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→ 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'rous 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'd ;
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,

O never to return, that fled with him,
In social converse.-At his pious hearth,
Domestic household gods, the Virtues all
Were ever resident; and in his mind,
As in a sacred shrine, fair honour dwelt,
Off'ring incessant to the God of Truth
Pure motives, an unspotted sacrifice.
How few the men, that in our iron days,
Of selfish, groveling, and of cruel rage,
Have priz'd and honour'd the neglected Muse,
Companion as she is of public worth,

And all exertions of th' exalted mind!-
But Caulfield lov'd her. His harmonious soul
Was not unconscious of her influence.-
And shall he silent rest? Shall not the Muse
Hang on the willows, that surround his tomb,
The tributary verse? and give a form,

And measur'd cadence, to the general grief,
That bursts for Caulfield lost? Mourn Erin, mourn.-
And thou dost mourn-how frequent and how loud,
The groan of anguish sounds! and thro' thy vales
And giant hills, that proudly mock the skies
Was there an eye that wept not Caulfield lost?—
Or hearden'd heart, that felt not?--while he yet
Ling'ring on life's last verge with parting steps,
Ponder'd his passage to a better world;
While wayward nature, clinging to this earth,
Was wrestling with th' angelic Messengers,
That waft the just to God; ere yet his breast
Had ceas'd to throb with aspirations high,
For Erin's welfare; ere the ray benign
Of mild benevolence, and piercing sense,
That wont to beam from Caulfield's eye was sunk
In shades of night: Oh how we caught at hope,

With self-delusion fond! what earnest prayers
From pious lips, by every form of faith,

Were wing'd to heav'n! and oh with what reluctance
Did we resign that hope, and in her place
Receive despair, sad visitant, to rend

The bleeding heart-strings with the dismal sound—
Mourn, Erin mourn, thy Caulfield is no more."
Never shall Erin and her sons forget,

While sense and memory of virtue dwell
In human bosoms, what a mighty debt
Of gratitude her Caulfield's patriot zeal
Justly demands;-thro' long revolving time,
It never can be cancelled.-Ye who saw
How fiercely beautiful, in dread array,
Spontaneous rose Hibernia's gallant sons *,
Arm'd to protect their rights, and guard the soil
That gave them being from insulting foes,
When Caulfield led them on, ye will declare
His public merit.—With a powerful charm,
His name rever'd, like sweetest music dwelt
On every ear, that rudest basest minds
Were touch'd, were elevated, at the sound.-
They learn'd they had a country; felt, that virtue
Was something more than words; that noble minds
Might ev'n amidst the wretched toil and din
Of this low earth, from God and man receive
The guerdon of their virtue; that, in times,
When Vice and Folly, with too common sway,
The progeny of Wealth and Fashion lead,
Thro' senseless luxury and wild expence,
Thro' midnight mask and asiatic feast,
Where naked beauty revels, to the dens

Volunteer Associations, for the Defence of Ireland.