VERSES, Addressed to the Countess of Charleville, on her Institution for Educating the Children of the Poor at Tullamore, King's County, Ireland. BY THE REV. HENRY BOYD. * TRACING the Ban's romantic side, And blend it with an heav'nly strain? O'er many a vale and mountain hoar, * An hill near the river Ban. Aspasia calls; the slumbering mind O long may Clodio's sacred stream Hark! to another strain afar! In boundless space it runs around; Hark! how it rolls from star to star, And heaven's wide dome returns the sound. There still young denizens of heaven, Still wafted on the noiseless tide Of time, they come and seek their seat; When Time was born the strain begun, And it shall last, when yonder sun And still the chorus shall increase When time and tide shall cease to flow, And earthly hopes are lost in fume, Aspasia, for such deeds below, Above unfading wreaths shall bloom. And when the human conflict's o'er, And when the battle's lost and won, When Death his victims shall restore, And Zion's beams eclipse the sun; Then, in the record of the skies, Such acts of charity shall live; The good shall see, with wond'ring eyes, Their sacred toils the world survive. Blest and blessing wind along, Gentle Clodio! to the sea: Pure emblem of the ransom'd throng ON DEATH. TO A LADY. BY DR. RUSSELL. WITH equal speed the king of fears Hies to the court or lowly cot; Nor mov'd by prayers, nor won by tears, To all he deals the destin'd lot. Short, short my fair, our earthly stay! Then print this counsel in thy breast ; To virtue give the present day, To heav'n's disposal leave the rest. ON RECOVERING FROM SICKNESS. TO BY MR. D. CAREY. O! it is sweet to leave behind The couch of sickness and of sorrow, If she, the lov'd one, shares thy pleasure : Rich is thy favour'd bosom's treasure. Or forc'd, alas, from her I love, Far distant ride the stormy billow- By heavenly voices call'd away; But long and dreary is the night To him who weeps o'er Fate's beguiling; Sweetly may dawn the morning light, But when will come his day of smiling? O when I wander far from thee, Joyless 'mid Fortune's stormy weather, Sweet lady! wilt thou think of me, And all the walks we've had together? And thou may'st mourn a widow'd heart; LINES, ON HEARING MISS A. W. SING EVE'S HYMN, OUT OF MILTON. BY THE REV. S. B. SUCH were the notes that once in Eden rung When Eve her great Creator's praises sung; She sung like you, with such a grace and air, That listening angels lean'd from heaven to hear: All, all she charmed, or angel, man, and beast, But raised foul envy in the tempter's breast; This made him every stratagem employ, To spoil her harmony and blast her joy; But had she shewn your steadiness of mind, Eve still had charmed, and free had been mankind. |