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In political faith knows how much to believe,
And when 'tis convenient to laugh in his sleeve.
His sense is well set, not a word out of joint-
Rather too much in epigram, too much for point.
With some effort, bis ease - with some stiffness, his

sense, His spirit is free, the expression is tense. His brand on our hogsheads be lawfully puts, But 'tis harder to brand with his wit all our butts. 'Tis our Irish primuin, our raw manufacture, That keeps well thro' all seasons, not needs an inspector.

Thus in mind and in manners, a mau 'comme il faut,'. He glides smoothly thro' life, with a serpentine flow, That still tends to a point, when it seems to incline; And the curve gently blends with the rigid right-line.



Would you follow a calling from peril quite free,
Quit the land, and engage in the toils of the sea :

You may laugh while the billows rave round Since, trust me, my friend, if old proverbs say true, The boisterous main has no dangers for you,

As you never were born to be drown'd!

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To Ponticus, a Poet.


of woes.

WHILE you, my friend, in lofty epic strain,
Resound the warriors of the Theban plain ;
And (so may heaven my life in peace prolong)
Cope with the father of heroic song;
May Fate propitious on the labour smile,
Unfading laurels crown the Poet's toil.
It's wonted course my listless being knows,
A fruitless passion, and a song
Inspired by sorrow, not by wit or taste,
I mourn the prime of manhood, run to waste.
Day chases day, consumed in hopeless flame,
I live to love, and seek not other fame.
I boast to love the fair of lettered mind,
Her pride, her scorn I boast, and words unkind.
Let slighted lovers, in succeeding time,
With fix'd attention read th' impassion'd rhyme.
On Memory's tablet be the lore imprest,
From Love's allurement to preserve the breast.
Thou too—may Heav'n the fatal doom remove!
But, should thy bosom feel the shafts of love;

Then, thy seven chiefs, and War with horror plum'd,
Ah! wretched Bard, shall be to silence doom'd,
And long oblivion; while, with vain desire,
Soft strains you seek, that wake a mutual fire.
Imperfect utterance shall elude the heart,
And wild impatience mock the Poet's art.
Then shall my verse allure, with greater charms,
Than all that noblest Poets sing of arms.
No youth, in silence, round my tomb shall stray,
“ Rest to thy shade-Bard of th' enamour'd lay!"
Nor scorn me thou, for Love's delay'd controul
Torments, with usury, th' enamour'd soul.



To Cynthia, at Baiæ.


While Cynthia ranges Baiæ's tepid shores,
And paths that great Alcides* trod explores ;
Or seeks the regions of the Grecian + throng,
Or thee, Misenum, not unknown to song,
Do thoughts of me from tardy rest detain?'
For absent love, does any place remain?

* When he brought away the oxen of Geryon, he past near Cuma. + Thesprotians, who founded Cumæ, near Baie. VOL. VI.

Or would the foc, with feign'd insidious love,
My Cynthia from her faithful bard remove ?
May varied sports employ the careless hour,
Nor leave thee vacant to the tempter's pow'r.
Now, may thy pinnace cleave the Lucrine wave,
And Teuthras*, now, thy beauteous members lave.
Oft, when her tender guardian is remov'd,
The heedless fair forgets how much she lov’d.
Yet thou art prov'd-I know thy love sincere,
But when was passion free from jealous fear?
O pardon, fairest, should th' injurious strain
Give thy soft heart a momentary pain.
More dear, than she, from whom my being came!
More dear than light, and health, and vital flame!
Thou art my house, my parents thou alone,
Thou only comfort, that my days have known!
Does pleasure gild, does sorrow cloud the hour;
The colour of my life is in thy pow'r.
Fly, then, the guilty shore, th' envenom'd air,
That wafts divorces to the wedded pair.
Ye Heav'ns, from Baiæ modest virgins guide,
Lest drowning honour perish in the tide.


THOUGH Music's sweet persuasive art,
With tuneful magic melts the heart;
Though Wine may boast its rival skill,
To bid the breast with concord thrill;
Yet Love still more reveals to me
The hidden soul of harmony !

* A River.

To J-C

WVho said, " I Care not what the Crowd may think."


The crowd, my friend, have common sense,
They feel the pow'r of pounds and pence,

And as they feel, they prize :
For wealth, when rightly understood,
Is the best blessing of the good,

The wisdom of the wise.

What's wealth ? Enough, and somewhat over,
Of this I own myself the lover,

And who is not's a ninny:
What signifies the sun-gilt cot
Without a pullet in the pot?

What's life without a guinea?

It is to sneak down from a garret,
To spunge on other's beef and claret,

To get, but not to give.
To feel each rising wish repressid,
The wish to be by blessing, blest,

But this is not to live.


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