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But 'tis the care, the vile plebean care

Of business, that impedes the Muse's flight. The fetter'd eagle cannot cleave the air,

Nor soar majestic to the realms of light.

So doom'd to "strut and fret" like "the poor player"

My" hour upon the stage" from morn to night,

How can the Muse, thus chain'd in slavery,
Burst from her galling fetters and be free?

Suppose-- of course 'tis supposition, not
Reality---suppose me an attorney---
(You smile, kind reader at my blessed lot!)

Who could, like Frazer, write an Eastern Journey,
Letters like Junius --" Waverleys” like Scott,----
Poems like Byron, ---Novels like Miss Burney,---
History like Hume, ---Philosophy like Stewart,---
Essays like Worcestor, on each old and new art.

Yet 'midst the babel jargon of the laws,
Their dull insipid phraseology,
The cumbrous lumber of a Chancery cause,

Deeds, pleadings, proofs, one mass of vile tautology,
The din of clients, and the fear of flaws---

How---O ye mighty masters of phrenology, Can fancy fix within the mind her dwelling, Where thus she meets with objects so repelling?

First, an old lady wants to make her will---
I wish she'd leave her agent some bequest---
Next, an old landlord calls on me to fill

A pair of leases---then I'm closely prest
By some dry client, to curtail my bill

Of costs---I hate this last unjust request---
Then come---ways, casements and appurtenances,
Which fright the Muse---so off at once she dances.

And then the smile, half curling to a sneer,
That chills the very soul, like Alpine snows;
The language of dumb Critics---then the fear
Of failure; and the kind advice of those
Good friends, who would not for the world appear.
Averse to verse---yet whisper in plain prose,

That" business must be minded"---and "

Et cetera"---of which I'm no disputer.

48 ne sutor.

But vain each effort to exclude the day,
When even a pin-hole will admit the light;
Thro' the deep darkness bursts the brilliant ray,
As the red light'ning in the pitchy night.
So thro' life's gloomy cares I break my way.
And catch a transient moment to indite

Not an indictment, or a deed or bond,
Or case or lease, but something far beyond!

Oh! then, ye sage law, physic and divinity,

Doom not to death, the writer and his rhymes; When of the live long day there's scarce a minute he Dare call his own,---and tho', perhaps, at times Chance yields an idle hour, how often in it he

Finds inspiration will not yield her chimes.

Such is so frequently the fate of those
Who aim at verse ;---it is not so with prose,

Where left we our good barque? Where opening wide
Expands the beauteous bosom of the Lee;
Majestic stream! our City's boasted pride,
Her health, her wealth, her great prosperity.
With filial fondness let me turn aside,

And pour the tribute of my heart to thee,
As to a parent---and in sweetest strain
Trace out thy rise and progress to the main.

Rais'd in the stone girt lap of Gougane-Barra,,
Which brevity so sweetly calls "Gougane,"
Thy placid waters, ere they reach Drowmcarra,
First feel the freshness of the rosy dawn;
Reflecting as they stream at Inniscarra,...
The high stupendous mountains closely drawn

In solemn silence round thy liquid bed,
As Giant mutes around some mighty dead!

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In this lone solitude, this mountain bed

The silvery water first displays its source; Thence is its stream thro' Roscalougher led,

And round by high Droumanning winds its course; Till in the far extended plains o'erspread

Near Inchageelah, it collects its force; There bounding off, a bolder effort makes, And proudly glories in its beauteous lakes,

Here, in October nights, the rosy char,

Rare and rich fish, by epicures renown'd, And only in these lakes, and one more, far To northward, in our lovely island found, Are taken,---and as greatest rareties are

Esteem'd in London,---two will cost a pound
When potted and preserv'd. It may be erring.
But to my taste, far sweeter is a herring!

From Inchageelah to Broumcarrow flows
The rich majestic stream---and at Coolcour
Embraces the Sullane---and winding goes
Round Mashanaglish, to Shandangan's bower,
By Forest and Nadrid---'till Dripsey shews
Her stream immortalized by Spenser's power,
And Jemmy Bat O'Sullivan's mad caper,
For few cut greater figures upon paper !!
Thro' Inniscarra's deep romantic glen

The sweet prolific waters gently glide,
And kiss the richly planted glebe---and then
Salute the lovely blushes of the Bride,
And blending with her fruitful streams, again
Proceed---'till Carrigrahan's Castle-pride
Looks, like some skeleton, upon the borders
Of Leemount, and its neighbour, the Recorder's.

Now by Mountdesart slowly moves the stream,
Rich, bounteous, blessing wheresoe'er it flows,
Heaven with abundance bade the waters teem,

But man would mar the blessing Heaven bestows; And frenzied by ambition's mad'ning dream,

Across the river's course a barrier throws,
Confining what should wander unconfin'd,
Not for one only---but for all mankind.

Check'd in their peaceful progress to the shore,
The fretted waters burst a passage through
The hateful barrier---or now bounding o'er
The steepy precipice, their way pursue,
Dashing and headlong---and with angry roar
The deep surge curls its white tops to the view
Like ocean foam: but soon its passions wild
Are calm'd and lull'd to slumber, as a child.

But the sweet river must at last divide,

Forming two sister streams to meet again,
Along the south the parted waters glide

With silent course to Bellville's sallowy plain;
Thence passing Cottage, and Gillabbey's side---
Where once religion rear'd her sacred fane---
Its rural freshness fades within the city---
Foul'd by its vile pollutions---ah what pity!

Now turn we northward, where the stream supplies.
The basin with its pure and copious flow;
By Sunday's-well its current gently flies
Unruffled, save when wintry breezes blow.
Hither the child of nature fondly hies

In the clear stream to cool the burning glow;
Whilst modest manhood secretly repairs
To Bleaseby's bathing house---near Hayes's wears,

I wonder who first thought of making wears,
For nothing with this great contrivance matches,
Which such a vast expense of labour spares,
And the poor salmon in such plenty catches.
Anglers are fools !---and Johnson so declares---
For by a wear, a net so quickly snatches
Whole hundreds, and when any slip through latches,
The spear dispatches batches in the hatches!!!

This fills the pocket of the wise proprietor,
And fills the craving stomach of John Bull;
But makes each country gentleman a rioter
Who vi et armis threatens he will pull
Down this impediment. I wish he'd try it, or
Open the hatches, and thus give a full

And free scope to the fish---by not entangling
The spawning tribe---which spoils the sport of angling,

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Now onward thro' the busy haunts of men
Proceeds the current, solitary, slow,
'Till passing by the Island, it again

Kisses its long lost sister-stream, and oh!
What bliss to mingle into one !---and when
The beauteous river winds on gently, lo!

The
young Atlantic on his swelling tide
Salutes and woo's the virgin for his bride!

Unable to resist his brilliant charms--

The bright beam dancing on his glowing face, She yields her blushing beauties to his arms,

And soon dissolves within his fond embrace.
Calming her fears, subduing her alarms,

He proudly joys her timid course to trace,
To join his ocean-parent once again,
And share his empire in the boundless main.

I've done---and humbly hope I'm not to blame
For joining rivers in the happy state
Of matrimony. Spencer did the same,
And Prior---where his tuneful lines relate
Of Silver Isis and her husband Tame,'

And Buonaparte who once conceiv'd the great
Design of marrying (a fact that true is)
The Mediterranean and Red sea in Suez.

But oh! my pretty barque, excuse me if
I've kept thee waiting opposite Wood-hill
That sweet and happy spot! I'll steer my skiff
In which I've traced the Lee from its first rill,—
On board thee once again. It blows a stiff

Breeze---but not too much, just enough to fill The spreading mainsail. Thus the boat we find Propell'd by steam---the current---and the wind.

Now pass we wood-crown'd Tivoli---and see
Nature assisted by the hand of taste,
Grand in magnificence of scenery,

Enrich'd by art, pure, classical and chaste.
Thence with reluctance turning on our lee,

We view three beauty spots together plac'd; Half namesakes, made the following line to fill, Lindville, and Maryville and Templeville.

Clifton--thy picturesque and sloping side
Attracts our admiration---bending low
With rich luxuriance to salute the tide.
Whilst opposite Fortwlliam's shades bestow
Their soft and mellow lustre on the pride

And beauty of our city---and with glow
Warm as in India's ripe and sultry clime
The towering forest lifts its head sublime!

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