TO LORD REDESDALE.

BY MARY RUSSELL MITFORD.

REDESDALE! for those, whose faint and grateful cry
Is checked by sobs, or smothered by a sigh;

For those, whose eyes whene'er they hear thy name
Flash through their tears hope's long forgotten flame;
For those, condemn'd uncounted years to tell
By minute groans within their prison cell;
For those I thank thee. O presumptuous task!
What other thanks than theirs does Redesdale ask!
How weak the fame the lowly songstress rears,
To the unspoken praise that floats in tears!
What incense half so sweet as that which driven
By grateful captives' sighs ascends to heaven!
One only to thy soul more dear can be-
The shout when these sad captives shall be free:
Then while thine ear shall weaker praise resign;
Then thy glad heart will cry, this deed was mine.
Long did we hurl accusing Freedom's brand
O'er iron despots in a slavish land;
Long did the brave denounce, the gentle feel
The fabled horrors of the dread Bastille.

And shall we now, whose pure and equal laws
Force from an envying world unbought applause,
Shall we, in freedom rich, in man, in mind,
Mind, freedom, man, in hopeless durance bind,
And doom the guiltless sufferer to sustain
Worse ills than lurked within the Gallic chain!
Worse! For the monarch's victim only felt
The pangs that in his single bosom dwelt;

He knew, that safe, secure, though far away,
All whom he lov'd remain'd, to weep, to pray,
To fear, but still to hope! and oft the thought
I only suffer, sweet consolement brought;
Till his heart melting in love's generous glow
Found a degree of bliss in unshared woe.

But he, the captive of some petty debt,
Whose tears an aged wife's cold bosom wet;
Who hangs upon his lovely daughter's arm,
Watching each languid smile, each withering charm;
While fondness mourns the rose that fades so fast;
And reason wishes that soft bloom were past;
What thought can comfort him! his wife in vain
Seeks to assuage his grief and ease his pain,
Sinking with famine, still with hope she cheers;
Unmark'd her words-her voice alone he hears,
Whose hollow tones make mockery of joy :
Sees but the eyes that hope itself destroy;
The sunken cheeks; the forced and ghastly smile;
And the cold hand that can no longer toil.
He turns, in flaxen curls and eyes of blue,
And rosy lips a direr ill to view.

Then thro' his brain while sad forebodings roll,
Remembered joys come thronging o'er his soul;
For the red lofty walls, that bar all light,
His white-washed cot appears in sunshine bright;
Tall trees rise proudly in the western beam,
And gurgles down the hill the sparkling stream;
Beneath the vine-wreath'd porch his wife serene
Smiles at the May-day sports upon the green,
And she who leads the dance in beauty mild,
So young, so fair, so gay, it is his child!

If ever innocence can know despair,

'Tis from such trance to start and find them there!

Mitford (I will not yield the honest fame
Thy virtues cast on my paternal name!)

Mitford, heaven speed thy efforts! well employed
Even though thy generous aim should be destroyed;
Even should'st thou fail the prison gates to ope,
Thou giv'st the captive much, in giving hope.
O hope most deeply shared! soon may the wind
Play round his brow in freshness unconfined!
Free as the wave, or as the roving cloud,
May he too wander, of his being proud,
Tasting the sweets of his young liberty,
Remembering all his woes, and blessing thee!-

IMPROMPTU,

ON HEARING MRS. PIGOT SING TO HER HARP, 1813. BY EYLES IRWIN, ESQ.

THE Form, that charm'd the world so long,
Nor motion ask'd, nor eye, nor song!

But now the sculptur'd spell unbound!

Pour forth the miracles of sound:
Now, from her lips persuasion trills,
And each harmonious finger kills:
The Grecian wonder! call'd to life,
To waken rivalry and strife-
Each ear should deprecate the strain,
And wish the marble cold again !

ODE TO A FRIEND,

BY THE RIGHT HON. W. H. BURGH, LORD CHIEF BARON OF THE EXCHEQUER OF IRELAND.

WHY
yes, this busy scene, my friend,
Were curs'd without its destin'd end,
Which reason ought to give;

From wisdom we should learn at last
To taste the fruits of labour past,
And for ourselves to live.

For riches who? or who for power
Would trifle with his latest hour,
And toil till life's extreme;
Nor mark, to passion still a prey,
The little evening of his day
With one indulgent gleam?

The laurel who would cultivate,

When flames the summer's scorching heat,

Or wintry storms invade

If some fond hope he did not breathe,
Calmly at length to rest beneath

Its honourable shade?"

SLANZAS TO MISS H. B. 1778.

BY EYLES IRWIN, ESQ.

LONG

on a sea of trouble tost,
I hop'd the port to gain;
Where woes are in oblivion lost,
Where truth and quiet reign.
But, not the fraud ARABIA yields,
Where lurks oppression's sting:
THEBAIS' desolated fields,

Where fails the limpid spring:
Nor famish'd wastes, nor stormy seas,
Nor shocks, the globe that part,
United, rob the mind of ease,

Like Love's infected dart!

Ah, hapless youth! the thought how vain! How fatal to thy rest!

That groves were still devoid of pain,

That shepherds still were blest!

Tho' thro' each land, by pilgrim trod,
Thy heart has still been free,
Thee waited here, Love's chastening rod-
Here bend thy stubborn knee!

'Tis not the form CIRCASSIA boasts,
Thy tender homage claims;
The feature of the GRECIAN coasts-
'Tis charms, that lack of names!