SWEET Lady! look not thus again;
Those little pouting smiles recall
A maid remember'd now with pain,
Who was my love, my life, my all!

Oh! while this heart delirious took
Sweet poison from her thrilling eye,
Thus would she pout, and lisp, and look,
And I would hear, and gaze, and sigh!

Yes, I did love her-madly love

She was the sweetest best deceiver !
And oft she swore she'd never rove;
And I was destin'd to believe her!

Then, Lady, do not wear the smile
Of her whose smile could thus betray:
Alas! I think the lovely wile

Again might steal my heart away.

And when the spell, that stole my mind, On lips so pure as thine I

see,

I fear the heart which she resign'd
Will err again, and fly to thee!

SWEET Seducer! blandly smiling,
Charming still, and still beguiling!
Oft I swore to love thee never,
Yet I love thee more than ever!

Why that little wanton blushing,
Glancing eye, and bosom flushing?
Flushing warm, and wily glancing,
All is lovely, all entrancing!

Turn away those lips of blisses-
I am poison'd by thy kisses!
Yet again, ah! turn them to me:
Ruin's sweet, when they undo me!

Oh! be less, be less enchanting,
Let some little grace be wanting;
Let my eyes, when I'm expiring,
Gaze awhile, without admiring!

IF I swear by that eye, you'll allow,
Its look is so shifting and new,
That the oath I might take on it now,
The very next glance would undo!

Those babies that nestle so sly,

Such different arrows have got,
That an oath on the glance of an eye
Such as your's may be off in a shot!

Should I swear by the dew on your lip,
Though each moment the treasure renews,
If my constancy wishes to trip,

I may kiss off the oath when I choose!

Or a sigh may disperse from that flow'r
The dew and the oath that are there;
And I'd make a new vow ev'ry hour,
To lose them so sweetly in air!

But clear up the heav'n of your brow,
Nor fancy my faith is a feather;
On my heart I will pledge you my vow,
And they both must be broken together!

THE SHRINE.

My fates had destin'd me to rove
A long, long pilgrimage of Love,
And many an altar on my way
Has lur'd my pious steps to stay;
For if the saint was young and fair,
I turn'd and sung my vespers there.
This, from a youthful pilgrim's fire,
Is what your pretty saints require;
To pass, nor tell a single bead,
With them would be profane indeed!
But trust me, all this young devotion
Was but to keep my zeal in motion,
And, every humbler altar past,

I now have reach'd THE SHRINE at last!

THOMAS DERMODY.

1802.

The fate of Dermody exhibits another melancholy proof of the miseries to which men of poetical talent are inevitably consigned, if, as not unfrequently happens, they have unfortunately to contend with the disadvantages of obscurity, and the pressure of penury.

Deeper than gothic glooms o'er Britain hang,

Where toiling Science wails her ravish'd meed;
And, wounded deep with many a secret pang,
The agonizing Muse is doom'd to bleed!

MAURICE.

Thomas Dermody was born at the village of Ennis, county of Clare, Ireland, in the year 1774. Impelled, by an ardour natural to genius, to emerge into notice, he quitted the place of his nativity, and, moneyless and friendless, endeavoured to find in Dublin the consideration that he felt it impossible to acquire among the villagers of Ennis. To the humanity of a Dublin-bookseller, by whom he was admitted into his shop, Dermody owed the situation in which he first attracted the attention of persons of taste, and, eventually, the protection of the late Countess of Moira; who generously placed him under the tuition of the Rev. Hugh Boyd, where his literary proficiency appeared amply to compensate the benevolence of patronage. This reputation was unequivocally established by the publication of a volume of Poems, before the completion of his fifteenth year.

Here terminates the bright career of poor Dermody! Elated by prematurity of success, and unsuspicious of the vicissitudes from which no situation is wholly exempted; he shortly after abandoned himself to a degree of thoughtlessness and dissipation, that in succession alienated the regard of his principal friends, and too fatally verified the predictions of the envious and the splenetic. He closed a short and chequered existence, on the 15th of July 1802, at a lodging on the borders of Sydenham Common, to which he had been removed, when past recovery, for the renovation of his health!

Unhappy Bard! the conflict past,
At length thy mortal pangs are o'er :
But, O! with that untimely blast,

Thy raptur'd Strains are heard no more.

Beside the turf that wraps thy clay,
Shall kindred Memory fondly wake;
And, spite of all that foes can say,
Shall love thee for the Muse's sake!

1

COURTIER's Elegy on Visiting the Tomb of Dermody.

However neglected during the last years of his life, it is gratifying to reflect, that his dying moments were soothed by the kindest attentions; and, that respect was not withheld from his earthly remains. He was handsomely buried in the Church-yard of Lewisham, where a respectable monument designates the place of his interment. The world ought to know, that it is Sir James Bland Burgess who has conferred this dignity on the death of Dermody.

SWEET is the woodbine's fragrant twine;
Sweet the ripe burthen of the vine;
The pea-bloom sweet, that scents the air;
The rose-bud sweet beyond compare ;
The perfume sweet of yonder grove ;
Sweeter the lip of Her I love!

Soft the rich meadow's velvet green,
Where cowslip-tufts are early seen;
Soft the young cygnet's snowy breast,
Or down that lines the linnet's nest ;
Soft the smooth plumage of the dove;
Softer the breast of Her I love!

Bright is the star that opes the day;
Bright the mid-noon's refulgent ray;
Bright on yon hill the sunny beam;
Bright the blue mirror of the stream;