HENRIETTA, LADY ONEIL,

Born 1758, died 1793,

The only daughter of Charles, Viscount Dungarvon, and wife of John Oneil, Esq. of Slanes Castle, in the county of Antrim, who was afterwards created an Irish peer.* The two following beautiful compositions have been preserved in the works of her friend Charlotte Smith.

Ode to the Poppy.

(First printed in Smith's Desmond.)

Nor for the promise of the labour'd field,
Not for the good the yellow harvests yield,
I bend at Ceres' shrine;

For dull to humid eyes appear

The golden glories of the year;

Alas! a melancholy worship's mine:

I hail the goddess for her scarlet flower!

Thou brilliant weed,

That dost so far exceed

*Not, however, till about two months after the death

of his wife.

The richest gifts gay Flora can bestow,

Heedless I pass'd thee in life's morning hour, Thou comforter of woe,

Till sorrow taught me to confess thy power.

In early days, when Fancy cheats,
A varied wreath I wove,

Of laughing Spring's luxuriant sweets,
To deck ungrateful Love:

The rose, or thorn, my labours crown'd,
As Venus smil'd, or Venus frown'd,

But Love and Joy and all their train are flown;
E'en languid Hope no more is mine,
And I will sing of thee alone;

Unless perchance the attributes of Grief,
The cypress bud and willow leaf,

Their pale funereal foliage blend with thine.

Hail, lovely blossom! thou canst ease

The wretched victims of Disease;
Canst close those weary eyes in gentle sleep,

Which never open but to weep;

For oh! thy potent charm

Can agonizing Pain disarm;

Expel imperious Memory from her seat,

And bid the throbbing heart forget to beat.

Soul-soothing plant, that can such blessings give,

By thee the mourner bears to live!

By thee the hopeless die!
Oh! ever friendly to despair,
Might Sorrow's pallid votary dare,
Without a crime that remedy implore,

Which bids the spirit from its bondage fly,

I'd court thy palliative aid no more:

No more I'd sue that thou shouldst spread
Thy spell around my aching head,
But would conjure thee to impart
Thy balsam for a broken heart!
And by thy soft Lethean power,

Inestimable flower!

Burst these terrestrial bonds, and other regions try!

Verses written on seeing her Two Sons at Play.

(In the second volume of C. Smith's Poems.)

SWEET age of blest delusion! blooming boys, Ah! revel long in childhood's thoughtless joys, With light and pliant spirits, that can stoop To follow sportively the rolling hoop;

To watch the sleeping top with gay delight,
Or mark with raptur'd gaze the sailing kite;
Or eagerly pursuing Pleasure's call,

Can find it centr'd in the bounding ball!

Alas! the day will come, when sports like these
Must lose their magic, and their power to please;
Too swiftly fled, the rosy hours of youth
Shall yield their fairy-charms to mournful Truth;
Even now, a mother's fond prophetic fear
Sees the dark train of human ills appear;
Views various fortune for each lovely child,
Storms for the bold, and anguish for the mild;
Beholds already those expressive eyes

Beam a sad certainty of future sighs;

And dreads each suffering those dear breasts may know

In their long passage through a world of woe;
Perchance predestin'd every pang to prove,
That treacherous friends inflict, or faithless love;
For ah! how few have found existence sweet,
Where grief is sure, but happiness deceit !

MARY ROBINSON,

Born 1758, died 1800,

A native of Bristol, where her father, whose name was Darby, carried on commercial concerns. At the age of fifteen she married Mr. Robinson, a young lawyer in London. He was profligate and extravagant; she was vain and imprudent; and they were soon involved in the greatest difficulties. She now appeared on the stage, (to which she had turned her thoughts before marriage,) and played several characters with much applause. Unfortunately, as she was performing the part of Perdita, her beauty attracted the attention of a very illustrious personage, for whose protection she quitted the boards. The connexion with her royal lover lasted only about two years; but her wanderings from the path of virtue did not terminate with it. Her poems and novels, which the notoriety of the authoress once rendered popular, shew that she possessed a good deal of fancy, and a very pleasing facility of composition. Mrs. Robinson was a signal sufferer from the personalities of Mr. Gifford's too angry muse.Della Crusca, Arno, Anna Matilda, and the rest of that fluttering, tinselled crew, were undoubtedly fit objects of satire, but not of the merciless sort with which they were assailed. A whip would have been a sufficiently formidable weapon to have scared them from the fields of song, but Mr. Gifford pursued them with a drawn sword, cut them to pieces, and exulted over the slaughter.