SONNET

TO RELIGION.

WHAT solemn sounds now burst upon mine car?
Hark! 'tis the pealing organ, clear and slow,
Whose measur'd notes, melodious as they flow,
Cecilia's self might not disdain to hear.
Sure here Religion, "pure and meek-ey'd maid,”
Thou lov'st to dwell, these vaulted aisles among,
Where Sion's sweetest songs are daily sung,
By sacred priests in milk-white robes array'd.

Ah no to thee more dear the contrite heart,
Than gorgeous rites, vain pomp, and empty show.
Where Horeb's mount the hallow'd Prophet trod,

See whirlwinds rage, see riven mountains part! Fierce and more fierce the livid light'nings glow! But 'tis the still small voice proclaims the present God.

SONNET

On the Bishop of Dromore's attaining the eightieth Year of his Age, April 24, 1809.

MARK yonder stately aged forest tree,
That spreads abroad its venerable shade,
Shelt'ring from blasts of cold inclemency
Each plant beneath its kind protecting aid:
Of Percy, in his eightieth year survey'd,
Methinks a type that noble tree appears,
Whose intellectual vigour, undecay'd,

Still blooms conspicuous in the vale of years.
The child of want his frequent bounty cheers,--
Genius he fosters,-Merit he befriends,-
Learning his talents and his taste reveres,

And piety his practice recommends.
Ev'n Time regards him with a partial eye,
Conceals the fatal scythe, and passes harmless by.

T. S.

AN EVENING SKETCH.

BY THE REV. J. WHITEHOUSE.

Ι

WALKED; for t'was the sweetest eve,
No lovelier could be seen,

Thin clouds their fairy texture weave,
With breaks of light between.

And it was glorious to behold,
And cheering to the view,

While fulgid clouds their skirts unfold,
And shade the soft clear blue;

And down, far stretching to the west
The mingling colours go;
While dark, upon the mountain's crest,
The night-cloud floats below!

O Paradise! 'tis sure thy gate,

Thy chrystal walls I see,

Where gods themselves may hold their state,

In gorgeous panoply :

But lo, it fades, the vision fades,

That glowed ere while so gay,

The golden hues are stain'd with shades,
The silver tints with grey!

So passes life and such, O earth!
Shall be thy sudden doom;
Though passing fair, as at thy birth,
And in thy Beauty's bloom!

And hark! the winds are up; the clouds
Roll heavily along;

Heaven's face a solemn darkness shrouds,
And deepening shadows throng!

Ah, what a change, said I, and sighed ;-
My thoughts incessant ran

On death-the grave-the gloomy void ;I sighed and wept for man!

STANZAS ON AFFLICTION.

BY THE REV. MICHAEL CALAMY

OH, Man! when thou think'st of the hours
Embitter'd by sorrow and pain,
Let Fortitude summon her powers,
Nor misery dare to complain.
With courage bear up for a while,

And sorrow to joy shall give place;
The tear shall be wip'd, and a smile
Shall brighten Calamity's face.
That God who does nothing in vain,
Pursues a benevolent plan;
And whether 'tis pleasure or pain,
"Tis wisely appointed for man.

THE COUNTRY SQUIRE AND THE POET.

FOUNDED ON FACT.

A

*

NORTHERN Squire, of acres many, For flocks, for herds, for gold renown'd; As keen a justice as was any,

As skill'd in hunter and in hound,

Perceiv'd a poor Parnassian poacher
Enter his lofty iron gate;

To stop the progress of th' encroacher,
His waddling worship was too late.
And now the stranger, bending low,
Presents his lists, and tells his claim;
And begs his worship to bestow

A small subscription, and his name. "Where is your book? Why don't you show it? "A crown, Sir? 'tis a deal of cash!" "Tis not yet printed," says the Poet. "Then can you think me Friend so rash?

• North of Ireland.