Did lavish Fortune, from her endless store,
Vain mortal! gratify each greedy thought:
Did new-born pleasures court each circling hour,
Alas! how dearly is existence bought!

How dearer ftill, when nor kind Fortune's ray,
Nor vivid pleasure, nor ferene delight,
Chear the fad morning of the wretch's day,
Or close his eye-lids in the ftormy night!

Such are his fates, who now in plaintive lore
Pours forth the anguish of his woe-struck mind,
Swelling with tears the gentle river's store,
Beneath a weeping willow's fhade reclin'd;

Or near that pile, where, mould'ring in the tomb,
The frail remains of once fam'd St. John lie,
Joyless he wanders thro' night's murky gloom,
The hollow winds re-echoing to his figh:

Banish'd his much lov'd home, the blissful plains, Where princely Shannon laves the flow'ry ftrand, No dear affociate, no kind friend remains,

To chear his wand'rings in a foreign land.

And thee, fair Limerick! whofe beleaguer'd wall
So oft the bolts of raging Britain stood;
Before thy gates what thousands met their fall,

And with their bodies choak'd the fpacious flood!

Parent of heroes! each illuftrious child

Enlarg'd thy fame thro' ev'ry rolling age; Propitious Fortune on her labour fmil'd,

And with their triumphs fwell'd the ftoried page,

Batterfea, where the great Lord Bolingbroke lies buried.

Thine was Borhame *, who fierce in days of yore,
'Gainst Denmark's pow'r his hardy fquadrons led;
Loud rag'd the fight on Clontarff's founding fhore,
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 spear?
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 burst th' affrighted welkin rends.

Fir'd is the magazine, thefe fulphur'd stores,
Deftin'd to waste Ierne's fruitful land;
Burft 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 ftrong 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 Munster for fome centuries. After the reduction of the island, 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

Equal in arts, thy polifh'd fons excel,

Jerne's brightest ornaments of yore;

Who, like Fitz-Gibbon clears Law's myftick spell,
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 Castleconnel's facred fountain laid;

Whilft fruits and bloffoms deck'd the high-arch'd bow'rs,
And purple fragrance blufh'd in ev'ry mead.

Propitious Naïad of that healing ftream,

Inspire my grateful breast thy praise to fing: Thy cordial draughts restore the fickly frame, And youthful vigour gushes from thy fpring,

What tho' thy shore 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 infpires the animating gale.

Nor baneful dice thy ev'ning hour moleft;
Nor titled courtezans uncomely fmiles,
Kindle the flame in youth's too eager breaft;

Nor faithlefs wife the facred couch defiles.

Cha ft

Chafte are thy damfels as the virgin traini

Which thro' Theffalian groves Diana guides; Their hearts, their radiant eyes, antaught 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 ftarry 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 fwells his aching eye.

Ah! where is now Selinda's vivid fmile,

That wont to fhed celestial gladness round; Her converse feet, 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 shade; Tho' Thames foft waters hufh the willow'd fhores, 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 flighteft pang that rends my breast.

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

Her eyes were brighter than the orient beam ;
Her voice far fweeter than fweet 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 difcord led,
God's facred fane confum'd with impious fire,
Which th' angry Pow'r avenges on my head.

Welcome, Despair; 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 poison future mirth
And happy lovers fhudder at the tale!

A

Small neat houfe, and little spot of ground,

Where herbs, and fruits, and kitchen-ftuff were found,

The humble vicar of North Wilford blefs'd;
;

Small was his living-but his heart at reft:
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