A MONODY,

On the sudden and lamented Death of the Marquis of Downshire, September, 1801.

BY THE REVEREND HENRY BOYD,

TRANSLATOR OF DANTE.

1.

THE Dog-star sunk*, and with it drew
To Hope's deluded eye, away
Pandora's imps, an hideous crew,

That gorg'd the grave with hourly prey.
The far-destroying Angel seem'd
To follow the terrific star;

We thought his fiery falchion gleam'd
Its last, in ocean's waves afar.

Autumn, in hymeneal robe,

Of richest green and gold array'd,
To the bright orb, that warms the globe,
His smiling progeny display'd.

"Twas then conceal'd behind the festive pall,
The dark affaffin took his secret stand-
Would no kind angel lift a saving hand,

As the grim shadow crost the good-man's hall?

Alluding to the uncommon mortality of that season, in the Province of Ulster.

Alas! the fatal dart,

Already reach'd his noble heart, Before Affection's fervent prayer, Could pierce th' incumbent air,

Or Pæon's hand employ his usual art! Mild are the glories of* September's moon, And rich the presents which her reign conveys; But she has robb'd us of an heaven-sent boon, Which all her waving wealth but ill repays! Poor are the floating fields of golden grain To such a MIND, that when her chearless beam, Malignant glanc'd upon the niggard plain, Open'd sweet Mercy's heaven-directed stream.

2.

On Tamari's + aerial brow,

I stood to view the scenes below,
Where o'er the yellow fields advancing,
The swains pursued their jocund toil,
In bending files, with fickles glancing,
And of its vesture stript the soil.
And oft they stood in solemn pause,
With fear and pity struck, to view
Some friend, by Fate's relentless laws,
Born to his grave with dirges due.

While from the winding vale, in cadence slow,
Complaining Echo fent the notes of Woe;
Here startled FANCY saw, in wide survey,

A picture of the judgment day.

*The munificence of the late Marquis of Downshire, was the means, not only of alleviating the distresses, but prolonging the lives of vast numbers during the famine.

+ The Western extremity of the mountains of Mourne, from whence the view is so extensive, that large portions of seven counties, can be easily observed by the naked eye.

To the harvesters of Heaven,
Their office feem'd already given;
And viewless squadrons of the sky,
Seem'd around the task to ply;
On ridgy hill and russet mead,

The fwathes and sheaves alternate fell,
And ever and anon was heard,

The deep-ton'd funeral bell:
As death had meant, in active speed,
His rustic rivals to excel.

And many a busy hand appear'd

To cull the TARES, a task severe,

And to their final doom to bear.-
Ye thoughtless men-prepare to meet your God,
And learn to deprecate the lifted rod!

3.

Not such wert THOU, altho' a sudden fate,
Lamented HILL! consign'd thee to the dust;
Yet to thy large benevolence, we trust,
Heaven opes the glories of th' empyreal state.
The social virtues all were thine;

And ONE* that rose to heights divine;
The man that injured, you forgave,
You pitied sin's entangled slave,
And lur'd him from the fatal snare,
With holy and paternal care;
Till, by thy great example taught,
His heart the glow of virtue caught;

Forgiveness, even of deep injuries, formed a conspicuous part of the character of the late Marquis. A remarkable instance which distinguished the last year of his life, is here alluded to; wherein every particular mentioned here, was exhibited in the most amiable light, in his conduct to an individual.

And not (we hope) a transient heat,
Soon from the torpid breast to fleet.
This might seem flattery, while you liv'd to tell;
But flattery now is o'er :-

Hark! to the musick of yon mournful bell;
Yon solemn vault has clos'd the door

On adulation; ye, attend the call,

Whom Heaven, like him allows the means to ease
Pining Worth, or sore Distress;

A dread eye views this air-invested ball,
A giant arm uplifts the cloudy pall,

That shews the realms of Woe, or everlasting Peace.

CHORUS*.

WHO deserves the civic wreath?
Who to fill the curule chair?
Feast from gold, sweet perfumes breathe,
And all that Honour gives to share i
The brave, the brave, the patriot brave,
Who toil their Country's rights to save.

Who deserves the chace to join?
Who to dwell in woods serene?
Build his hut, and prune his vine,

And trim his porch with olives green ?

The brave, the brave, the patriot brave,
Who toil their Country's rights to save.

* From the Corsicans, an unfinished Play, by C. Leftly, Esq.

TO A LADY'S BLACKBIRD.

BY EDMUND L. SWIFT, ESQ.

"I would I were thy Bird!"

ROMEO.

SAY, happy Bird, when sunk to rest,
On the soft couch of EMMA's breast,

Say, wouldst thou on that heaven of snow,
Expand thy jetty pinions wide,

To bid that heaven more spotless shew,

Or half it's beauties envious hide?

Too happy Bird, what boundless bliss
Awaits thee in thy EMMA's kiss!—
Too happy Bird, indulg'd to sip
The nectar of thy EMMA's lip!
Soon as thy bill the gift receives,
Ere that lov'd seat the rapture leaves,
Haste, hither haste on friendly plume,
Around me shed the chaste perfume;
Bear to my lip the fragrant store,
And there the spicy treasure pour!

Too happy Bird, ah vain my prayer,
Vain are my sighs, my tears are vain ;
To me thy wings no blessings bear,
Thy songs unpitying mock my pain!