably vain,
His own family arts he could never attain.
His father, intending his fortune to build,
In his youth would have taught him the trowel to wield
But the mortar of discipline never would stick,
For his skull was secured by a facing of brick;
And with all his endeavours of patience and pain,
The skill of his sire he could never attain.
His mother, a housewife, neat, artful, and wise,
Renown'd for her delicate biscuit and pies,
Soon alter'd his studies, but flattering his taste,
From the raising of wall to the rearing of paste:
But all her instructions were fruitless and vain,
For the pie-making mystery he ne'er could attain.
Yet true to his race, in his labours were seen
A jumble of both their professions, I ween;
For when his own genius he ventured to trust,
His pies seem'd of brick, and his houses of crust.
Then, good Mr. Tutor, pray be not so vain,
Since your family arts you could never attain.
PROLOGUE TO THE REPRISAL.
SPOKEN BY MR. HAVARD.
AN ancient sage, when Death approach'd his bed,
Consign'd to Pluto his devoted head;
And, that no fiend might hiss or prove uncivil,
With vows and prayers he fairly bribed the devil:
Yet neither vows, nor prayers, nor rich oblation,
Could always save the sinner-from damnation.
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