But, happier amity, pervade my breast,
With tranquil empire thro' these vernal years,
While in Horatio's trusting friendship blest,
Mine his prosperity, and mine his cares.

This sympathizing heart implores the task,
To sooth thee, drooping in thy native clime,
Give then the precious confidence I ask,
The

tender records of the vanish'd time!

My pitying spirit shall partake thy pains,
And grief divided loses power to blight,
Watch the lone sigh, that steals to Gallia's plains,
Where Beauty mourns thy much-unwilling flight.

Ah! pale no more thy star of love should gleam,
Cou'd my soul's wishes its soft orb command,
But point in smiling light each languid beam,
And on the azure zenith shining stand.

O! may unblemish'd Honor guard thy fame,
And plumy conquest triumph on thy sword!
Thine be each meed the milder virtues claim,
Health, Peace, and Plenty, Hand-maids of thy board.

When ardent Youth, and rosy Love are flown,
O! e'en thy graces cannot bribe their stay!
As joy had brighten'd in thy radiant noon,
May soft Contentment gild thy closing day!

*The Author had heard, and believ'd, that her friend was attach'd (at the time this little poem was written) to a Young Lady at Angiers,

And when thou soarest from these wayward spheres, From busy life, and from its silent bourn,

Thine be the bliss, that change, nor period fears,

IN THE

BLEST REGIONS OF THE NIGHTLESS MORN!

SONG,

FROM FLORIAN.

ERE Morn illumes with rosy beams
Our plains, I wake the echoes round,
And tire the woods, and vales, and streams,

With many a love-complaining sound:

While still to ease my heart's consuming pain Echoes, and woods, and vales, and streams, alas! are vain.

On flowery banks, where oaks arise

In shade, no more I find repose;

I sigh, the ring-dove answering sighs,

Tears swell the stream that murmuring flows; But, ah! to ease my heart's consuming pain, Streams, woods, and vales, and echoes, all are vain.

K. A. DAVENPORT.

ELEGIAC POEM,

ON THE

DEATH OF THE EARL OF CHARLEMOUNT.

BY W. PRESTON, ESQ.

OPPREST, with grief on Tara's height I stood,
And gaz'd, with moisten'd eye, the gloomy scene.—
The Angel of Destruction had been there.—
The traces of his awful step remain'd
Imprinted deep;-frowning on either side
The ruins spake the desolating hand
Of civil War; for late this thirsty soil

Was drench'd with civil blood; when frantc rage,
Oh Erin, hapless Erin, drove thy sons,
In wilder'd blind pursuit of anarchy,

To meet the fatal doom.-Low hung the clouds,—
Evening came on apace;—at intervals,

With loud and hollow sound, the loaded blast
Beat on the hills, and swept the chearless plain.
My heart was sunk, and recollections dire

Crouded on memory.-While thus I stood

*The Town of Tara, in the county of Meath, was burned during the late Rebellion.

Absorb'd in bitterness, methought a Spirit
Past by me in the wind;-his form unseen,
I felt his influence, an etherial impulse
In gentle horror tingling thro' my veins.
As at the presence of a thing divine,

Awestruck, I lowly bent; and thus I said.—
"I feel thee rushing thro' th' astonish'd sense,-
"Whence, and what art thou, strange mysterious
Power?"

I heard a voice-ev'n now on Fancy's ear
It seems to vibrate; and, while life remains,
Shall vibrate ever on my sorrowing heart.

"I come, th' afflicted Genius of the Land, "With dismal tidings fraught:-Mourn Erin, mourn

66

Thy noblest offspring snatch'd, the example bright "Of every virtue, and all honest praise,

"Snatch'd from thee, in these vile unhappy times, "When truth and virtuous patterns are so rare! "Mourn Erin, mourn, thy Caulfield is no more.”-O heart-appalling sound! O Messenger of Woe!

The wind in cadence sigh'd; the plains around, The distant hills, and every vale replied; "Oh Caulfield is no more! mourn Erin, mourn, "Mourn Erin, mourn; the patriot soul is fled; "Is fled to heav'n, from this afflicted land, "Oh heart-appalling sound, O Messenger of Woe!"I call'd the Muse for solace of my pain. She, sweet companion, often had beguil'd The weary hours, and smooth'd the rugged path Of thorny life-but answer none return'd.

-No more, with heart-felt strain, to words of fire Tremble the chords. Fancy and vig'ro us thought From life's cold dregs recede; this drooping heart Weighs down the mental energies, nor yields

A strain deserving of a patriot's name,-
Yet what he may the sorrowing Bard shall give;
Poor off'ring! Rhymes, that, like my gushing tears,
Spontaneous flow, and praises never won,

By favours, or by hope; th' indignant Muse,
Unprostituted, at the shrine of Power,

And upstart Wealth, when Fortune's minion, swoln
With sudden honours, rode to Mammon's fane
In transitory pomp, and venal crouds
Wreath'd the vile off'ring of their venal tongues;
Spurn'd at the little triumph; and reserv'd
The Poet's incense for the Deity,

And those distinguish'd favorites of Heav'n,
The virtuous few, to birth, and titled things
Little devoted.-Caulfield's nobleness,
Tho' sprung from a long line of ancestry
Unstain'd and honour'd,-Caulfield's nobleness
Was chiefly in himself, in heav'n recorded,
And not in parchment rolls, blazon'd in deeds,
And not in vain heraldic pageantry,
Of gaudy colours, on the quarter'd field:
The heav'n-descended nobleness, that dwells
In high pursuits, and bright accomplishments,
Such was thy Patent, Caulfield, of more worth,
Oh infinitely more, than all that Kings
Can grant, or kingly favorites receive.

Inmate within his mansion dwelt the Muse;
And all the Graces harmoniz'd his tongue;
While from his lips the sounds instructive flow'ḍ;
And various knowledge join'd with polish'd sense.-
I knew it well-for I may proudly boast
That honour'd Caulfield deign'd to call me friend.
Never shall time from my sad mind erase
The dear remembrance of the vanish'd hours,