Thine was Borhame *, -who fierce in days of yore,
'Gainst Denmark's pow'r his hardy squadrons led;
Loud rag'd the fight on Clontarff's founding shore,
When by his arm the ftern Turgefus bled.
Crush'd are the tyrants, pierc'd with thousand wounds,
The vanquish'd raven drops her heavy wing;
Borhame and Liberty the beach resounds,
And freed Eblana's + joyful turrets ring.
Who like Borhame could launch the deathful fpear?
Who ftem the torrent of th' impetuous fray?
Or who like him his drooping vassals chear,
And bless a nation with the happiest sway?
But what is he, who, by the midnight gloom,
Thro' yonder camp his fearless passage bends;
Sudden terrifick fires the fkies illume,
And the loud burft th' affrighted welkin rends.
Fir'd is the magazine, thefe fulphur'd stores,
Deftin'd to wafte Ierne's fruitful land;
Burst the rude guns that menac'd her fair tow'rs,
And all by Sarsfield's unaffifted hand.
Nor yet, bleft city! is that worth no more,
Which erft in fighting fields thy fons did claim;
Lo! Coote's strong arm controuls the Indian shore,
Whilft Niagara roars thy Maffy's fame.
He was king of all Ireland, and gave the Danes a final overthrow many years before the English landed in that kingdom; after which period his family ruled in Munfter for fome centuries. After the reduction of the ifland, they accepted the dignity of Earls of Thomond, which they held until the death of Henry O'Brien, the laft earl, when the family became extinct.
† An old name for Dublin.
Equal in arts, thy polish'd fons excel,
Ierne's brightest ornaments of yore;
Who, like Fitz-Gibbon clears Law's myftick fpell,
Whilft wond'ring fenates hang on Pery's lore!
Southwell is thine, with ev'ry pow'r to please,
The patriot's freedom with the courtier's art;
That noble art of elegance and ease,
To win and hold the captivated heart.
With him how pleasing flew th' instructive hours,
By Caftleconnel's facred fountain laid;
Whilft fruits and bloffoms deck'd the high-arch'd bow'rs,
And purple fragrance blush'd in ev'ry mead.
Propitious Naïad of that healing ftream,
Inspire my grateful breast thy praise to fing: Thy cordial draughts reftore the fickly frame, And youthful vigour gufhes from thy fpring,
What tho' thy fhore can boast no gay parade,
No circus regular, no fplendid rooms;
Lovely Simplicity adorns thy glade,
And lavish Nature in perfection blooms.
Serene Contentment, with unclouded brow,
Sheds her foft influence o'er thy flow'ry dale!
Secure delights in fweet fucceffion flow,
And Health inspires the animating gale.
Nor baneful dice thy ev'ning hour molest;
Nor titled courtezans uncomely fmiles,
Kindle the flame in youth's too eager breast;
Nor faithlefs wife the facred couch defiles,
Chafte are thy damfels as the virgin train
Which thro' Theffalian groves Diana guides ; Their hearts, their radiant eyes, untaught to feign, Whilft o'er each glance fair Decency prefides.
Recount their names! I might as well difplay
Each flow'r that opens on the fummer lawn,
Each'fhining gem that decks yon starry way,
Ere yet invidious morn begins to dawn.
Yet far from thefe did rough Misfortune's frown
Compel the woe-bewilder'd bard to fly;
Hence from his bosom bursts th' inceffant groan,
Th' inceffant tear that swells his aching eye.
Ah! where is now Selinda's vivid fmile,..
That wont to shed celeftial gladness round;
Her converse sweet, that could all cares beguile,
And pour the balm of pity in each wound.
Exil'd from her, how toilfome creep the hours,
Tho' friendly Chelsea yields it's grateful fhade; Tho' Thames foft waters hufh the willow'd shores, And Nature's mufick quivers thro' the glade!
Exil'd from her, not all that Nature boasts,
Not all the flaming treasures of the Eaft,
Not all the fweets that crown Campania's coafts,
Could foothe the slightest pang that rends my breaft.
She was, indeed-but hold, my racking brain,
Canft thou the glories of that form disclose?
As foon (vain wretch !) attempt in frantick ftrain,
To point each dew-drop on the vernal rofe.
Her eyes were brighter than the orient beam ;
Her voice far fweeter than sweet Philomel;
Eafy proportion harmoniz'd her frame,
Heav'n gave a mind, and bade her to excel.
What have I done?-Sure fome infatuate fire,
Or private rage, or private discord led,
God's facred fane confum'd with impious fire,
Which th' angry Pow'r avenges on my head.
Welcome, Defpair; thou king of horrors, come,
Crush this loath'd being to it's 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;
Let black Oblivion all my woes conceal:
These killing woes would poifon future mirth,
And happy, lovers fhudder at the tale!
Small neat house, and little spot of ground,
Where herbs, and fruits, and kitchen-stuff were found,
The humble vicar of North Wilford bless'd;
Small was his living-but his heart at rest :
Unfeen, unblam'd, he pafs'd his time away,
He fmoak'd, or rode, or mus'd, or walk'd all day.
Thro' all the year no anxious cares he knew,
But juft at Eafter, when he claim'd his due ;
*This little poem was written at the request of the author's ever honoured father, a worthy country vicar, who felt much from the evil here hinted at.
And then the furly rufticks churlish pride
His well earn'd tythes difputed or denied.
The vicar, ftill preferring want to strife,
Gave up his dues to lead a peaceful life.
His garden once in penfive mood he fought,
His pipe attended, as a friend to thought;
And, while the fmoak in eddies round him play'd,
A neighb'ring vicar ent'ring he furvey'd ;
One like himself, a downright honest priest,
Whose love of peace his scanty dues decreas'd.
Suppose the little ceremonies done,
And all the rites of lighting pipes begun;
Suppofe the whiffs in fober fort flow round,
And both in mufing very deeply drown'd;
For fo it was-till thus the firft good man,
Fetch'd a deep whiff, and anxiously began.
Would God, my friend! his goodness had affign'd
Some lot more fuited to my feeling mind:
Lefs tho' my income, if from torture free,
Content would well fupply the lofs to me;
For all the pence, the little dues I glean,
Or raise my scorn, my pity, or my spleen.
I'll tell thee-but e'en now a neighbour came,
Pale want diffus'd o'er all his meagre frame;
Five pence the fum, he gave a fhilling o'er,
Kind fhook his head, and wifh'd he could do more:
I turn'd away, nor could from tears refrain;
'Twas death to take it-to refufe it vain.
Such gentle manners more affect the mind
Than the rough rudeness of the baser kind.
Juft ere I came, à ruftick braggart elf,
Proud of his purfe, and glorying in his pelf,
Approach'd, and bold demanded what to pay :
What claims the priest, whom we maintain to pray ’
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