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Sisters! I from Ireland came!
Hedge and corn-fields all on flame,
I triumph'd o'er the setting sun!
And all the while the work was done
On as I strode with my huge strides,
I flung back my head and I held my sides,
It was so rare a piece of fun
To see the swelter'd cattle run
With uncouth gallop through the night,
Scared by the red and noisy light!
By the light of his own blazing cot
Was many a naked rebel shot:
The house-stream met the flame and hiss'd, ,
While crash! fell in the roof, I wist,
On some of those old bedrid nurses,
That deal in discontent and curses.

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He let us loose, and cried Halloo! How shall we yield him honor due?

FAMINE. Wisdom comes with lack of food.

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"One of the many fine words which the most uneducated *d about this time a constant opportunity of acquiring from **tuous in the pulpit, and the proclamations on the tofoets.

tAccording to the superstition of the West Countries, if you meet the Devil, you may either cut him in half with a straw, or you may cause him instantly to disappear by spitting over his

horns.

Alas! to mend the breaches wide presume to offer to the public a silly tale of old-fashioned love: He made for these poor ninnies, and five years ago, I own I should have allowed and felt the

- force of this objection. But, alas! explosion has succeeded - - - They all must work, whate'er betide, explosion so rapidly, that novelty itself ceases to appear new; and

Both days and months, and pay beside it is possible that now even a simple story, wholly uninspired with (Sad news for Avarice and for Pride) politics or personality, may find some attention amid the hubA sight of golden guineas. bub of revolutions, as to those who have remained a long time by the falls of Niagara, the lowest whispering becomes distinct

ly audible. S. T. C.

But here once more to view did pop
The man that kept his senses.
And now he cried—“Stop, neighbors! stop!
The Ox is mad! I would not swop,
No, not a school-boy's farthing top
For all the parish fences.

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Bec. 21, 1799.

O LEAve the lily on its stem;
O leave the rose upon the spray;

O leave the elder bloom, fair maids!
And listen to my lay.

A cypress and a myrtle-bough
This morn around my harp you twined

Because it fashion'd mournfully
Its murmurs in the wind.

And now a Tale of Love and Woe,
A woful Tale of Love I sing ;

Hark, gentle maidens, hark! it sighs
And trembles on the string.

But most, my own dear Genevieve,
It sighs and trembles most for thee!

O come, and hear what cruel wrongs
Befell the Dark Ladie.

Few Sorrows hath she of her own,
My hope, my joy, my Genevieve!

She loves me best, whene'er I sing
The songs that make her grieve.

All thoughts, all passions, all delights,
Whatever stir this mortal frame,

All are but ministers of Love,
And feed his sacred flame.

Oh! ever in my waking dreams,
I dwell upon that happy hour,

When midway on the mount I sate,
Beside the ruin'd tower.

The moonshine, stealing o'er the scene,
Had blended with the lights of eve -

And she was there, my hope, my joy,
My own dear Genevieve!

She lean'd against the armed man,
The statue of the armed knight,

She stood and listen’d to my harp,
Amid the ling'ring light.

I play'd a sad and doleful air.
I sang an old and moving story—

An old rude song, that fitted well
That ruin wild and hoary.

She listen'd with a flitting blush,
With downcast eyes and modest grace,

For well she knew, I could not choose
But gaze upon her face.

I told her of the Knight that wore
Upon his shield a burning brand;

And how for ten long years he woo'd
The Ladie of the Land: 38

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The little cloud—it floats away,
Away it goes; away so soon!
Alas! it has no power to stay :
Its hues are dim, its hues are gray-
Away it passes from the moon!
How mournfully it seems to fly,
Ever sading more and more,
To joyless regions of the sky—
And now 'tis whiter than before
As white as my poor cheek will be,
When, Lewti! on my couch I lie,
A dying man for love of thee.
Nay, treacherous image leave my mind—
And yet thou didst not look unkind.

I saw a vapor in the sky, Thin, and white, and very high; I ne'er beheld so thin a cloud : Perhaps the breezes that can fly Now below and now above, Have snatch'd aloft the lawny shroud Of Lady fair—that died for love. For maids, as well as youths, have perish'd From fruitless love too fondly cherish'd, Nay, treacherous image leave my mind— For Lewti never will be kind.

Hush! my heedless feet from under
Slip the crumbling banks for ever:
Like echoes to a distant thunder,
They plunge into the gentle river.
The river-swans have heard my tread,
And startle from their reedy bed.
O beauteous Birds! methinks ye measure
Your movements to some heavenly tune'
O beauteous Birds! "t is such a pleasure
To see you move beneath the moon,
I would it were your true delight
To sleep by day and wake all night.

I know the place where Lewti lies,
When silent night has closed her eyes:
It is a breezy jasmine-bower,
The nightingale sings o'er her head :
Voice of the Night ! had I the power
That leafy labyrinth to thread,
And creep, like thee, with soundless tread,
I then might view her bosom white
Heaving lovely to my sight,
As these two swans together heave
On the gently swelling wave.

Oh! that she saw me in a dream,

And dreamt that I had died for care; All pale and wasted I would seem,

Yet fair withal, as spirits are: I'd die indeed, if I might see Her bosom heave, and heave for me!. Soothe, gentle image soothe my mind! To-morrow Lewti may be kind.

1795.

THE PICTURE, OR THE LOVER'S RESOLUTION.

THROUGH weeds and thorns, and matted underwood I force my way; now climb, and now descend

O'er rocks, or bare or mossy, with wild foot
Crushing the purple whorts; while oft unseen,
Hurrying along the drifted forest-leaves,
The scared snake rustles. Onward still I toil,
I know not, ask not whither! A new joy,
Lovely as light, sudden as summer gust,
And gladsome as the first-born of the spring,
Beckons me on, or follows from behind,
Playmate, or guide! The master-passion quell'd,
I feel that I am free. With dun-red bark
The sir-trees, and the unfrequent slender oak,
Forth from this tangle wild of bush and brake
Soar up, and form a melancholy vault
High o'er me, murmuring like a distant sea.

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This is my hour of triumph! I can now With my own fancies play the merry fool, And laugh away worse folly, being free. Here will I seat myself, beside this old, Hollow, and weedy oak, which ivy-twine Clothes as with net-work : here will I couch

limbs,

Close by this river, in this silent shade,
As safe and sacred from the step of man
As an invisible world—unheard, unseen,
And list'ning only to the pebbly brook
That murmurs with a dead, yet tinkling sound
Or to the bees, that in the neighboring trunk
Make honey-hoards. The breeze, that visits me
Was never Love's accomplice, never raised
The tendril ringlets from the maiden's brow,
And the blue, delicate veins above her check;
Ne'er play'd the wanton—never half-disclosed
The maiden's snowy bosom, scattering thence
Eye-poisons for some love-distemper'd youth,
Who ne'er hencesorth may see an aspen-grove

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