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,
I listen'd to its solemn song,
As down the vale, in winding pride,
Profound and smooth it swept along.
But oh! how chang'd its solemn song
When heard from Goward's lofty brow,
Borne on the varying breeze along,
Now swelling soft, now sinking low.
Is there a magic in the breeze?
Or do the wing'd Æolian train
Aloft the wat❜ry descant seize,

And blend it with an heav'nly strain?
But Fancy hears a sweeter strain,

O'er many a vale and mountain hoar,
Where, nurs'd for heav'n, an infant train
Their anthems tune on Clodio's + shore.
There, like the genial power that brings
The stagnant waters from their cell,
And bids the gentle zephyr's wings
Wave, as they warble down the dell,

* An hill near the river Ban.
+ Clodio, a river near Tullamore.

Aspasia calls; the slumbering mind
By meagre want, in durance deep,
And Sloth's narcotic hand confined,
To break its dire and deadly sleep.

O long may Clodio's sacred stream
Before that blest asylum glide,
And more than mortals hail the beam
That more than light and life supplied.

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,
From earth ascending as they sing,
Like soaring larks in Summer even,
A welcome aid of music bring.

Still wafted on the noiseless tide

Of time, they come and seek their seat;
Still as each freight of souls supplied
New voices to that pæan sweet.

When Time was born the strain begun,
And love and mercy was the theme;

And it shall last, when yonder sun
No more shall guide his fiery team.

And still the chorus shall increase
By levied songsters from below;
Till heaven shall view its full degrees,
And time and tide shall cease to flow.

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
That seek thy shores, eternity.

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,
From sunny walks and vernal wind
The joys of life and health to borrow.
But it is sweeter, dearer far,

If she, the lov'd one, shares thy pleasure :
Come day, or come the lovers' star,

Rich is thy favour'd bosom's treasure.
Yet clouds may hover round thy path,
And dash thy bliss with deepest anguish-
Thou may'st be doom'd in Fortune's wrath
In silent agony to languish.

Or forc'd, alas, from her I love,

Far distant ride the stormy billow-
Ah! better, better still, to prove
The tossing on Death's thorny pillow.
Soft is the lover's lasting sleep

By heavenly voices call'd away;
For him shall peerless beauty weep,
And primrose wreaths bedeck his clay.

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?
I may be sadly tempest driven,

And thou may'st mourn a widow'd heart;
But we shall meet, my love, in heaven,
No more to weep, no more to part.

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.