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Tho' thy old walls are of provincial stone ;
“Upheld by no man's ruin, no man's groan ;
“ What mortal, say, could ever wish them down."

B. Jonson.

“ Et dulces moriens, reminiscitur Argos."


Adieu, dear spot! where youthful moments past ;
Wing’d with fleet happiness, forbid to last;
When rosy mirth, each impulse could impart,
And reign'd triumphant o'er the kindred heart.



'Ere the stern conflicts of the world assail'd,

Or Folly's dream, o'er Nature's voice prevailid;

'Ere cold self-interest, callous and unblest,

Had chill'd our ardour, and our hopes represt.

Bring the fair forms, who once adorn’d thy walls,
And shone their hour in Pleasure's fairy halls,
Let them again enchant the raptur'd view,
In colours vivid, as a Titian drew,

Bring the firm friends, who gladden'd once thy roof,
Whose mind and manners were above reproof;
Let *** dispel his classic hoard,

Or **'s humour shake again the board.

Bring all the actors of that busy age,
(Tho' now departed from the public stage ;)
Names that illum'd the Senate, or the Bar,

The Hall of Justice, as the Warrior's car.

Recall thy shady and secluded haunt,
Cheer'd, and enliven'd by the blackbird's chaunt;

When vagrant Sybils for relief appeald,
And the dark page of future life reveald.

Recall thy avenues of stately trees,
Where noisy rooks inhald the morning breeze,
The Christmas hymn, by rosy childhood sung,
And the old hall with dingy portraits hung.

Let the fleet hound, in Fancy's glass appear,
(When Health leap'd up, and seiz'd her beechen spear ;")
While o'er the wrekin woodland echoes ring,
And all Diana's fabled triumphs bring.

In foreign climes, thy wealthy owners roam,

Desert their duties, and forsake their home;

Mildew, and damp, and mould’ring walls invade,
And the trim garden seems a gloomy shade.

Yet may thy Lares, still their footsteps guard,
Alike misfortune, or disease retard;

And long protecting this once cherish'd bower,
Bestow each blessing to the latest hour.



“O'er the fair blue mountains,
“ O'er the white sea-foam ;

« Come thou beloved one!

« Back to thine home."


The season now over, the butterflies fled,

And the floor of St. Stephen's no longer we tread ;
To their parks, and their villas, our Senators throng,
To enjoy the gay revel, the chase, and the song ;
Or their comforts and blessings would gladly exchange,
On the banks of the Tiber, or Danube, to range;

Thus the world, e'en as ever, proceeds in its course,

And we fly to the Muse as a grateful resource ;
Yet think not, discarding soft Sympathy's train,
Past visions of pleasure we treat with disdain ;
Dispel such ideas, dear girl! from your breast,
Nor let them, one moment, continue imprest;
And as Milton describes the relief to our mind,

At leaving the tumult and din of mankind ;*

For the solitude, Wisdom delights to partake,

Near some ancient forest, or fine wooded lake ;

When your bark safely moors on Hibernia's green coast ;
(Of valour and beauty the cradle and boast;)
Should Killarney's wild mountains sublimely unfold,
And Apennine scenes, you may almost behold ;
On viewing those pillars, unmov'd by the surge,
Which appear by enchantment herself to emerge ;t
Forget not a duty, high stations impose,
To hear the sad tale of your tenantry's woes;
Tho' from party dissensions, and contests forbear,
(Those vampires tormenting the youthful and fair,)

* Wisdom's self oft flies “to sweet retiring solitude.”—Comus. + The Giant's Causeway.

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