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On whom thy trembling confidence may rest,
That fluttering bird which beats within thy breast,
And fears, yet longs, to leave the parent nest.

Oh! come to Him, who in the husband's name,
Has father's, mother's, sister's, brother's claim;
And if 'tis duty that alone can move,
The first of duties is the law of love.
The law that circumscribes both earth and skies,
Forms but a wedding ring of ampler size,
Where emerald stars, and diamond suns combine
To grace a finger of the hand divine :
That law, that ring, my Sarah, makes thee mine.

Oh! may our little ring, within this larger found
Share the same fate, the same immortal round;
And if attachment e'er should lose its force,
Then Nature-break thy fing, and keep the long



WHILE bending o'er the letter'd page,

I muse on Science, Wisdom, Truth; I seek the tranquil mind of age,

But feel the glowing soul of youth.
And while with wits deceas'd I live,

Still from the converse rising, ever
I sigh, and wish that heaven would give

One active talker-half as clever.
And though the stoics' colder rules,

Might change my beating heart to stone, I fly from stoics, wits, and schools,

When love asserts me for his own,


Ler Alexander's discontented soul
Sigh for another world's encreased controul,
Ill-weaved Ambition has no joys for me,
Nor sordid Avarice am I slave to thee.
I only ask twelve thousand pounds a year,
And Curwen's country-house on Windermere;
A mistress kind, and sensible, and fair,
And many a friend, and not a single care !
I am no glutton,-no,-) never wish
A Sturgeon floating in a golden dish;
At the Piazza satisfied to pay
A guinea for my dinner every day.
What tho'shrewd Erskine at the bar we view,
As famed as Cræsus and as wealthy too?
I only ask the cloquence of Fox,
To leap like Ireland and like Belcher box ;
To act as Garrick did, or any how
Unlike the heroes of the Buskin now;
To soar like Garnerin, thro' fields of air,
To win, like Villiers, England's richest fair;
Thy age, Methusalem, or, if not thine,
An immortality of love and wine.


PIB. 1807.




T'was near the white thorn on the brow of the vale,

I spy'd the first breaking of day;
The morn kiss'd the rose, as she blushingly smild,

To welcome the season of May,

Dear joy of my heart, my Emily rise;

More fair than the bright-beaming morn, More chaste than the rose-bud when weeping with dew, More sweet than the blossoming thorn.

Thy looks are serene, as when clear'd by the sun

Shines bright the blue face of the skies;;
The sweets of the honeycomb dwell on thy lips,

Thy breath with the apple-bloom vies.

Thy hair, as the Raven's smooth pinions, is black;

Thy cheeks, like the ruby, are bright;
Thy neck is as fair as the Swan's silver plumes;

Thy breast seems to heave with delight.

My Emily rise, the sun's sprightly beams

Descend thy sweet face to salute; The heath all'its blossoms to greet thee reserves;

The vallies present their ripe fruit.

Thy lover, tho' timid, will snatch from the crag

The berries which creep on its side;
And pluck from the hazel the clustering nut,

When shining in Autumn's rich pride.
As red as thy lips the berries shall prove
The nuts shall be ripe as thy bosom of love.

My queen sweetly-smiling, oh! when shall we meet

On the banks of the murmuring flood ? Or sit in the cave that is covered with moss,

Or prattle of love in the wood ?

How long wilt thou leave me, my Emily, say,

Thy absence so cruel to mourn?
I sorrowing sit the lone son of the rock

Unhappy till thou shalt return.
Thy beauties I tell to the rude passing gale
And mutter my grief to the flint of the vale.

Whenever thou comest, thou welcome wilt come,

As summer preceded by frost:
My Emily's image will gladden my eyes,

As light cheers the traveller lost.

To the Memory


Robert Bourne, Esq.
Fourth Son of the Rev. Richard Bourne, of Dublin,
who died on the 8th of June, 1809,

at Kildress,
in the County of Tyrone,
in the twenty-fourth year of his age.


When the Warrior expires on his path of renown

The tears of a nation embalm his repose, Tho' Mercy ne'er hallowed and Pity disown,

The breast that ne'er felt her compassionate throet.

But when Worth, modest Worth, like a star beam that

fell, Is withdrawn to his own empyrean of light, How few, ah, how few! round his cold earthly cell

Heave the deep sigh of sorrow, and weep for his flight! * He possessed a mind richly imbued with soạnd learning and christian principles, joined to great and active benevolence, which could only be exceeded by that of his estimable friend Dr. Robert Anderson, of Edinburgh, author of “ the Lives of the Britisła Poets,” in whose house he had resided for some time, and who accompanied bim on his visit to Irelando

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