ELEGY ON THE DEATH OF THOMAS

MCCORMICK,

LATE OF DROMORE, STONECUTTER.

THE

rang the bell,.

HE clock ftruck fix-Dick *
That every morn, in yonder steeple,
From each adjacent hill and dell

Calls to their work the labouring people..
The clock ftruck seven-again the bell,
With deeper tone, by Dick was toll'd ;.
But, ah!-it was thy paffing-knell,
Lamented Thomas! now it knoll'd.
Obliging, ufeful Thomas! long

Shall old Dromore thy lofs regret,.
Ingenious, ready, active, strong,
Thy hand to all things thou couldst fet.
Did Want require a little hut

To fhield her from the wintry ftorm
Or Wealth a ponderous column cut?
Expertly both thou couldst perform..
E'en to the Sculptor's art, 't is faid,
Thy towering genius fometimes rofe;
And many a motto o'er the dead

Thy chifel's graphic neatness shows..
But now among the filent train,

Where oft thy bufy day was pafs'd,.
Forming the tombstone's letter'd plane,
Thou, too, art gone to rest at last!'
And, fure, ungrateful were the Mufe
That mark'd thy merit many a day,
If the to it would now refufe
The flight memorial of—a lay.

* The name of the fexton..

HAFIZA

AN

AN EPITAPH

TO THE MEMORY OF A WELL-KNOWN AND FAVOURITE

SPOTTED DOG, NAMED POMPEY-BELONGING TO MR.
BENJAMIN TRAVERS, OF CLAPTON.

HE ERE Pompey lies, Pompey of spotless fame,
Yet fpots he had, and Spot became his name
Though full of fpots, Spot liv'd without a fpot-
Ah! who can count fuch spots in human lot!
His fpots were beauties of a spotless kind,
Spots without fpot on good Spot trac'd we find ;
Of houeft Spot, this truth may be relied,

*

In this fpot, fpotted Spot lies fpotlefs, as he liv'd and died.. Hackney.

IT

KING CHARLEMAGNE'S SPELL;

OR, AGATHA'S RING.

[From the Suffex Chronicle.]

T. F..

T was ftrange that he lov'd her, for youth was gone by, And the bloom of her beauty was fled,

'T was the glance of the harlot that gleam'd in her eye, And all but the monarch difgufted defcry.

The art that had ting d her cheek red.

Yet he thought that with Agatha none might compare,,
That kings might be proud of her chain :
The court was a defert if the were not there,
She only was lovely, the only was fair-
Such dotage poffefs'd Charlemagne.

A joy ill diffembled foon gladdens them all,
For Agatha fickens and dies:

And now they are ready with bier and with pall,.
The tapers glean gloomy amid the high hall,

And the bell it tolls long through the skies.
They came; but he fent them in anger away,
For the fhould not be buried, he faid;
And despite of all counfel, for many a day,
Array'd in her coftly apparel fhe lay,

And he would go fit by the dead..

He was occafionally called Spot, as well as Pompey.

The foldiers they clamour, the priests bend in prayer
In the quiet retreats of the cell;
The phyficians to counfel together repair;
They paufe and they ponder, at last they declare
That his fenfes are bound by a spell!

The Archbishop fearches with tremulous hafte
For the fpell that bewitches the King;
And under the tongue for fecurity plac'd,
Its margin with myftical characters fac'd,
At length he discovers a ring.

Exulting he feiz'd it, and hasten'd away;
The monarch re-enter'd the rooni;
Th'enchantment was ended; and fuddenly gay,
He bade her attendants no longer delay,
But bear her with pomp to the tomb.

Now merriment, joyance, and feafting again
Enliven'd the palace of Aix;

And now by his heralds did King Charlemagne
Invite to his palace the gay courtier train
To hold a high festival day.

Oh! happy the damfel who 'mid her compeers
For a moment engag'd the King's eye!
Now glowing with hopes and now fever'd with fears,
Each maiden triumphant or jealous appears,

As notic'd by him, or pass'd by.

And now as the ev'ning approach'd, to the ball
In anxious fufpenfe they advance;

Each hop'd the King's choice on her beauties might fall;
When, lo! to the utter confusion of all,

He afk'd the Archbishop to dance!

The damfels they laugh, and the barons they stare,
It was mirth and aftonishment all;

And the Archbishop ftarted and mutter'd a prayer,
And, wroth at receiving fuch mockery there,
Withdrew him in hafte from the ball.

The moon dimpled over the ether with light
As he wander'd along the lake fide,

When, lo! where befide him the King met his fight;
"Oh! turn thee, Archbishop, my joy and delight,
Oh! turn thee, my charmer!" he cried.

Amazement

Amazement and anger the prelate poffefs'd,
With terror his accents he heard ;

Then Charlemagne warmly and eagerly prefs'd
The Archbishop's old wither'd hand to his breaft,
And kiss'd his old grey flowing beard!
"Bleffed Mary protect me!" the Archbishop cried;
"What madness is come to the King!"

In vain to escape from the monarch he tried,
When luckily he on his finger efpied
The glitter of Agatha's ring.

Overjoy'd, the old prelate remember'd the fpell,
And far in the lake flung the ring;
The waters clos'd round it, and, wondrous to tell,
Releas'd from the curfed enchantment of hell,
His reafon return'd to the King.

THE

JUDGMENT ON A BISHOP.
[From the Oracle.]

HE fummer and autumn had been so wet,
That in winter the corn was growing yet;

'T was a piteous fight to see all around
The corn lie rotting on the ground.

Every day the starving poor
Crowded around the Bishop's door,
For he had a plentiful laft year's store,
And all the neighbourhood could tell
His granaries were furnish'd well.
At laft Bishop Halto appointed a day
To relieve the poor without delay;
He bade them all to his barn repair,
And they should have food for the winter there.
Rejoic'd the tidings good to hear,

The poor folks flock'd from far and near;
The great barn was full as it could hold
Of women and children, and young and old,
Then when he faw it could hold no more,
Bishop Halto he made faft the door;
And whilft for mercy on Chrift they call,
He fet fire to the barn, and burnt them all.

"I'faith,

"I'faith, 't is an excellent bonfire," quoth he,
"And the country is greatly oblig'd to me,
For ridding it, in thefe times forlorn,
Of mice that only consume the corn.”
So then to his palace return'd he,
And he fate down to fupper merrily;
And he slept that night like an innocent man,
But Bishop Halto ne'er flept again.

In the morning, as he enter'd the hall,
Where his picture hung against the wall,
A fweat like death all over him came,
For the mice had eaten it out of the frame.

As he look'd, there came a man from his farm,.
He had a countenance white with alarm—
"My Lord, I open'd your granaries this morn,
And the mice had eaten all the corn."

Another came running presently,
And he was as pale as pale could be;
"Fly, my Lord Bishop! fly!" quoth he;
"Ten thousand mice are coming this way-
The Lord forgive you for yesterday!"

"I'll go to my tow'r on the Rhine,” replied he;,
"'T is the fafeft place in Germany;

The walls are high, and the fhores are steep,
And the tide is strong, and the water deep."

Bishop Halto fearfully haften'd away,

And he crofs'd the Rhine without delay;

And reach'd his tow'r in the island, and barr'd.
All the gates fecure and hard.

He laid him down to fleep-but a scream
Woke the Bishop from his dream-

He woke, and he saw two eyes of flame

On his pillow, from whence the screaming came..
He liften'd and look'd-it was only the cat-
But the Bishop he grew more fearful for that ;
For the fat fcreaming, mad with fear

At the army of mice that were drawing near..

For they have fwum over the river fo deep,.
And they have climb'd the fhores so steep,

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And