THE CHARITY BALL. WHAT matter the pangs of a husband and father, If his sorrows in exile be great or be small, So the Pharisee's glories around her she gather, And the saint patronizes her 'charity ball! What matters--a heart which, though faulty, was feeling, ON MY THIRTY-THIRD BIRTHDAY. THROUGH life's dull road, so dim and dirty, MARTIAL, LIB. I., EPIG. I. HE unto whom thou art so partial, BOWLES AND CAMPBELL. Remarks on Mister Campbell. ANSWER. WHY, how now, Billy Bowles? EPIGRAMS. OH Castlereagh! thou art a patriot now; Cato died for his country, so didst thou: He perish'd rather than see Rome enslaved, Be driven to excesses which once could appal-Thou cutt'st thy throat that Britain may be That the sinner should suffer is only fair dealing, As the saint keeps her charity back for the ball! saved! So Castlereagh has cut his throat !-The worst So He has cut his throat at last!-He! Who? EPITAPH. POSTERITY will ne'er survey A nobler grave than this: JOHN KEATS. 'The poet-priest Milman thy chain, And a new spring of noble affections arise-Then might freedom forgive thee this dance in [the skies. And this shout of thy slavery which saddens Is it madness or meanness which clings to thee now? [clay, Were he God-as he is but the commonest With scarce fewer wrinkles than sins on his brow Such servile devotion might shame him away Ay, roar in his train! let thine orators lash Ever glorious Grattan ! the best of the good! Ere Tully arose in the zenith of Rome, [gunThough unequall'd, preceded, the task was be But Grattan sprung up like a god from the tomb Of ages, the first, last, the saviour, the one! With the skill of an Orpheus to soften the brute; With the fire of Prometheus to kindle mankind; Even Tyranny listening sate melted or mute, And Corruption shrunk scorch'd from the glance of his mind. Or if freedom past hope be extorted at last, If the idol of brass find his feet are of clay, Each brute hath its nature; a king's is to reign- The cause of the curses all annals contain, claim Wear, Fingal, thy trapping! O'Connell, pro- Will thy yard of blue riband, poor Fingal, recall The fetters from millions of Catholic limbs ? The slaves, who now hail their betrayer with Ay ! Build him a dwelling !' let each give his Spread-spread, for Vitellius, the royal repast, [last Let the tables be loaded with feasts till they Till they groan like thy people, through ages of woe! If she did-let her long-boasted proverb be hush'd, Which proclaims that from Erin no reptile can spring[flush'd, See the cold-blooded serpent, with venom full Still warming its folds in the breast of a king! low Shout, drink, feast, and flatter! Oh! Erin, how This hand, though but feeble, would arm in thy And this heart, though outworn, had a throb Yes, I loved thee and thine, though thou art not I have known noble hearts and great souls in And redeem'd, if they have not retarded, thy Yes, happy are they in their cold English graves! Their shades cannot start to thy shouts of today[slaves Nor the steps of enslavers and chain-kissing Be stamp'd in the turf o'er their fetterless clay. Till now I had envied thy sons and their shore, Though their virtues were hunted, their liberties fled; [core There was something so warm and sublime in the Of an Irishman's heart, that I envy-thy dead. sore, Let the wine flow around the old Bacchanal's But let not his name be thine idol alone- A wretch never named but with curses and STANZAS WRITTEN ON THE ROAD Till now, when the isle which should blush for BETWEEN FLORENCE AND PISA. OH, talk not to me of a name great in story; The days of our youth are the days of our glory; And the myrtle and ivy of sweet two-and-twenty Are worth all your laurels, though ever so plenty. What are garlands and crowns to the brow that is wrinkled? [sprinkled. but as a dead flower with May-dew beThen away with all such from the head that is hoary! [glory! What care I for the wreaths that can only give Without one single ray of her genius, without If she ever gave birth to a being so base. STANZAS TO A HINDOO AIR. How the long night flags lovelessly and slowly, In return for the tears I shed upon thee waking; Let me not die till he comes back o'er the billow. Then if thou wilt-no more my lonely Pillow, In one embrace let these arms again enfold him, And then expire of the joy-but to behold him! Oh! my lone bosom !--oh! my lonely Pillow! IMPROMPTU. BENEATH Blessington's eyes Should be free as the former from evil; For an apple should grieve, What mortal would not play the Devil? TO THE COUNTESS OF BLESSINGTON. What Laurence has painted so well; And my heart is as grey as my head. My life is not dated by years— There are moments which act as a plough ;| STANZAS FOR MUSIC. In the orbs of the blessed to shine. As thy soul shall immortally be; And our sorrow may cease to repine When we know that thy God is with thee. Light be the turf of thy tomb! May its verdure like emeralds be! There should not be the shadow of gloom In aught that reminds us of thee Young flowers and an evergreen tree May spring from the spot of thy rest; But nor cypress nor yew let us see; For why should we mourn for the blest? ON THIS DAY I COMPLETE MY MISSOLONGHI, Jan. 22, 1824. My days are in the yellow leaf; The flowers and fruits of love are gone; The fire that on my bosom preys THE subsequent poems were written at the request of my friend the Hon. Douglas Kinnaird for a Selection SHE WALKS IN BEAUTY. SHE walks in beauty, like the night Hebrew Melodies. Which heaven to gaudy day denies. One shade the more, one ray the less, Had half impair'd the nameless grace Which waves in every raven tress, Or softly lightens o'er her face; Where thoughts serenely sweet express How pure, how dear their dwelling-place. A mind at peace with all below, THE HARP THE MONARCH MINSTREL SWEPT. THE harp the monarch minstrel swept, O'er tones her heart of hearts had given, It soften'd men of iron mould, It gave them virtues not their own; No ear so dull, no soul so cold, IF THAT HIGH WORLD. If that high world, which lies beyond The eye the same, except in tears— It must be so 'tis not for self That we so tremble on the brink; And striving to o'erleap the gulf, Yet cling to Being's severing link. Oh! in that future let us think To hold each heart the heart that shares ; With them the immortal waters drink, And soul in soul grow deathless theirs! |