Crush'd are the tyrants, pierc'd with thousand wounds, Who like Borhame could launch the deathful spear? But what is he, who, by the midnight gloom, Through yonder camp his fearless passage bends! =Sudden terrific fires the skies illume, And the loud burst th' affrighted welkin rends. Fir'd is the magazine, these sulphur'd stores, Nor yet, blest city! is that worth no more, Equal in arts, thy polish'd sons excel, Ierne's brightest ornaments of yore; Who, like Fitz-Gibbon, clears Law's mystic spell, Southwell is thine, with every power to please, To win and hold the captivated heart. With him how pleasing flew th' instructive hours, By Castleconnel's sacred fountain laid; Whilst fruits and blossoms deck'd the high-arch'd bowers, And purple fragrance blush'd in every mead. Propitious Naiad of that healing stream, Inspire my grateful breast thy praise to sing ; Thy cordial draughts restore the sickly frame, And youthful vigour gushes from thy spring. What though thy shore can boast no gay parade, And lavish Nature in perfection blooms. Serene Contentment, with unclouded brow, Nor baneful dice thy evening hour molest, Nor faithless wife the sacred couch defiles. Chaste are thy damsels as the virgin train Which through Thessalian groves Diana guides; Their hearts, their radiant eyes, untaught to feign, Whilst o'er each glance fair Decency presides. Recount their names! I might as well display Yet far from these did rough Misfortune's frown Ah! where is now Selinda's vivid smile, That wont to shed celestial gladness round; Her converse sweet, that could all cares beguile, And pour the balm of pity in each wound. Exil'd from her how toilsome creep the hours, Though friendly Chelsea yields its grateful shade; Though Thames' soft waters hush the willow'd shores, And Nature's music quivers through the glade ? Exil'd from her, not all that Nature boasts, She was indeed-but hold! my racking brain, Canst thou the glories of that form disclose ? As soon (vain wretch !) attempt in frantic strain, To point each dew-drop on the vernal rose. Her eyes were brighter than the orient beam, Heaven gave a mind, and bade her to excel. What have I done?-Sure some infatuate sire, Or private rage, or private discord led; God's sacred fane consum'd with impious fire, Which th' angry power avenges on my head. Welcome, Despair! thou king of horrors, come, Crush this loath'd being to its primal clay, Prepar'd, I wait th' inexorable doom, And bid adieu to Hope's remotest ray. Forgotten be my name, my age, my birth; ELEGY XIII. THE TRIUMPH OF MELANCHOLY. BY JAMES BEATTIE, L. L. D. MEMORY, be still! why throng upon the thought Yes-from afar a landscape seems to rise, Embellish'd by the lavish hand of Spring; Thin gilded clouds float lightly o'er the skies, And laughing Loves disport on fluttering wing. How blest the youth in yonder valley laid! Hail, Innocence! whose bosom all serene Ne'er may the shades of Doubt o'erwhelm thy soul ! |