A POEM IN SIX CANTOS;
THE MAZE-A SATIRA
ETC. ETC. ETC.
BY HENRY BAYLY.
Sure there are Poets which did never dream
Upon Parnassus, nor did taste the stream
Of Helicon;-we, therefore, may suppose
Those made not Poets, but the Poets those.
And as courts make not kings, but kings the court;
So where the Muses and their train resort;
Parnassus stands. If I can be to Thee
A Poet, thou Parnassus art tome.
PRINTED BY THOMAS MAIRS, JOY'S ENTRY.
VERY REV. THE DEAN ()F ROSS.
Mr Muse's Patron! hear the humble strain,
Wild and unmusical tho' it may be;
High as thou art, yet didst thou not disdain
The humble gift I dedicate to thee.
And if one pleasing stanza it contain
This fond creation of my minstrelsy
'Twas thy known worth inspired the artless lay
Aroused my hopes, and flung my fears away.
AFTER having thus assumed, or rather usurped, an historical crown, in giving
the foregoing history of Lisburn, I really am afraid that, by the following
Poem on the town, I descend, to great disadvantage, from the honorable
elevation of being " the Lisburn historian," to that of " the Lisburn poet,"
and place myself in a somewhat similar situation as James I.did in his
COINING Policy. That monarch first coined his twenty-two shilling pieces,
called Jacobuses, with his head crowned ; he afterwards coined his twenty
shilling pieces, where he wore the laurel instead of the crown. Ben. Johnson
observed on this, that poets always came to poverty, [he might have said
poverty always came to them.] King James no sooner began to wear bays, than
he fell two shillings in the pound! ! The taste for Poetry seems on the
decline ; this is singular in our enlightened age, (particularly among
readers of the Bible, for that Holy Volume is Poetry almost from beginning
to end.) Poetry was the first language, and it shall be the last, Although
Poetry and Poverty are generally sisters, and the profession of a Poet (oh !
shades of a Milton and a Savage*) the most unprofitable, it is nevertheless
an art divine as it is honorable, and has always been appreciated by men of
taste and intellect.
* The celebrated.. author of the '.Wanderer,' and who died of starvation
in Bristol Jail.
Introduction-Scenery from Belfast to Lisburn-&c. &c. &c.
WHILE natal tongues seem dull and dumb to praise
Thy beauties, Lisburn! List the stranger's lays.
If pithless deem'd his verse, thou'lt not refuse
The good intent that fain would fire the Muse.
Were native breasts inspired with equal flame,
Thy town, a nobler niche, in northern fame
Would grace; nor should I venture to proclaim
The greenest, sweetest spot of Erin's name!
Those charms, that worth, which well exalts thy town,
Fain would I raise to high, deserved renown.
I do not seek for self the world's applause,
But string the lyre alone for Lisburn's cause.
I little care for what the crowd call ' Fame,'
That hollow-hearted thing-that empty name
Those rainbow hues which for a while appear,
Rise with a smile, and vanish with a tear ;
Without a fost'ring friend to fan the fire,
That often gleameth from an Irish lyre.
Yet now Faith's eye sees that auspicious clay,
When British bosoms gen'rously display
A care for Poets crush'd, whose only crime
Is that they string the harp in Erin's clime!
His flourishing estate doth me inflame,
To laud in gratitude a Hertford's name ;
Whose noble lineage did ne'er refuse
Such patronage as season'd Thompson's Muse!*
Sol westwards drives his car, his softest beam
Gilds the wide plain surrounding Lagan's stream;
Where shall I first the beauteous scene disclose,
And all the gay variety expose.
For wheresoe'er we turn our wond'ring eyes,
Villas and mountains, lakes and groves arise
Here mansions tower in all their snowy white,
There domes and lofty steeples greet the sight;
Here flocks and herds the fertile pastures fill,
There skipping lambkins gambol o'er the bill;
* Those exquisite productions, "The Seasons," were patronized and
ledicated to the then Countess of Hertford, whose philanthropic heart, and
elegant taste for the beauties of literature, especially poetry, have
immortalised her name. ,
Here is the woodland, green, cascades, and vales,
And silv'ry streams whereon the white swan sails.
Yon sweet enchanting lawns and opening glades
Lead to the vista where be Eden shades ;
Where dwell the vernal blooms in honied bowers,
The redd'ning blossom, and unfolding flowers.
Far as the eye can reach athwart the plain,
Delightful prospects shine in endless train ;
Here giant oaks uprear their reverend forms,
And shade the mansions from surrounding storms;
Here hills arise with sylvan honors crown'd,
There fragrant groves and limpid lakes abound.
Now joy'd I pause-now blythe pursue my way,
While golden sunbeams on the rivers play ;
As from each scene I with regret depart,
Views brighter still fling gladness o'er my heart.
Throughout plantations tasteful deck the ground,
And swell the splendor of the prospect round;
Green to the view, they bloom in pompous pride,
Cheer spacious plains, and grace the Lagan's side,
The various bleach-greens, deck'd with robes of white,
Enrich the landscape o'er, and charm the sight.
Now by this garden, now yon shady grove,
Methinks I through the walks of Eden rove.
There's not a spot of ground but shows the hand
Of taste all o'er this fertile Canaan land!
Each vista shows, amid the scene survey'd,
A rural village in its pomp array'd !
Dunmurry first, in graceful robes of white,
Majestically rises to the sight
Hail sacred spot ! of virtue, peace, the seat,
Epitome of all the soul deems sweet !
How beauteous look thy mansions, ivy-bound
Each rural door with woodbines clustered round;
Oh let me drink of those Elysian gales,
Profusely breathing from thy fragrant vales !
Above the reach of wild Ambition's wind,
Here in full scope can act the studious mind;
Here Meditation, in ethereal mood,
Soars far above the plodding multitude.
Here Learning lights her lamp with Grecian oil
Thy sons have souls as fertile as thy soil!
* * * *
Now from thy mossy walks and alleys green
I bend my way to Curtis' seat serene,
Where Taste outspreads her wings of glittering hues,
And hospitality invites the Muse.
* * * *
When Sorrow's iron enters through the soul,
And dark despair would eek her grim control;
From noise of town unto some silent seat,
Amid thy fragrant bowers, I retreat;
Or to some unfrequented Gothic cave,
Bedecked with coral spoils from Lagan's wave.
Here, in the awful stilliness of night,
Sweet Contemplation loves to wing her flight,
Hail Curtis ! in thy mansion I behold
As much as Rome could ever boast of old.
What though no vain display of battles dire
Are sculptured on thy walls, to raise the fire
To Epic flight-the blood more sweetly rolls,
More pleasing combats rage within our souls,
Where din of war and all its horrors cease
Those heaven-sent gifts, the joys of rural Ease.
Who has not heard of Waterloo's dread plain ?
Who'd wish that tragedy to act again
Mars yields to Pan the empire of the Muse-
She sickens at the thoughts which wars infuse;
Peace on the Earth is still her heaven-born cry,
Peace, peace to Man resounds from all on high.
Oh happy owner of this sweet retreat,
Thus blest, thou dost not labor to be ' great;'
Nor for preferments at a court would wait,
Where every gudgeon nibbles at a bait.
Protect us, heaven ! from their tyrannic frown,
Who'd crush and trample modest merit down.
Their spicy groves and lakes are pensions-places
Their rainbow smiles, the flattered great one's graces
And in the phiz lies their thermometar,
Let but the king's eye wink 'tis morning's star !
Their cascade's rush, is some rough factious speech,
Their Nature's book the lesson placemen teach !
Their Helicon is Sycophancy's * fount,
A seat in Parliament Parnassus Mount !
* Quite sick of fancy.
The state their poem-the court's coquettes their muse
Their patrons, patents-cash their landscape's hues.
The loaves and fishes all their souls inspire,
Reform, the funds, and war bestrings each lyre !
I'm now away to Williamson's domain,
Where Nature's beauties rise in stately train ;
Where groves in majesty expanding wide,
Rejoice in all the strength of Eastern pride;
And call the wearied Bard to catch the gale,
That breathes in honey through the elmy vale ;
Where yonder spacious lawn its verdure shows
See beauteous plantings Lambeg house inclose ;
Trees in their gayest foliage ever green,
Are here on banks of crystal rivers seen;
And fairest fruits, whose healthful fragrance fills
The Zephyrs breathing o'er an hundred hills.
I now depart, my wanderings to pursue,
'Mid landscapes still the same, yet ever new;
See here and there a house 'mid trees appears,
Deck'd round by all that either charms or cheers ;
With velvet lawns, and lakes, and groves, and bowers,
Gardens with gravel walks through beds of flowers.
Hark ! how the feather'd songsters still inspire,
With joyful notes, my inharmonious lyre.
Almost on every tree, on every bush,
Sing the field minstrels-linnet, lark, and thrush.
The dazzling sun, declining with his beams,
Kisses, and mildly heats the silvery streams ;
Amidst whose current golden fishes play,
In freedom sporting out their little day;
Unknown to care, and all those gnawing fears,
Which make man's heart through life a tomb of tears.
Of reason reft, ne'er sway'd by anxious thought,
T' enjoy the present hour their happy lot !
Those lambs see how they skip on yonder plain,
They live Life's luxury without the pain.
No future fears their present bliss destroy-
They bask, up to the latest hour, in joy ;
'Fill suddenly beneath the butcher's knife
They are deprived at once of death and life.
Of all God's wide creation here below,
Man, man alone is doomed to undergo
Alike the pangs of pain and happiness
To-morrow's fears destroying this day's bliss.
Lo! now I view fair Lisburn's tow'ring spire-
Once more for her I'll string my trembling lyre.
Hail lovely spot! In Erin's diadem,
Where beauty, virtue shines-the brightest gem;
On sweeter spot can Sol or Luna beam,
' Than Hertford's town on Lagan's limpid stream.
Here Nature with a lavish hand has strow'd
Her graces round each simple, neat abode.
A charming scene the local landscape yields,
O'er rich inclosures and luxuriant fields ;
Plantations, lakes, and hills in grandeur rise,
And all those rural sights which charm the eyes
To handsome houses, gardens neat succeed,
While flocks and herds lie scatter'd o'er the mead-
Here ail the shades of beauty tinge the flowers,
And wafted incense fills the blooming bowers.
No snakes, nor toads, nor adders here abound,
To fill with venom dire the smiling ground;
No wolves or bears here panting range the plain
For human blood, the fertile soil to stain;
No ravenous lions here are heard to roar
With flaming tongues, which thirst for human gore ;
Nor serpents with a poisonous hiss are here
To strike the traveller with dread and fear ;
(On those blest plains, oh ! may they never roam,
Except when critics damn for trash my Poem')
High verdant trees bend o'er the Lagan's side,
And strove their leaves along its glassy tide.
Emblem of Life! Man, puny, proud, and vain,
Pops up his head, and walks with 'nigh disdain
On Life's dark shore-and numerous ways does death
Burst the frail bellows of his body's breath.
As a weak leaf on being's fickle sea, He floats awhile-then finds eternity.
The summit of a mountain now I gain,
To view the grand luxuriance of the plain;
Oh! Heavens! what glorious groups all round arise,
Of prospect variegated to charm the eyes ;
Various as colour! countless as its shades,
Rise beauteous mansions, fair domains and glades,
Villas and lakes, flocks and herds, and hills,
Flourishing plantations, roads, spires, and mills !
Orchards and gardens, flowers, fruits, and trees,
Which waft a world of incense on each breeze!
Rivers and rocks, with mountains, towers, and floods,
Cascades and plains, and spicy groves, and woods;
Plenty and gladness reign throughout the scene,
Whose owners hospitable e'er have been;
Such blest display a people happy show,
Industrious, numerous all below.
Oh ! 'tis sweet for Exile eye to see,
When sadden'd is his heart,
This town in summer's witchery,
He smiles when tears should start.
Ere Night has flung her dusky shroud,
The eye of light to shade;
Ere purple tints melt in the cloud,
And day's bright glories fade.
How sweet, then, on the Belfast road,
To view the landscape's face,
'Tis sweet to know that still there be
A chosen few, who ne'er
Could, with a despot's villainy,
A favor'd land lay bare.
All are not Nimrods, man the prey,
All would not force the groan
Of feeling souls, who weep to say,
The FOE of MAN'S his own!
END OF CANTO 1.
Battle of Lisnegarvy, (Lisburn) and Defeat of the Rebels in 1641The fire of
BATTLE OF LISNEGARVY.
OH ! that some Genius now of Epic fire,
Wou'd breathe its lofty spirit o'er my lyre
Oh! that I had a Homer's muse, which sung
The dreadful fall of Troy in deathless song;
I'd tell how war did ring on Antrim's plains
How pour'd the blood of heroes' dearest veins.
I'd sing of all those hostile valiant feats,
Which were achiev'd in Lisnegarvy's streets;
When dark Rebellion rear'd his sable flag,
Led on by Bigotry, and that fierce hag,
Intolerance, whose fiend-like rage,
In scenes of blood is anxious to engage.
Like tigers springing fiercely on their prey,
Or the Tornado sweeping life away,
Met the contending armies in their might
The Royal party dash'd into the fight ;
With sword in hand, destruction in their eye,
And hearts undaunted by the foe's war-cry.
The falchions flash, oh ! in the hour of strife,
When ebbs the purple tide of human life;
How Vengeance smiles, and Havoc to the slain
Exulting points, as trophies of his reign.
The rebels reel before each loyal arm,
And prostrate fall like branches in the storm ;
On, on, shouts Rawdon-on my soldiers brave,
The flag of victory o'er our heads shall wave;
Ere you bright sun has ceas'd his beams to fling
At them my heroes-triumph for your king!
The voice of death is heard in
Where slain and slayers in one chaos meet ;
The green-clad chiefs exhort their hosts again.
And brave the battle's furious shock in vain ;
With dauntless courage rush upon their foes,
The air re-echoes with descending blows;
Now they retreat, and far along the sky
Wild shouts resound-the rebels run-they fly!
The battle's o'er, five
hundred foemen sleep
In death's embrace-amid the blood-stained heap ;
The glorious hero's and the coward's clay
Are scarce distinguished in the dread array;
The marble countenance, so wild and wan,
How sadly vacant when the spirit's gone!
These are thy spoils, Rebellion; nevermore
Mayst thou effect a landing on our shore.*
* * * *
* Vide page 14.
THE FIRE OF 1707.
The redbreast sung his matin from the thorn ;
Nature arose, and o'er the laughing earth
The glittering sun-beams waked creation's mirth.
All, all was gay and joyful, as the sound
From Lisneo arvy's turret fell around;
Echo attuned her harp, each grot and dell
Rung back the music of the Sabbath bell.
Ungrateful man! art thou alone the last
To raise thy voice in praise for mercies past.
List! 'tis the sound of
woe-dread thoughts transpire,
Alarm is up, and cries with haste, ' the fire;'
The flame increases, Lisnegarvy burns,
The giant spoiler human effort spurns ;
Each blazing column rears its mighty crest,
And dares man's power its progress to arrest;
Throws its broad flame against the clouded sky,
Majestic in its wild sublimity.
Oh ! 'twas a withering scene; years spent
By plodding man, made the destroyer's spoil.
His goods and stores how quickly they consume,
Each face seems shaded by despair and gloom;
Long-hoarded treasure in confusion burled
The faint resemblance of a burning world!
But bark! from whence proceeds that fearful cry,
'Tis woman's voice! who would stand calmly by,
When she, the rainbow of man's stormy life,
Might fall a victim to the blazing strife.
Away-away, that smoke-black stair ascend,
Where danger threatens-prompt assistance lend
One dauntless heart springs forward-gains the spot
Where she, for whom his life he valued not,
Stood with despairing look and frantic eye,
Her white hands clasped in wildest agony ;
She shrieks !-he bears her safely to the street
My life! my Mary! is it thus we meet ?'
The youth exclaims, and throwing back her hair,
Gaz'd on her face-his hopes were centred there'.
The sun is down-his journey he has trod,
And darkness walks with all her train abroad;
An awful stillness reigns, and silence keeps
Her lonely midnight watch, while nature sleeps;
The last red flame ascends with crackling sound,
Dismay and terror yet seem spread around ;
Old Lisnegarvy's gone-her stately walls
Are overthrown-destroy'd her ancient halls !
END OF CANTO II
Cathedral-Male Free School-The Echo-Infirmary-Diaper and Damask
Manufactory.-Local Improvements, &c.
OF all the buildings here in bright display,
I'll first to yon Cathedral homage pay ;
To yonder temple first I shall repair,
Where to his Maker, man yields praise and pray'r.
Behold the glorious fabric proudly rise,
Whose beauteous spire soars high amid the skies;
As if to show to our terrestrial ball,
White-rob'd Religion reigneth over all!
This is the holy Sabbath-day, and I
Step in to worship heav'n's great Majesty;
To join in holy homage to his praise
Bask in the soul-felt bliss which prayer conveys;
Return my grateful thanks for mercies past,
And beg his providence while life shall last.
Yon splendid organ elevated high,
Calls forth attention from th' admiring eye; I
It feeds at once two senses with delight,
Sweet to the ear, and beauteous to the sight !
What numerous crowds oppress the groaning aisle,
And gladly throng the consecrated pile;
Oh! say what muse's pen could now portray,
Youth's kindling eye and Beauty's bright array !
Face, form, and dress, in elegance are seen,
A Chloe here, and there a Venus queen!
But hush-the service now is just begun.
How sweet! "Awake my soul and with the sun!"
Now as the solemn organ with the choir,
Waft their soft music with Devotion's fire;
Oh! how my soul is rais'd from earth to heaven,
And more than mortal bliss to me is giv'n !
List, list the hallow'd strain and learn my muse,
Such soft sounds imitate, such breathings chuse ;
Cou'd Orpheus' numbers, or Amphion's lyre,
A sweeter transport thro' the soul inspire ?
Blest Sabbath-day! amid some lonely haunt,
How sweet the Christian's holy songs to chant!
As Phœbus ushers in that morning's
How sweet, "With one consent let all the earth!"
Oh ! on some mountain's brow how sweet to sing, "
Come anthems loud let's raise to God our King !"
What sacred harp wou'd then not tune its cords,
To play, " This spacious earth is all the Lord's!"
I love on Sabbath-day to sing the song,
How Salem's tribes did to the temple throng ;
Oft on the mountain's top my soul doth thrill,
To chant in holy joy, "To Sion's hill!"
Or when the Tempest roars with furious strife,
How sweet, "Through all the changing scenes of life!"
Then as I gaze on some wave-beaten rock,
I sing, "No change of times shall ever shock!"
Oft by the Lagan's stream, when press'd by woes,
I play, " Protect me, Lord, from all my foes!"
Or Sion's mournful theme her Exiles sung,
When on the willow trees their Harps they hung;
And far away from Home in slavery wept,
As Babel's wave along in freedom swept
Then as Reflection shrouds my soul, I love
The notes, " Oh had I wings like yonder dove;
To soothe my burning, sad, despairing breast,
I'd to some desert flee-there be at rest."
When Sol has reach'd his
And countless stars glow round the pole ;
When in th' ethereal vault is seen
The Moon in majesty serene.
How sweet beneath the Pleiads' light,
To pray upon some mountain height-
To seek a haunt by Man untrod,
There hold communion with our GOD!
To mark what countless worlds display,
Through boundless space, the Deity;
And hear their sound as on they roll,
His power proclaim from pole to pole
How sweet, when by the torrent's sweep,
To dive in-Meditation deep!
To view those visions of delight,
Then plac'd before the mental sight!
The mighty monarch on his throne
Ne'er feels the bliss to me then known ;
His pomp and pageantry but cheat,
Compared to my then rapturous state.
The Mount! the Mount! where Zephyrs
Waft to high Heaven the melody,
That is the spot I deem most fair,
To sing the psalm or kneel in prayer.
No crimson cushion there is laid,
The pride-plum'd drone to tempt-persuade
To bend a knee who sits at ease,
while to his God is offered praise *
My temple is the ballow'd scene;
My carpet is the grass so green;
My sculptur'd roof the bare blue sky;
My Preacher Nature's majesty!
The storm-the surge-the rock-the tree,
Have holy sounds that speak to me ;
A sacred song the tempest sings,
For God himself walks on its wings !
When heav'n arrays the glittering stars,
And Even 's sons mount high their cars;
I love to seek some solitude,
Far from the busy multitude.
When night would close the eye of day,
Oft went our blessed Lord to pray ;†
Oh! night's the time man's MIND can muse,
And see its home thro' starry views.
It is a common (though very improper) custom is most places of Christian
worship to SIT while the singing is going on-to complete the climax, scarce
ten individuals, out of a congregation of, perhaps, eight hundred, ever join
in a single stanza of the soars of praise and thanksgiving.
† Luke vi. 12.
'Tis then the soul
'Gainst this fleshly prison dwelling;
And spurning earth, pants for that prize,
Which claims a kindred with the skies.
When belfry bell the twelfth hour chimes,
How sweet to muse on by-gone times ;
Ere Hope was found a treacherous beam,
To tempt us on life's turbid stream !
When 'Meath the moon's pale sorrow'd
How sweetly sad our lives to trace
To weep o'er joys of other days,
Ere Death extinguish'd Friendship's blaze
I sip those sweets that then descend
On witber'd hearts without a friend ;
There find the olive-leaf of peace,
And all life's cares and troubles cease.
* * * * *
The pleasing task of prayer and praise gone thro
The pious preacher now appears to view;
And in the lofty pulpit poureth forth
All that displays the holy Christian's worth-
The list'ning crowds while they with joy admir'd
Salvation's theme, with sacred awe were fir'd
He told how Christ descended from above,
And left his heav'nly throne of light and love ;
How as the earth in sin and slavery slept,
He with a pitying eye in sorrow wept.
Was pleas'd for guilty man to bleed and die,
That he might give us life and liberty;
Crush satan's empire, break sin's slavish chain,
Give light for darkness, happiness for pain!
He show'd the Saviour from
his mother's womb,
Beset with sorrows till he cleft the tomb;
How when ' he came unto his own,' and brought
Salvation's tidings, they ' received him not.'
How all his life was spent in doing good,
To reconcile a guilty world to God.
That he, the King of kings, the Lord of lords,
Was crown'd with thorns, and bound with tearing chords;
To execution like a ruffian led,
And made to bear the cross on which he bled!
What scenes of agony the garden saw,
How e'en angels comforting wept in awe;
While all the powers of Darkness him withstood
How from his forehead flow'd great drops of blood !
The Preacher paus'd-the people's sighs supply
The pause--tears tremble now in ev'ry eye.
That when the storm burst on his hallow'd head,
How, like the world, friends and followers fled.
At length was by a treacherous kiss betray'd,
And to the slaughter like a sheep convey'd ;
How for his cruel murderers he pray'd
Was giv'n, when thirst crav'd drink, a cup of gall
Scourg'd, mock'd, and spit upon, despis'd by all!
With striking eloquence showed how the seed
Of woman bruis'd the subtle serpent's head.
The awful groan that rent th' affrighted sky;
The quaking of the Cross that felt him die!
How Nature all ran chaos at the sight;
The Sun himself refusing Heaven's light !
The holy Temple's veil that rent in twain ;
How from the graves the dead came forth again.
Told how the astonished rocks did rend and brake;
In dread convulsions how the Earth did quake ;
The bound of billows beating on the shore;
The crash of Towers, the Tempest's dreadful roar.
How hills and mountains hid their crested beads;
Volcanoes sank beneath their brimstone beds !
He showed how Christ, by rising from the grave,
Triumph'd o'er Death, and prov'd his power to save.
How thus accomplish'd was Redemption's plan;
How JESUS liv'd, died, rose again for MAN;
Obtain'd a Pardon written with his blood,
Peace granting to a sin-sunk world with God ;
Begg'd we'd the proffer'd benefits embrace,
The glorious plenitude of gospel grace !
* * * * *
* * *
The service o'er, th' Assembly all dismist,
To muse awhile I cannot now resist.
Around what costly marble slabs descried,
Which state that such have lived-that such have died !
Lesson how solemn! sad for those who've sold
Their souls to sin for rotten pomp and gold.
Sweet to the sufferer for virtue's sake,
Can thoughts of death e'er make the righteous quake?
When all the long inscriptions I perus'd,
A holy awe was through my soul diffus'd ;
And as the fire kindled 'neath my tongue,
I such a strain as this in silence sung
Religion! oh thou dear consoling
Richer than all the gold that Earth can claim !
Of all our friends thou art the faithful one,
That 'bides with Wo, when all the rest are gone!
Thou to the couch of pain art first to haste,
First to the bed of Death, thou leav'st it last !
'Tis thine to lead the wretch with patient soul,
Midst sands, and rocks, and seas, where tempests roll !
Thou, on Life's treacherous ocean art the star,
That cheers the mariner from land afar!
Thou guid'st us thro' the foaming waves of Care,
Hind'rest our wreck, on rocks of dark Despair!
Thou art the appointed one,
the gracious guide,
Destin'd to lead us to a Saviour's side;
Thy brilliant rays can darkest clouds illume,
And, e'en in Death, dispel the sable gloom!
Beyond the grave, thou on Faith's wing dost fly,
And bid'st us fix our anchor in the sky!
When Worth's in sickness sunk,
and Man's mean pride
Has to the heart that spurns to crouch, denied
The meed to Merit due-the kindly cheer
Than even felons get with pitying tear
Oh ! then thy sun flings forth a glorious light,
Which dissipates the darkness of Wo's night;
And Hope, thy sister star, 'mid tempests rife,
Refulgent beams, and setteth but with Life!
Say who in Sorrow's sable
That hath not felt thy force, confest thy power ?
Who, when of all bereft, nought else to lose,
Has not enjoy'd the balm Thou canst infuse!
'Twas oft the poet's lot-his lowly song
Has been inspired by cold neglect and wrong;
Oft has he strung his Harp, by sorrow mov'd,
And mourn'd for faithless friends be longest loved
'Twas his the cold world's policy to scan,
Genius to see spurn'd-because poor the man
Learning and modest Worth to find discarded,
While fawning knaves and dunces were regarded.
Laborious Toil, that well deserved renown,
O'erlook'd for some vain, witless, tasteless clown!
But still through all Religion tun'd his lyre,
Strung the lax nerve, and rous'd poetic fire;
Like minds superior at the Martyr's stake,
When the soul's noblest energies awake;
Bask'd in the ever-glorious, heaven-sent ray,
Which the World cannot give, nor take away
MALE FREE SCHOOL*
And now my
lyre would strike her loudest tone,
To yon fair spot where mental light has shone
So many years, and where, with fearless hand,
Instruction waves her ensign round the land.
Thine is the harp of
Orpheus, whose art
Can tame the tigers of the human heart ;
That mollifies the fury of that strife,
Which interdicted knowledge makes so rife!
No more is idleness of Youth the bane,
Here lowest ignorance may learning gain;
The Scriptures, too, are taught in this abode,
That Sacred Book which lifts the heart to God;
Nor sect nor party feeling here prevail,
Truth guides the helm and spreads her flowing sail.
The invitation, like the Gospel call,
Is universal, and extends to all.
Established in 1810, by the late John Crossly, Esq. and the Rev. Thomas
Cupples.-See pave 32.
We joy to see again the happy reign,
Whose sway has shivered Ignorance's chain;
We joy to see that tree, Religion, sow'd,
(Whose roots and branches are the Word of God;)
No longer styled by demons' poisonous breath,
As unfit food, the Upas tree of death.
Thy root is truth, thy stem is virtue's power,
Mercy and charity thy fruit and flower!
No longer live we 'neath the iron yoke,
That made the word of Truth a sealed Book!
But all the country wide, from great to least,
The peasant poor as well as learned priest,
Enjoy the blessings of the glorious Word,
The everlasting knowledge of the Lord!
No longer now shall Judah Ephraim
No more shall Ephraim Judah's lot perplex;
No more to witness party feuds our lot,
T'ruth's tide flows thro' the palace and the cot.
The glorious orb of intellectual day
Has driven clouds of mental night away;
Now beams intelligence from every eye,
And upwards springs the song of piety.
Lisburn's free-school ! thy seeds
of virtuous lore
Have shed their influence on a foreign shore; So long as virtue is on earth
Thy founders' memory shall be revered;
Their patriotic acts shall win renown,
Long as philanthropy shall rule the town.
Crossley, thy worth is yet
And coming ages more thy praise shall tell.
In many a heart thy memory is enshrined,
Few like thyself on earth thou'st left behind.
When here below, 'twas thine to wipe the tear
Off sorrow's cheek-the poor man's home to cheer
Where lank-fac'd Poverty took her abode,
To raise Despair, and point to Zion's God.
Peace to thy shade-the children thou bast nurst
In Learning's lap, ere thy bright spirit burst
Its bonds of clay, bless'd Crossley's honor'd name,
And live the trophies of thy glorious fame!
And thou, too, Cupples,
generous friend of youth,
Long may you live the advocate of Truth ;
Still in that path thy footsteps be inclined,
Guide of the opening and inquiring mind.
'Tis glorious work the voice of youth to raise,
In songs of joy to their Creator's praise ;
A noble course was thine, to take the field
In Virtue's cause, Philanthropy thy shield.
Wherever Vice with all her strain arose,
Thou Overt enroll'd among her greatest foes.-
Amid the world's Half-worshipp'd worthies, thou
Hast won unfading laurels for thy brow.
Literature! Thermometer of a State
In thy downfall is seal'd a nation's fate;
All that is worthy Being fades
Comes Degradation's Night-farewell the Day, K
Where arts and sciences can flourish free,
There, there's the Sun of true Prosperity.
All hail Lancaster ! man of
Who first in Education's cause stood forth;
In those dark ages when Ignorance secure,
By fettering trammels 'pound th' untutor'd poor.
mounts his throne again,
Thou brok'st the vile Usurper's slavish chain;
Now base monopolizers can no more
Keep to themselves the precious mental Ore;
But as the waters overspread the sea,
The glorious privilege to all is flee.
No longer tricks of quarantine and toll
Detain our vessels from the wish'd-for goal;
Exclusion's reckless tempests drive no more
Our little Literary barks ashore.
Lancaster ! whose blest systematic
Hath prov'd thee best and firmest friend of Man;
While Truth, Philanthropy on earth prevail,
While Freedom's Bulwarks stand in Britain-hail !
Bright Altar of a bloodless sacrifice,
Restorer of Instruction's Paradise
While Man is free and degradation fear'd,
Thy boundless worth and mem'ry still shall be revered .'
What tho' thy work is praised from pole to pole,
The poor man's friend, Instruction's sun and soul ;
O heartless world! thy name they glorify,
Whilst thou thyself art left to starve and die.
Alas! alas! that he to whom we owe
Those streams of knowledge which now overflow
To him beneath whose quick improving band,
Bright scene-, arise, as by a wizard's wand.
What old inhabitant of Lisburn, who
Remembers her low state some years ago,
Owns not the vast improvement which has wrought
Such wondrous beauties o'er the once dull spot;
For here the rutted street, and fœtid
The rugged pathway, and the cabin foul,
Gave nought but mean appearance to the eye,
And oft the fairest prospects would destroy.
What's Lisburn now ? Is there
a man who e'er,
Has not admir'd that renovation fair,
Which blooms beneath a Stannus' constant care.
Come Gratitude, and snow-white Truth reveal,
His fond concern, his unremitting zeal,
His highest wish, and ever-anxious thought,
In ev'ry golden plan that can be wrought,
By head or hand, to make an Eden spot!
No more old cabins, void of
Obtrude themselves upon the traveller's sight ;
Those hovels which used ev'ry eye displease,
(Degrading that fair path thro' lofty trees
At ev'ry entrance) all are now replac'd
By handsome houses, built with happy taste.
No more is seen the narrow filthy lanes,
No pools now stand bereft of proper drains,
But health and cleanliness throughout obtains.
Like as the precious marble
from the mine
Wants but the Sculptor's hand to make it shine;
So Lisburn lay neglected, while within K 2
Intrinsic beauty stood unknown, unseen;
Until a faithful Guardian's skilful hand
Uprais'd it beauteous, 'neath his magic wand;
Improvement soon brought Nature's gifts to view,
While art and taste her brightest scenes renew.
As when some nation, torn
by discord's feud,
The whole is thrown into confusion rude ;
Until some Statesman, high in wisdom's fame,
The torch of Peace re-lights in Order's flame.
Such was the town, when like a beam of light,
Far flashing o'er the face of silent night,
A stranger came, and with incessant care,
Bade renovation fix its standard there.
Refin'd, re-organiz'd each part anew,
And with utility gave Beauty's hue.
He, Phidias-like, bestowed new light and life,
The failing tree pruned with Improvement's knife
His active skill her native strength explor'd,
Her long lost beauties he at length restored ;
Such actions like to these our feelings raise,
To yield him Gratitude as well as Praise.
on Improvement's base the fabrics rise,
And with attractive gracefulness surprize ;
Not in the vogue of vain and gaudy arts,
But strict harmonioussymmetry of parts.
Whoe'er would retrospectively
How fast th' Estate was falling to decay,
Should hail with joy the hour a Stannus came,
When with Improvement's torch he raised that flame,
Where we may read, beneath its lustrous light,
Here-here at least " Whatever is, is right."
Stannus ! still may tby skill with taste exert
Its pow'rs in union with industrious art ;
And finish'd flowing grace give to the soil,
Now made obsequious by band of toil.
Still may thy zealous soul he deep imbued,
To nourish ev'ry plan for Lisburn's good ;
The worthy feel in thee an honest pride,
And in thy known integrity confide;
Nor want a head or heart of ampler worth,
To drive the march of Renovation forth.
The trophies of thy sterling worth are found
In all thy numerous tasteful works around;
Which speak a lasting honor to thy name,
That Envy's pois'nous breath can ne'er defame!
Thou wert remember'd by the King of kings,
From whom all hope, all preservation springs;
Health breathes around tbee-thou dost largely share
A Landlord's bounty and a Guardian's care.
Tho' I've no claim to that
Which flashes bright from old Apollo's Lyre;
'Tis mine to scorn the sycophantic lay,
The tune that's undeserv'd I spuru to play;
Free and unshackled as the breath of heaven,
I give whate'er I give without being driven;
Descrying oft the darkness of the Earth,
Where'er the rays of Light have blush'd to birth;
I hail with joy the renovated spot,
In Lisburn see that cheering glorious lot;
And tho' some grievances might still be shown,
I wont be first to fling the vengeful stone.
END OF CANTO III.
THE MAZE*'-A SATIRE.
"Fools are my theme; let folly be my song."-BYRON
WHO loves upon the bounding steed to gaze
Hie to that spot of gayest sport-tbe Maze.
There may be seen the rich, the titled great,
And snug-plac'd lordlings, paupers on the state.
The starched-up lackbrain and the wealthy cit ;
The homeless scapegrace, living on his wit:
The new-made heir, puff d up by vain pretence,
As full of cash, as void of common sense.
Game for the hawks who perch in hundreds there,
To catch such woodcocks in the well-laid snare!
It And Beauty shines in proudest force of arms,
Eclipsing sunlight with its magic charms.
Romantic belles and sentimental I blues,'
Who scrawl in albums, libels on the Muse;
From the soft laughing rustic of sixteen,
Whose spirit dances at the bustling scene,
*Above a century ago there was
a race-course made by the first Lord Conway, adjoining the village of
Lambeg, but it has long fallen into obscurity, and is now a mere car-road.
The Maze, about two miles and a half from Lisburn, has finally superseded
it, being an excellent race-ground. The Maze is, during the races, most
numerously and fashionably attended. Of late a beautiful stand-house has
been built, which commands an excellent view of the turf and the adjacent
very picturesque country. With the exception of the famous Curragh of
Kildare, this turf is attended by a greater number of sportsmen, and the
best bred horses of any other race-ground in Ireland.
To the grave dowager, with face demure,
Who sighs when speaking of the houseless poor;
Yet bets her hundred-takes the dappled grey
Against the field-thus reckless throws away
What would make hopeless hearts to sing for joy,
If in the hands of true philanthropy !
But to the subject-we would fain
In downright fact, the Curragh of the North;
Where fireside politicians, boring prigs,
That threaten Tories, and denounce the Whigs,
Lay by their arguments, and for one day,
At least, forget the nation's nightmare-GREY;
Revive old recollections, and talk o'er
Feats of their prowess here in days of yore.*
One sports his gig, who
lately took ' the Act,'
Our country's curse: now aping the elect,
And newly white-washed, boldly drives along,
Jostling his honest neighbour in that throng ;
Where one dense mass, each eager-looking face
Seems rapt in that sole thought, the Race, the Race!
Here flashmen ride,
and dandies tightly cased
In a new suit, display the neatest waist;
With stately strut, half military air,
And pamper'd whiskers, killing to the fair ! !
Mart of the North ! Athenia,
To grace the turf outpours thy goodly host ;
* Great wrestling matches
were very common at this course about fifty years ago; strong factions
mustered regularly at each `meeting,' and a pretty fair average of cracked
heads was the result of their amusement.
There is a prodigious turn out of the denizens of our Northern Athens on the
third and fourth days of the races. Horse and foot of all denominations, and
vehicles of every grade, from the splendid barouchdnd-four, to the collier's
cart, neatly fitted up for the occasion, may be
seen making their way from that city towards the scene of sport. Men; of
bales and hogsheads, who have left the Ledger to sleep quietly on the desk,
show off on a spirited courser, decked out with a new bridoon, and one of
show best. Hlalf-crown lawyers seated quite Jarvey-like, in a machine
somewhat resembling a Gig, flourish the whip most scientifically, to the
great annoyance of pedestrians who do well to `have and to hold'
safe footing on the `premises' of the side-path. Unfledged Grocers who, for
the first time in their existence, are mounted on an animal of the horse
species ; youthful Scions of Esculapius who grasp the bridle as if armed
with their master's pestle ; and a few fierce-looking anatomizers of
broad-cloth throwing fear to the winds, magnanimously get perched on the top
of regular bonesetters ; their grotesque countenances broadly evincing the
martyrdom they thus undergo in striving to do the thing genteel
on fun and frolicsome to shine
As first-rate ` whips' enchantingly divine;
And would-be Nimrods (counterfeits I ween)
Sport jockey frocks of finest Lincoln green.
Which Stultz, * the nabob of his tribe, whose wit
Lay in his thimble-would 'lave sworn " a fit"
And on a borrow'd grey, or dashing roan,
Exhibit buckskins not perhaps their own!
Distinction ceases here-it
Your're worth a plum, or scarcely worth a groat ;
Dress and ad-dress none seek for aught beside,
A current passport is the horse you ride.
* poor Stoltz, that master
spirit of the nimble-fingered fraternity, and monarch of the Knights of the
steel-bar-whom his late Majesty idolized--Brummel dignified, by naming him,
` the Immortal Stultz,' and whom the Emperor of Austria created a Baron, as
a token of admiration for his garment-shaping talents-has at last fallen
under the shears of Death, been measured by the Undertaker, seamed up by the
Sexton, and finally pressed off by that insatiable thing-the Grave.
mounted blackleg, with a face of brass,
Who, in the crowd, finds out a monied ass; -
Talks of his friend the Colonel's racing stud,
His famous two-year olds of highest blood.
How at Newmarket, by an awkward bolt,
He lost a thousand on a favourite colt
Is only known when calm reflection sways
The breast of him who, dreaming of the Maze,
At some time hence suspects the smooth-tongued blade
Had over-reach'd him in the bets he made.
Hark ! sounds the bugle; round
Assemble knowing ones-a lynx-eyed host,
Who, as the racing cattle are led forth,
Make shrewd remarks upon each horse's worth.
In what a bustle sporting men appear;
Their Babel voices intermingle here.
In the few minutes which precede the start,
'Tis like a stock-exchange or auction mart.
Some curses, too, are civilly applied
Amid the throng-the man of birth his pride
Stuffs slyly in his saddle skirts, and deigns
To gull the tradesman of his bard-earn'd gains.
"Here's three to one I name the winning horse,"
Exclaims a farmer, holding out his purse.*
*Adepts at illicit
appropriation, alias professors of the abstract sciences, pursue their
industrious calling with great avidity,' amid the deafening bustle which
ensues about the time the horses are starting. Those who are in the way of
making bets are too much occupied with that thought alone to pay due regard
to their cash; hence many conveyances are effected, and fobs dispossessed
with the most scientific adroitness; and so disinterested are these gentry,
that they never afterwards either make a charge, or bring in a bill of costs
against their clients for such services.
Loud bawls a sporting hero, "four
A mounted r prime one' quickly cries, "'tis done,-
" Down with the cash, there must be sport to-day.
See! 'tis an unfair start-now they're away."
Yes-they're away, but mark
that crowd immense
Their wild anxiety grows more intense,
As in the van despis'd or favorite flies,
Alternate each in fancy grasps the prize ;
Lo! up the sandy plain with rapid bounds
The coursers spring, like puss before the hounds.
They cluster-scatter-and the ' old ones' try
Each other's strength, and watch with cautious eye
Who pulls or drives-thus nicely calculate
Which of the six will carry off the plate.
A mass of heads move round the
Within the distance every voice is still ;
E'en Geordie S----t himself half shuts his eyes,
Speaks not a sentence, but looks wondrous wise.
A hundred voices shout at once, ' they come
With thundering speed, bathed in a sheet of foam.'
Blue Jacket foremost, and not far behind,
Our Northern Chiffney drives fleet as the wind ;
See what a cloud of dust he backward flings,
He'll take the lead with such tremendous springs
Now for the struggle-ha ! the favorite falls
"That does for me," a red-fac'd sporter bawls.*
* Nothing can exceed the
rush of spectators from the hills at this moment of the race; pedestrians
and equestrians dash forward at full speed, the former often rolling over
each other in their haste to witness the last efforts of the racers in
passing the winning-box; and as that part of the course is thickly
interspersed with rabbit holes, many individuals kiss their mother earth,
and are most ignominiously trampled over before they can recover themselves.
Formerly it was a common practice with those who catered for the inward man,
to cut a place into the face of the hill, and kindle a fire, whereon to boil
beef, &c. and it is positively stated, that on one occasion, a fellow who
was flying down the hill, intent only on the all-absorbing question, ' Who
has won?' popped into a large broth-pot, knocked down the temporary crook,
and scattered abroad a most miscellaneous jumble of bones, barley, and
vegetables, to the no small dismay of the proprietor. L
To what strange
scenes this incident gives birth,
The heartless smile, and boisterous shout of mirth ;
The laugh of triumph, or the vacant stare,
Display the different thoughts which spring up there
But a few moments since and every eye
Was lit with hope and reckless jollity ;
Lo ! what a change, like Autumn's fitful gleams,
Comes o'er the spirit of th' adventurer's dreams
A skilful phisiognomist could trace,
With greatest ease, each interested face ;
Who by the god of gambling was betray'd;
Who lost a hundred, or a fortune made
A stately horseman-(faith I must
Of this misnomer, as he rode a mare ;
An old one, too, a sorry looking Back ;
Her rusty hide had once perhaps been black.
The antiquated saddle he bestrode*
Was quite in keeping with the beast be rode.)
* Many articles of horse
millinery which are put into requisition for this arcana of sport are of the
most antique description. A general resurrection of these equestrian
appendages appear to have taken place, and saddles of the old school, around
which, in all probability, the spiders
had for years woven their tiny fabrics unmolested, are taken down from the
, lumber loft, and cleaned up for the stirring occasion. These relics of
former days appear the mo re ancient from being contrasted with the]
splendid style in which the `stars' who' ,illuminate this turf have their
dashing steeds caparisoned.
-Like a town-crier, with stentorian voice
And up raised hand, roars out; ' Huzza for Joyce;
My all depended on his speed to-day,
Who rides lile him ?-I say Ma'am, clear the way;
You shou'd beware of strolling in this place,
I cannot curb my charger since the race.'
Then with a kerchief rather worse of wear,
He blew a nose with consequential air;
That like a monarch in the pride of power,
Sat on his face a flaming beacon tower
Of have I seen, with self-importance fraught,
A youthful sporter, not perchance long caught,*
* Not long caught.-A cant phrase sometimes applied to our uninitiated
countrymen by the good citizens of Cockaigne. John Bull, however, should be
the last to laugh at gullibility in others-few possess a larger
share of that useful commodity than himself. In corroboration of this
assertion, witness the " Napoleon Match"-the mock French count's challenge
to the entire gambling world for an enormous bet. So well was the thing got
up, that various " old ones" were fairly duped, besides the large
extracts made from the pockets of amateurs. This glaring hoax was even
swallowed by the morning papers; those shrewd organs of intelligence setting
forth the progress of each night's play with all the gravity imaginable.
This one case, together with the golden harvest reaped by the sham Scotch
piper and the close-fisted Paganini, in whose scraping miracles j there was
a good deal of mere trickery and nothingness,-sufficiently bears out our
argument, without adverting, as further proof, that friend John's tact
sometimes consists of the mere raw material; to the horde of quacks
by whom he is daily victimized. Certainly we northerns rejoice in the
exploits of a few death-defying heroes of box and pill, among whom are the
proprietor of a sweeping Cognomen, truly a valorous knight in his own; way,
who throws down the gauntlet in the real bravado style, as being
the race had bet a pound or more,
Stand near the winning-box to ponder o'er
His chance of gain, with look as grave and wise
As a quack doctor when a patient dies.
And while in thought he flew across the plain,
Like any hero of the bit and rein
Rose in the stirrups, whipt with all his might,
Then turn'd to see how sped he in his flight:
Thus dreaming on till past the racers bound,
When to ! his fabric totters to the ground.
He hears his betting foe exulting cry,
"The cash is mine-I'll see you by and bye."
"My last ten pounds are gone,"
exclaims a wight--
"What must I do ?-I can't go home to-night.
Curse on that stumbling horse; I might have known,
Ere the last heat, to 'hedge' and hold my own."
The sport is o'er, the
last heat has been run,
And now the scene of revelry's begun ;
the "only gentleman on earth"
capable of holding out in a regular stand up" set to" with all diseases,
armed with. his never-falling nostrums. And Morrison, disinterested soul ! !
offering his good things for the sumptuous fare of the community-by the bye,
we hope these worthies have no understanding with him of the " Friar's Bush"
department. These gentlemen, according to their own statements, have done
wonders ; but the
feats of any one of our neighbour John's artistes-say, for instance, Mr. St.
Long, of back-scrubbing notoriety-leaves the above-named personages
far, far in the shade. And now, speaking of these useful members of society,
have not a few of the legitimate sons of Esculapius belonging to
Belfast, been lately regaling each other with a most respectable quantity of
Billingsgate, much to the amusement and edification of the public.
We live in the age of literary chivalry at all events.
o'clock-and numbers of the throng
The different roads have thickly lined along,
All homeward bound-some plod with gravest air,
And pockets light,* no jingling sound is there.
Here reels a Tartar-looking fellow, that,
With chin interr'd in bolster-like cravat,
Shows, science-fraught, the art of self-defence--
Had he a foe how soon he'd send him hence.
Oh how such braggarts their contempt of fear
Display and swagger, when no danger's near.
* The prescribed limits of
this little publication prevent me from noticing particularly the various
gambling machinery with which the Maze is crowded during the races. Of the
evil effects which arises from these `hells,' on a small scale, much might
be said, suffice it to remark, that
they engender more profligacy, trickery, and dishonesty, and are a greater
share to morality than a casual observer could have the most distant idea
of. Gambling has ever been the bane of society, but it is much more
formidable when holding out its allurements to youth and inexperience ;
the dreadful career of thousands can be traced to this source of pollution.
END OF CANTO IV.
Ballymacash-Allusion to the Rev. Phil. Johnson-Killultagh Hunt.
ARISE my Muse, nor let the sacred spot
Where Philip Johnson flourish'd be forgot;
Rever'd, respected, and beloved by all
The man of worth, who at his country's call,
Fear'd not to brave the rude insurgent's hate,
Whose savage vengeance would have seal'd his fate.
When, coward-like, the dark assassin stood,*
And took his aim with tiger thirst for blood;
The whizzing ball disdain'd to take the life
For whom 'twas meant-oh ! dire effect of strife
And civil war, source of unnumber'd woes,
What dreadful scenes thy spirit can disclose !
Black was his heart, and
merciless his hand,
Unfit to wield aught but a murderer's brand ;
Whose spirit thus could in an evil hour,
With fiend-like treachery, display its power.
But Johnson lived to see the sun of peace
Arise in brightness-bid contention cease;
Fame o'er his head her laurels to extend,
Of all around the firm and valued friend.
*Vide Nose at the end of this
Long may his son the sword of Justice bear,
And gain a name as glorious and as fair ;
Walk in the path which erst his father trod,
And scorn to shrink, tho' tempests howl abroad.
rais'd at his command,
Shall flourish proudly 'neatlh his fostering hand ;
When sickness rages-by its various woes,
The toil-worn peasant's life begins to close,
To pour the oil and wine, is to secure
* * *
* * * *
Earth's best reward-the
blessing of the Poor !
In floods of glory now breaks forth the rosy morn,
Already do I hear the huntsman's cheering horn,
See fam' d Killultagh's harriers-oh ! what a noble throng
Now bursts Upon my view-Come Muse, let's give a Song.
jolly sportsmen !-the sun is abroad,
And he calls you away to the beath-cover'd sod;
The fox from his sides shakes the last spark of dew,
He is up from his lair, and is waiting for you---
Arise jolly sportsmen! who often have led
The blood-stirring chase in your doublets of red!
* Edward Johnson, Esq.
J. P. has recently erected an excellent schoolhouse for the poor children of
his neighbourhood. The lively interest he uniformly takes in the cause of
humanity and philanthropy, has gained him universal esteem.
field, to the field-there is health in the gale,
Leave the student his couch, with his forehead so pale;
The courser's loud neighing is heard from the stall,_
His voice speaks of pleasure, attend to his call.
Wo, wo to the coward who hindmost would ride,
Or stop at the fence, be it ever so wide!
Hark away! . they are
off, and like spirits of air,
They will fly o'er the fields, boldest actions to dare.
The Boyds of the' Island,' those stars of the north,
And Whitla, with others of spirit and worth.
The gay Captain Gregg on his charger of might,
While the clogs' jovial tongues fill each soul with delight !
List how the
hills on every side resound
The swelling chorus of the deep-mouthed hound.
With eager clamor to arouse the prey,
And in her train exulting burst away,
Swift as the mountain roe thro' brake and glen,
While rings the welkin back their tones again.
The chase is up ! she stretches o'er the plain
Off fly the horsemen-every nerve they strain.
A noble field ! they drive with hearty cheer,
The foaming torrent or barr'd gate they clear.
Puss keeps her course; when, far up Collin's side,
She stops and gazes o'er the prospect wide;
Then backward wheels
instinctive to the mound
From which she started, with redoubled bound.
Her little arts she tries with puzzling skill,
Descends with headlong speed the stone-topp'd hill,
Where often she, beneath the pale moon's light,
Had frolic'd wildly all the harvest night.
But 'tis in vain-her foes their speed renew,
Unbaffled all-close in the track pursue,
When weary grown, she makes her latest springs
The beagle's echoing voice her requiem sings!
END of CANTO V.
Philip Johnson flourished."
That distinguished patriot-the late Rev.
Philip Johnson, of Ballymacash, who has left a name of such high eminence on
the page of Irish history, was vicar of the parish of Derriaghy for the
space of sixty years. He always resided among his hearers, and performed in
person his ministerial duties for fifty years without the aid of a curate.
He was for nearly the same period a justice of the peace for the counties of
Antrim and Down; the arduous duties of which he discharged in a manner that
gained him the approbation of the government, and the respect and affection
of all lovers of peace and harmony. In 1796, this worthy gentleman's life
was attempted in the town of Lisburn, but happily without effect. Such was
the universal feeling of the county, that a reward of one thousand pounds
was immediately offered for the discovery of the assassin, besides three
hundred pounds offered by the Lord Lieutenant.
seat of James Watson, Esq., J. P.-Surrounding Scenery - Reflections on
'Dublin, the Home of the Author's heart.-The conclusion'' of this Canto is
inscribed to my much esteemed friend and brother, Mr. John Bayly, Dublin.`
I now pursue my way to famed Brookhill,
A spot where writers of Romance could fill
Three quarto volumes with those fairy things
Which Fancy in her bright imaginings
Could e'er conceive-for here the total's seen
Of all that's grand, or lovely, wild, serene.
Behold what boundless beauty meets the eyes,
From yonder dew-drop up to where the skies
With Mourne's majestic mounts seem to embrace;
The vast expanse is Canaan ground at ev'ry pace!
Seat of an honor'd
sportsman ! let me roam
O'er the fair grounds which circle Watson's home,
And gaze with rapture on thy charms, Brookhill,
Where art and nature have display'd their skill ;
And hospitality with lavish hand,
(In ancient days the boast of Erin's land)
Flings her life-giving bounties with a smile,
And "mille falta" to the man of toil.
Who has not heard of Watson's sporting deeds,
His famous dogs, and swiftly bounding steeds ?
Bold son of Nimrod, long may he go forth
The first of hunters-glory of the North,
And guide with fearless hand the courser's rein,
Amid the plaudits of the peopled plain.
Now Morn's majestic god from Ocean
Walks Heaven's vault in golden floods of light.
He o'er the mountain, plain, his radiance flings,
And gilds the scene in countless colorings ;
Unveils the charms Night's mantle did disguise,
And opes a thousand beauties to our eyes
A thousand prospects to survey invites,
'Mid all the luxury of rural sights.
Here lofty mounts, and smiling meadows there,
Religion's steeples towering into air ;
The boundless plain, begemmed with towers and floods,
Aspiring domes, embosom'd 'mid green woods;
Lawns and lakes, pyramid and pinnacle,
The rainbow'd waterfall-the torrent's swell
The forest's giant oaks that wed the breeze,
While flows the music of those Ilex trees,
That join the tempest's song in symphonies.
The solemn pine-the precipice so gray-
The cascade's roar-the lashing of the spray-
The groves so green, with all their fragrant breath,
That strings the harps of Naiads underneath ;
The fairy shades of trees where riv'lets free,
With men, and beasts, and birds in harmony,
Join Nature's endless song to Liberty!
Fair landscapes teeming with a
Of all th' various beauties here below;
And gilded with that magic alchymy,
Which, like Medea's, gives a majesty;
A brilliant light and loveliness o'er all,
Which even Winter's power cannot pall.
When Summer spreads her wings of
And Nature all is rapt in joy serene;
When Beauty's empress roves along the plain,
And minstrels tend her shining virgin train ;
O gay and glorious look these fertile fields,
Here Ceres lavishly her bounty yields.
Sweet are the breathings of these
The Lake's blue breast berippled by the breeze;
Sweet are those flute-like notes the warblers sing,
When joyfully they hail the smiling Spring;
Or when on wing elastic swift they fly,
To serenade their mates in melody.
When glist'ning diamonds deck the trembling thorn,
And Zephyrs frolic with the yellow corn;
When soft Aurora from her golden bowers,
Exhales the fragrance of the honied flowers ;
When Phœbus purply streaks the cloud-capt
And kisses with his beams the crystal founts;
As harvests full excite Aloa strains,
And frisking flocks molestless crop the plains ;
How sweet to breathe the breath of balmy morn,
When light and life in May's white bosom's born.
Oh ! sweet the blushings
of the fragrant Rose,
When from her eyes the dew of honey flows,,
Sweet is the incense wafted from the flowers,
And sweet the green baptiz'd by April's showers;
But not the gay and glorious fertile fields,
As Ceres lavishly her bounty yields;
Not sweet to me the whispers of the trees,
The lake's blue breast berippled by the breeze ;
Nor songs which feather'd minstrels sweetly sing,
With glad cerealia hailing cheerful spring ;
Or when on wing elastic swift they fly,
To serenade their loves in melody.
Not sweet to me the odours of the flowers,
That waft a world of incense thro' the bowers
The garden's blushing Queen, nor fragrant Rose,
When from her eyes the dew of heaven flows.
Boots it to me, that on these
Eternal Summer in luxuriance reigns ?
Tho' all this Paradise can well afford
To deck some Eastern Prince's palace-board
Ali! can my Summer's joy be e'er restor'd?
To those who happy live in calm
Far from the woes Misfortune's children meet ;
The current of whose peaceful lives can glide
Calm as a gentle brook's unruffled tide ;
O'er whose food hopes no blasting tempests rise;
Whose prospects Disappointment ne'er belies,
But clear and cloudless be as blue Italia's skies.
Those, those may feel a
joy, a heavenly bliss,
When viewing all the landscape's loveliness,
May, with their hearts light as their footsteps, rove
By waving meadow, or by towering grove; M
And with the birds their morning anthems sing
The nectar sip of Life's Elysian Spring.
But he whose heart exists alike the tomb,
Whose darken'd soul no friendly rays illume;
Who stands alone like some surviving tree,
Left by Death's woodman little longer free,
To weep her kindred brethren's Elegy.
Can gilded scenes shed sunshine o'er
Or warm his feeling's soil-his cares control ?
Can all the verdure which those plains impart
Convey a greenness o'er his barren heart ?
Like some deep-wounded deer who writhes with pain,
The beauteous ground he treads but brings disdain.
Alas! the living
glories of the Earth,
That poetry of God which gave them birth,
The mountains, lakes, the valleys and the streams,
Those eyes of landscape loveliness, whose beams
Reflect Joy's halo over all-whose light
Dispels the mists of others' Sorrow's Night,
No more to me bring peace. In vain I gaze
Upon the leaf and flower; they cannot raise
The shadow of a shade's tranquillity
Within a breast that knows no sympathy.
The gay and glorious universe of
An antepast of all that Heaven brings.
Yon circle now which spreads before my view,
That realizes Fancy's brightest hue;
The book which Deity himself did chuse,
When Nature wrote as his appointed Muse,
All-are to my dark mind's imaginings
A dream of mutable and treacherous things.
Oh ! there is music in the
A sweetness in the song of rustling trees.
But sad to me the melody serene ;
For thoughts of happier days-of what I've been-
Bring that dark heartlessness which did beseem
The Hebrews when they wept by Babel's stream.
And as in freedom roll'd the mocking billow,
They hung their unstrung harps upon the willow.
What recks it to the Exile wandering here,
From friends afar and all that Life holds dear,
That be beholds those scenes on every side
Where laugbing seasons lavish all their pride ?
The darkest spot on
Being's bleakful chart
Is the lone Exile's heavy bursting heart,
As mourns he all the joys God ever gave,
Lie wreck'd beneath Misfortune's treacherous wave!
Like Noah's bird sent from the sheltering ark,
The world he ranges, desolate and dark;
No kindred soul to calm his burning breast,
Or spot whereon his wearied foot can rest!
Launch'd on the sea of Life without an oar,
In vain he seeks some hospitable shore!
Tho' to the stranger's eye his smile beseems
As if he knew and felt kind Fortune's beams.
Ah ! could his sad sear'd soul be ken'd within,
That very smile would be Despair's own grin!
If scorn'd the 'Man of Sorrows' was-unknown,
And when be came, received not by his own.
If caves the foxes had, the birds their nest,
Whilst He knew not whereon his bead to rest.
From the cold world, oh ! can the Exile dare
Expect a foreign soil with him would share
A soothing balm, to mitigate that strife
Which gnaws his heart away in Spring of Life ?
Dublin! the cradle of my
youth, my home,
With thee what joyful retrospections come! [change,
'Mongst friends, 'mongst foes, and all Life's chance and
Nought shall from thee this witber'd heart estrange.
Dublin, my home'. inspire the Poet's dream,
My verse ennoble, and forgive the theme.
Sweet Home! bow often hath thy
In hallow'd greenness, o'er this sadden'd soul;
Ah ! well can I conceive the galling sting,
Which thoughts of better days to exiles bring.
Home ! sad remembrance, yet for ever dear,
' Still breathed in sighs-still usber'd with a tear ;'
If e'er I thee or Chine forget-be then
My heart's cold blood the ink that fills my pen!
If e'er on foreign soil I sing a song,
And thee remember not, my tongue be dumb ;
Whene'er my soul shall not for thee expand,
My Lyre be broken-wither'd be my hand
Friends of my Home! when 'mong the
'Mid Music's syrens-when the laugh is loud;
When on some favorite's natal day the Ball
Is kept, and Beauty walks thy ancient hall-
When pleasure reigns, and mirth's on every tongue-
Oh! think on him, thy exiled child of Song !
Him, o'er whose Harp, in wither'dness of heart,
Oft waken feelings which lost joys impart:
Who, 'mid the stranger's sneers, thy name still breathes
That name pronounc'd, the sword of sorrow sheathes !
Drys up the tear, and breaks the bursting sigh,
Which started at the scowl and cold reply'.
When on some happy Christmas
The banquet is enjoy'd, and all is gay;
When ev'ry heart is fill'd with joy and gladness,
And Bacchus gives a bowl that drowns your sadness;
When Fancy o'er each mind her spells has flung,
And feeling pours its soul from every tongue
Oh! you by fortune favor'd, rich in health,
And wanting nought possest by worldly wealth,
By friendship honor'd, and by love carest
Forget not him by Sympathy unblest !
But 'mid the blaze of Beauty's brilliant throng,
In sportive dance-the jest-the jovial song,
Remember him whose life-path teems with woe,
And sing the songs which Misery's minstrels know'.
When Music's witchery
each soul awakes,
And Memory of the past a survey takes
Brings back the visions of those happy years,
Ere blasted bliss to solitude and tears
Consign'd those hearts, who on Life's sunny stream
Believ'd the gilding rays would always beam
And when you tell the tale * * * what did retard
Those joys-Remember then the friendless Bard!
END OF CANTO VI.
MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. "LEGEND OF HOME."-A FRAGMENT.
EDWARD MOORE, ESQ. DUBLIN.
Dublin !-a thousand recollections rise
With thy dear name-'mid foreign seas and skies;
Still should my heart for thee a spot contain,
Oh ! let thy beauties now inspire my strain.
WHERE Howth, the
hill-monarch, uprears his huge form,
Unconquered by time, and unscathed by the storm ;
Clangorey resided like prince of the state,
A true Irish squire ; his possessions were great.
The lands of Belldoyle, where gush'd the lone rill,
Where bare-bell and brake-flower arose on the hill,
Acknowledged him lord, and the door of his hall
Was open as day to the traveller's call.
His pride was his daughter-as gentle as fair;
The prop of his years, and the theme of his prayer.
In Simplicity's garb she was ever arrayed,
Her cheek the rich bloom of Health's spirit displayed;
And she was as wild and as delicate too,
As the breeze that across her own heath mountains blew.
The care of
a mother she never had known;
That being's pure spirit to heaven had flown
Few weeks had elapsed from her fair daughter's birth,
Ere she bade an adieu to the sorrows of earth ;
And the last words she breathed, as her sun of life set,
Were those that when beard, one can never forget.
As at her death-couch the most fond husband knelt,
(Oh ! who could pourtray all the anguish he felt;)
When feebly that voice once so soothing to hear,
Fell solemn and still like a knell on his ear:
" Be kind to my daughter-my own Isabel,
My spirit uprises-dear husband farewell."
As hues of the lily in
Beneath the soft care of some fostering hand ;
So rose in the pride of affection and grace,
From the heart of her parent all sorrows to chase
The child of Clangorey ; each feminine charm
Bewitchingly flung o'er her delicate form;
In life-breathing brightness she moved upon earth,
As the light rolling clouds to which summer gives birth.
crag-covered wilds which encircled her home,'
Gainst which the blue deep dashed its broad sheets of foam;
Delighted she wandered as some tiny queen,
Or spirit of beauty entranced with the scene.
Her only companion a bold. dark-eyed Youth,
Whose manly brow beamed with affection and truth;
Possessed of a spirit that brooked not control,
The music of nature enraptured his soul ;
And oft has he sat in the morn of his days,
Like freedom's own child, on the wild cliff to gaze;
Where sea-birds flapped loud their strong wings on the gale,
And round the lone rock spread the feathery sail
The far-sweeping echo of ocean's hoarse roar
Was sweet to the ear of young Edward O'More.
An orphan was he of high
lineage, but born
'Neath a dark star of fate in adversity's morn.
'Twas rumored his father led on an affray,
When Bigotry reigned with invincible sway ;
Repulsed by the foe and the last of his band,
He was forc'd to escape to a far foreign land,
Ere his child saw the light--and long years had roll'd on,
But none ever heard where the chieftain was gone.
And she whom be worshipp'd, the joy of his youth,
Surviv'd not his absence
* * *
From Dublin's tall mountains a warrior had gone
To the hills of the west, where rebellion begun;
To raise the wild war-whoop across Erin's land,
And strew with her victims the desolate strand;
The loud joyous laughter to quench, and the hearth,
Once happy and peaceful, deprive of its mirth.
* * *
* * *
* * *
* * *
* * *
* * *
The battle was fierce, the insurgents were strong,
And routed the loyalists-swept them along
As tempest-sprites drive tbro' the treacherous wave
A storm-shattered bark-overwhelming the brave;
In midst of the fight was the warrior chief seen,
Unconscious of danger, majestic his mien ;
As be cheer'd on his heroes, exulting how well
They returned to the charge-he was wounded and fell.
A peasant who
traversed the scene of the fray,
Beheld the old warrior and bore him away
To his mountain-side cottage, and tenderest care
Was sbewn to that guest while a resident there.
Dalradin recovered-a sweet-looking boy,
Who bad watched at his bed, seemed enraptured with joy ;
The child's fond attention took hold of his heart;
On the peasant he called, when about to depart,
And rewarded him nobly-he gazed on the child,
Then said, with a countenance grateful and mild
' You told me this boy was an orphan-no heir
Have I for my lands, and a father's fond care
He shall always receive-if entrusted to me,
No cloud shall o'ershadow his light-hearted glee.'
arrived at his seat in the glen,
And trod the loved scenes of his boyhood again
His neighbor the squire was the same being still,
And joyfully welcomed him back to the " Hill."
His much-loved adoption-tbe son of O'More,
Grew up as the eagle that sweeps by Dunmore.
Robust as the wild mountain pine was his form,
And grateful his heart as his feelings were warm ;
His soul was enwrapt by the fair Isabel,
With whom he oft wandered thro' fairy-like dell;
He was her companion and guide if she roamed
By the cliff's rocky side, or where cataracts foamed.
the suitors were, who at the shrine
Of the heiress appeared, with their equipage fine;
But none of them all to the maid could impart
That reciprocal flame which can vanquish the heart.
The hoard of affection her bosom had nurst
Still clung to the hope, that her best love-her first
Would yet be her pole-star thro' life's devious way;
Her eye was not dazzled by glittering array ;
To the altar of Hymen she would not be led,
'Till Cupid around it his laurels would spread.
wandered, and Silence around
Had wrapped with his mantle her favourite mound.
The Moon in her beauty walked forth in her vest
Of purple-dyed clouds-all the world seemed at rest.
A voice caught the ear of the love-dreaming one,
Of which her soul drank every magical tone.
Its echoings rose, and vibratingly rung
On Eve's stilly bosom-tbe minstrel thus sung:
O give me but the mountain rock-
A cottage in the dell;
And one to share affection there-
My own loved Isabel.
My fairest one, and art thou doomed
Another's bride to be ;
And is a stranger's cherished love
So valueless to thee ?
Oh no! I could not, dare not dream
Of aught so wild as this;-
The star that o'er my visions played,
Yet points to days of bliss.
The song's last re-echo had melted
As softly as sunlight at closing of day ;
Next moment O'More stood beside Isabel,
Like night-dew of summer their hallowed tones fell:-
'My father's decree has gone forth-nevermore
Shall we ramble together, our joy days are o'er ;'
The maiden low murmured-her love-speaking eye,
Was dim'd with a tear, and her bosom heaved high.
'My own Isabel-in
my promise confide,
I have vowed by our love thou shalt yet be my bride;
How oft in the glen have I joyously strayed,
And basked in the beam that around you has played!
How happy these hours, nought but love was our theme,
Now all such illusions are fled like a dream;
Dalradin, my far more than parent, is gone
To his rest in the grave-I'm a being alone;
Your father so proud, in his hanghty disdain,
Has sworn we must part, perhaps never meet again;
But oh! my fond hope I could never resign,
Thine image must still round my spirit entwine.'
woman! most hallowed, most blest,
'Mid the ocean of time, thou'rt an island of rest;
A spot where our hearts leave their sorrows behind,
And man's base ingratitude fling to the wind;
Thou'rt the magical charm that delight can beguile,
And rivet the soul with the bright-flashing smile.'
Thus spoke the O'More, and he eagerly prest
The star of his youth to his wild beating breast;
'We shall meet once again; ere to-morrow's last ray
Has fled o'er the hill-top, I'll bear you away;
Yon skiff shall outspread her white canvass, and sweep
With rich and fair freight o'er the silver-topped deep ;
And a much valued friend on the opposite shore,
Will joyfully hail you-the bride of O'More.'
* * *
* * *
* * *
* * *
* * *
* * *
* * *
* * *
* * *
* * *
* * *
* * *
The red sun of evening emblazoned the
And tinged the soft landscape with streamlets of gold ;
The sea-gull uprose, and the eagle's loud cry
Was heard, as he swung to his eyrie on high;
The wind was at rest, he had thrown by his lyre
When a chariot rolled up to the door of the squire ;
And forth stepped a suitor, his air seemed to say,
I'll soon from all rivals the prize bear away.
A Nabob was he, just return'd from abroad,
Who Fortune's bright paths had most luckily trod ;
His wealth was immense, but, tho' yet in his prime,
The fire of his eye was diminished by time.
Our squire was enraptured-he heard with delight
The stranger's wild legends of foray and fight ;
And grasping his hand he exultingly cried
My daughter is thine, bear her off as thy bride.
Weak, weak is his
sophistry, short-lived his dream,
Who'd guide woman's heart, 'tis a wild rushing stream;
Clangorey was human, and love's maddening sway,
Had long o'er his heart ceased its power to display ;
The oft-cherished hope that the child of his pride
'1 'o some wealthy baronet would be allied,
Arose in its strength like the first star of night,
As bright in its gleaming, as sweet in its light. N
* * *
* * *
* * *
* * *
* * *
* * *
* * *
* * *
* * *
* * *
* * *
* * *
She stood in his presence than rainbow more
To wed the rich Nabob he bade her prepare ;
He talks of large settlements, half his estate,
He bestows on the woman whose hope-beaming fate
Is to share his proud title.-You're rich and high born,
Reject this O'More with a dignified scorn;
The bride of Sir Phelim my daughter must be,
And never again that wild youth shalt thou see ;
My word is imperative-if there contains
One drop of Clangorey pure blood in thy veins;
Arise in thy pride, all this weakness give o'er,
Prepare for the bridal, nor think of O'More.'
She could not reply,
she was struck with surprize,
Nor towards her father dare raise her blue eyes ;
At length while her cheeks were with blushes o'erspread,
'My heart is another's, dear father' she said ;
`This night, oh ! I could not, I would not appear
Before this Sir Phelim, your visitor here;
The trappings of wealth, and a high-sounding name,
For me have no charms-I would ever disclaim
The sordid alliance, that sexton of peace
With a compact of hands shall my happiness cease.'
the soft glowing monarch of Day
Drank deep of the dew-drops from rose-bud and spray;
Clangorey arose from his couch full of joy,
Bright dreams of ambition his thoughts did employ;
He looked on his lands from the brown mountain's crest
To the low sweeping vales which his father possessed;
And tbought of Sir Phelim-unconscious that ali
Our most favorite structures may totter and fall.
He heard, and his eye glistened wild at the sound
His daughter was gone-she was not to be found;
O'More had been seen, by the dawning of day,
In a swift-sailing bark dashing off from the bay;
For Hymen's own palace-oh! never to part
Again with that loved one, the home of his heart.
Some years had
elapsed-when Clangorey was seen
By the side of a youth, on the elm-studded green
Which surounded his mansion--and joyous delight,
Such as mariners know when their home is in sight,
O'er a countenance beamed-quite divested of care,
Tho' Age had imprinted bis characters there
And not far apart was a female whose bloom
Might vie with the lily's most delicate plume,
As she bent her fair form-an additional charm
Stole over her features-one leaned on her arm ;
'Twas our old friend Sir Phelim, his grey twinkling eye
Alternately gazed with a father's fond joy
On the lofty-souled Edward, his hope and his pride,
And the beautiful being who stood by his side;
Love dwelt with the group, all their sorrows were o'er,
Sir Phelim, the Nabob, was chieftain O'More !
SONGS OF THE SEA.-No. 1.
ALL hands to the anchor-the last beam of day,
Beneath the dark sea cliff, has faded away;
The Moon's on her Throne, and a host of bright stars
Have mounted in triumph their glittering cars.
Heave away ! heave away ! the hoarse voice of the sea
Calls forth my fleet shallop, she bounds to be free ;
A breeze from the landward comes sweeping along,
And mixes its voice with the mermaiden's song.
Oh ! this is the hour when
the land-lubber sleeps,
And Night in her beauty a carnival keeps !
To dash like a war-steed o'er mountains of foam,
Hurra for the deep-'tis my birthright and home.
SONGS OF THE SEA.-No. 2.
WILD warriors of the pathless deep,
My own-my gallant crew,
Up '. clear the decks-a sail appears,
Far o'er the waters blue ;
Her banner flies, it speaks a foe,
Hark! peals the signal gun,
Arm ! boarders arm! a prize is ours,
Ere gleams the setting sun !
High waves upon our mizen top,
Like sea-bird in the blast,
The ensign of the brave-once more
We'll nail it to the mast;
Then let it on the wide expanse'
Its rainbow plumage spread ;
Oh ! who would see its brightness stain'd,
Its magic glory fled !
Ye who have braved old Ocean's wrath
In all its wildest form,
And reckless view'd the rock-bound strand
Amid the thunder storm
Ye who have at the war-drum's call
Stood forth in freedom's right ;
Sheathe not a blade till Triumph's song
Be ours-Up to the fight!
STANZAS ADDRESSED TO Mr. JOHN BAYLY.
no pain because I smile,
Yet say, can smiles true tell
The heart? for know that all the while
My bosom feels a hell!
Altho' I join in dance and mirth,
And list to Music's spell;
Yet-If there be a hell on Earth,
I feel for one that hell!
You think me wondrous happy-glad,
Because I join the laugh;
But say should I 'mong friends seem sad,
Not rather cheer and quaff?
But when all gone-Oh! that's the time
I weep and break my heart;
I do not deem it then a crime,
As none else feel the smart.
They say that wine will drown despair,
When all of Hope is fled ; N2
Ay-ay ! but know that pale-faced Care
May sleep-but not be dead.
* * *
Then cease to think
Whene'er I smile or glee;
For know, my brain is burning mad,
Whatever thine's to thee !
And cease to speak of ME as one
Of Fortune's favorites here;
For oh ! there's not a wreck but's gone,
Of all I once held dear !
The seat of Mr. HENRY DAVIS.-A
As o'er the plain my ramblings I pursue,
An ancient spot bursts forth upon my view;
Neat handsome plantings on each side arise,
Here blooms the pride of modern Nurseries.
What wondrous taste! it seems the bower of love
Oh ! let me breathe the air of Ogle's grove,
Where culture smiles, and art triumphant sees,
In graceful rows, the young and beauteous trees.
These tender twigs with how much toil and care,
Have they been all uprear'd-the luscious pear,
The apple, peach, the plum, and cherry red,
Shall soon the shooting branches overspread ;
And on their boughs in graceful clusters bend
The dearest boon that Autumn's seasons send.
A thousand various shrubs and plants display
Their beauties here, and fling their scents away ;
Till all around partakes of soft perfume,
And Nature revels in her richest plume !
The garden gem'd with flowers of
in summer's sunny day here meet the eye;
'Twere endless to describe the various hues
Of beauty's vesture, which entrance the muse;
Whatever can inspire the fancy's flight,
And all the senses charm with soft delight,
Is seen in wild luxuriance-all around
Improvement's wand has made Elysium ground!
Who has not felt in such a
scene as this
The thrilling joy of summer evening's kiss ?
His spirit dancing, while the hum of bees
Rose on the pinions of the scarce-felt breeze.
Here comes the Spring with
more invigoring life
Of all the landscape-and in bliss more rife
The feathered quiristers seem here to sing
With bolder joy-they fly on swifter wing.
And Autumn comes with more refulgent beams,
Her ruby lips first kiss those crystal streams;
With laughing face holds here his choicest feast,
His dainties vying with the luscious East;
E'en Winter pays obeisance to this spot
His reign's so mild, his tyranny's forgot.
For Hospitality old Erin long
Has justly been immortalized in song;
And tho' methinks 'twas somewhat on the wane,
Yet here the North has hail'd its sun again.
Ne'er did the wearied traveller depart
From thy halls, Davis, with a sadden'd heart;
Thy company and converse brush the tear
From of the poet's cheek-dispel his fear;
Make trampled merit cease awhile to scan
The cold neglect and treachery of man ;
Thy sympathizing breast, thy gen'rous soul
Can all the rankling darts of Care control ;
Oft at thy festive board the sparkling wine
Has called to life the days of 'auld tang syne ;'
When dreams of happier years prey'd on my brain,
Thou brought'st the light of former times again ;
Thy feelings warm, thy manners mild and gay,
Drive dark Reflection to his den away;
From thy philanthropy those rivers flow,
Which rise and ebb at others' joy and woe;
Fulfilling well God's systematic plan,
That "Man should be and live the friend of Man !"
Adieu! romantic spot,
still sacred be
To friendship, holy hospitality;
Oh may no envious blast, no withering storm
(As o'er my hopes have come) thy groves deform'
Should Fate me drive o'er far Atlantic main,
This bosom would for thee a spot contain ;
For worthy friends as ever Home endear'd
Have here with Irish heart of hearts appear'd.
OH 'whose eyes
weep, not, whose heart cannot bleed,.
When of Shakspeare, (fray, Savage, or Johnson we read
Those spirits of Genius, in Britain's full land,
Oft one scanty dinner they could not command!
Tho' delighting the world,-tho' lauded by app,
No. relief they obtained, when in Poverty's thrall.
Of an Otway, a Goldsmith, a Thompson to tell
How the Nine they did woo in a garret or cell;
The time it would fail to number or name
Those thousands who now have posthumous fame;
But when living were let to pine out their day
In ironous wo without one cheering ray
Of Merit's just meed their dark fates to beguile ;
Strangers to even a Patron's kind smile ;*
Oh! for tragedies, far, they need not have gone;
For indeed almost each of their lives was one !
* When that great
Lexicographer, Doctor Johnson, first undertook the Herculean task of his
celebrated Dictionary of the English Language, the original plan addressed
to the Earl of Chesterfield did not meet that countenance and support which
so splendid an undertaking merited and deserved ; however, when Johnson,
after many years of the most incredible toil and trouble, (and in great
poverty,) had completed, and was about to give the world (who so much wanted
and so eagerly called for) that great production ; his Lordship published
two Essays to prepare the Public for so important a work, noticing it in
terms of the highest praise. This was understood at the time to be a courtly
way of soliciting a dedication of the Dictionary to himself, but Johnson
treated this civility with disdain. He said to Garrick and others : " have
sailed a long and painful voyage round the world of the English Language;
and does he now send out two cock-boats to tow me into harbour?" He had said
in the last number of the Rambler, " that having labored to maintain the
dignity of virtue, I will not now degrade it by the meanness of dedication."
Such a man when he had finished his Dictionary, " not," as he says himself,
"in the soft obscurities of retirement, or under the shelter of Academic
bowers, but amidst inconvenience and distraction, in sickness and in sorrow,
and without the patronage of the great," was not likely to be caught by the
lure thrown out by Lord Chesterfield. He had in vain sought the patron. age
of that nobleman,-and his pride, exasperated by disappointment, drew from
him that celebrated letter, of which the following is an extract.-" Seven
years, my Lord, have now passed since I waited in your outward room, or was
repulsed from your door; during which_ time I have been pushing on my work
through difficulties, of which it is useless to complain, and have brought
it at last to the verge of publication, without one act of assistance, one
word of encouragement, or one smile of favor. The shepherd in Virgil grew
acquainted with Love, and found him a native of the rocks. Is not a patron,
my Lord, one who looks with unconcern on a man struggling for life in the
water, and when be has reached ground, encumbers him with help ? The notice
you have been pleased to take of my labors, had it been early, had been kind
; but it has been delayed till I am indifferent, and cannot enjoy it ; till
I am solitary, and cannot impart it; till I am known, and do not want it. I
hope it is no very cynical asperity not to confess obligations where no
benefit has been received ; or to be unwilling that the public should
consider me as owing that to a patron, which Providence has enabled me to do
for myself-" * * *
While other men's eyes in slumber were bound,
They then were ploughing the deep classic ground;
Ceaseless in mines of the Mind did they toil;
Gave the price of their meat to buy midnight oil!
'Mid Misfortune's fierce frown, and Poverty's blight,
'Mid scowl of I the Great,' they fought Literature's fight!
Yet say, did
e'en a beam from Power's sphere
One mist dispel of sad Misfortune's tear;
Pierce the abode of Learning's lurid haunt,
Or cheer the languid brow of drooping want ?
Did justice join her rites at Pity's shrine,
No !-in Poverty they were left to pine.
Oh Bristol! cold thy people were
When they would not eight paltry pounds suffice;
To snatch poor Savage from a loathsome jail,
Ere Death, more kind, did ring the Poet's knell!
The foulest blot the King's reign did afford,
Was George's royal pledge-his BROKEN WORD!*
* * *
* * *
When the Sceptic did sneer and scoff at the Book
Which Christians revere, they thundering shook
The pile to its base-e'en its chief corner stone,
The Deistical monster hurl'd down from his throne;
Crush'd th' Alps so volcanic by the Voltaires uprear'd,
And with their own lava the Enemy scared
The Infidel Foe fled back from the shock,
Like waves as they bound from the adamant rock;
They undaunted display'd Religion's bright crest,
Like Sol as he travels in strength from the East.
In Liberty's cause they a Tyrant withstood,
For Freedom did wade thro' an ocean of blood;
Forth stood they as champions of th' rights of Mankind,
They were suns to the systems, and globes of the Mind !
When Intolerance rul'd with an iron rod,
They were Martyrs for Truth-they died for their God!
And for what! for what thus did they withstand
The vengeance and force of the comet-like brand;
* King George 111,
publicly promised to confer on Savage, for his eminent talents, the Poet
Laureatship-but the then Prime Minister, notwithstanding his Sovereign's
wishes, and the Queen's express desire, worried the King to break his
promise and give the office to another.
In the hardship of Hell-in the
foe's foreign land,
In the anguish of Want-the Inquisitor's hand ?
That cold apathy and disdain might shake
Those spirits which no earthly power could break;
That Honor's deathless wreathes might spurn to glow,
For Genius struggling 'mid unpitied woe ;
That calm, unflinching, dauntless tho' alone,
They might live in pain-die unthank'd, unknown '
THE DEAD ENSIGN.
Immediately after the Battle of --------- there was discovered among the
slain one of the most daring of our ensigns with his own colors and those of
the enemy wrapped around him.,,
SLEEP Warrior ! peaceful be thy
No more the battle-cry
Shall rouse thy spirit for the fray
Dark is that eagle eye
Where proud defiance sat enthron'd ;
And nerveless is the hand
That wielded with a giant might
The ire-avenging brand.
Sleep ! triumph seal'd thy
day of fame
A hero's death was thine;
Could treasures of the chainless deep,
Or wealth of eastern mine,
Impart the exulting wild delight
A Warrior only knows ;
When, 'mid the clash of arms, he grasps
The banner of his foes !
Sleep ! Havoc's voice is
And Glory waves her plume ;
The trophies thou hast gain'd shall shed
A halo round thy tomb.
Bright as the earliest ray that beams
Across the mountain's crest ;
Tho' far, far from thy fathers' land
Thou and thine honors rest.
Mairs, Printer, Belfast.