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These twinkling tiny lustres of the land
Drop one by one from Fame's neglecting hand ;
Lethæan gulfs receive them as they fall,
And dark oblivion soon absorbs them all.

So when a child, as playful children use,
Has burn'd to tinder a stale last year's news,
The flame extinct, he views the roving fire -
There goes my lady, and there goes the squire !
There goes the parson, oh, illustrious spark !
And there, scarce less illustrious, goes the clerk!

William Cowper



Risum teneatis, amici ?
“The longer one lives the more one learns,"

Said I, as off to sleep I went,
Bemused with thinking of tithe concerns,
And reading a book by the Bishop of Ferns,

On the Irish Church Establishment.
But, lo! in sleep not long I lay,

When Fancy her usual tricks began,
And I found myself bewitch'd away

To a goodly city of Hindostan-
A city, where he, who dares to dine

On aught but rice, is deem'd a sinner ;
Where sheep and kine are held divine,

And accordingly-never drest for dinner.

“But how is this?” I wondering cried, As I walked that city, fair and wide, And saw in every marble street,

A row of beautiful butchers' shops,
" What means, for men who don't eat meat,

This grand display of loins and chops ? "
In vain I ask'd --'twas plain to see
That nobody dared to answer me.

So, on, from street to street I strode ;
And you can't conceive how vastly odd

The butchers look'd-a roseate crew,
Inshrined in stalls with nought to do;
While some on a bench, half dozing, sat,
And the Sacred Cows were not more fat.

Still posed to think what all this scene
Of sinecure trade was meant to mean,
“ And pray,” asked I, “by whom is paid
The expense of this strange masquerade ?"
“The expense! Oh, that's of course defray'd,"
Said one of these well-fed Hecatombers,

By yonder rascally rice-consumers. “What! they, who mustn't eat meat!” “No matter 'i (And while he spoke his cheeks grew fatter), “ The rogues may munch their Paddy crop, But the rogues must still support our shop. And, depend upon it, the way to treat

Heretical stomachs that thus dissent, Is to burthen all that won't eat meat

With a costly Meat Establishment."

On hearing these words so gravely said,

With a volley of laughter loud I shook ;
And my slumber fled, and my dream was sped,
And I found I was lying snug in bed,
With my nose in the Bishop of Ferns's book.

Thomas Moore.


WHEN Love came first to earth, the Spring

Spread rose-beds to receive him,
And back he vow'd his flight he'd wing

To Heaven, if she should leave him.

But Spring departing, saw his faith

Pledged to the next new comerHe reveli'd in the warmer breath

And richer bowers of Summer.

Then sportive Autumn claim'd by rights

An Archer for her lover,
And even in Winter's dark cold nights

A charm he could discover.
ller routs and balls, and fireside joy,

For this time were his reasons
In short, young Love's a gallant boy,
That likes all times and seasons.

Thomas Campbell.


WHEN the black-letter'd list to the gods was presented,

(The list of what Fate for each mortal-intends) At the long string of ills a kind goddess relented,

And slipt in three blessings—wife, children, and friends. In vain surly Pluto maintain’d he was cheated,

For justice divine could not compass her ends;
The scheme of man's penance he swore was defeated,

For earth becomes heaven with wife, children, and friends If the stock of our bliss is in stranger hands vested,

The fund ill-secured oft in bankruptcy ends;
But the heart issues bills which are never protested

When drawn on the firm of Wife, Children, and Friends. Though valour still glows in his life’s waning embers,

The death-wounded tar who his colours defends, Drops a tear of regret as he dying remembers

How blest was his home with wife, children, and friends. The soldier, whose deeds live immortal in story,

Whom duty to far distant latitudes sends,
With transport would barter whole ages of glory

For one happy day with wife, children, and friends.
Though spice-breathing gales o'er his caravan hover,

Though round him Arabia's whole fragrance ascends, The merchant still thinks of the woodbines that cover

The bower where he sat with wife, children, and friends. The day-spring of youth, still unclouded by sorrow,

Alone on itself for enjoyment depends ; But drear is the twilight of age if it borrow

No warmth from the smiles of wife, children, and friends,

Let the breath of Renown ever freshen and cherish

The laurel which o'er her dead savourite bends, O’er me wave the willow! and long may it flourish

Bedew'd with the tears of wife, children, and friends. Let us drink-for my song, growing graver and graver,

To subjects too solemn insensibly tends; Let us drink-pledge me high-Love and Virtue shall flavour The glass which I fill to wife, children, and friends.

Honble. William R. Spencer.



WHEN I was a maid,

Nor of lovers afraid,
My mother cried, “ Girl, never listen to men.

Her lectures were long,

But I thought her quite wrong,
And said I, “Mother, whom should I listen to, then?”

Now teaching, in turn,

What I never could learn,
I find, like my mother, my lessons all vain ;

Men ever deceive,

Silly maidens believe,
And stilí 'tis the old story over again.

So humbly they woo,

What can poor maidens do
But keep them alive when they swear they must die !

Ah! who can forbear,

As they weep in despair,
Their crocodile tears in compassion to dry ?

Yet, wedded at last,

When the honeymoon's past,
The lovers forsake us, the husbands remain;

Our vanity's check'd,

And we ne'er can expect
They will tell us the old story over again.

James Kenny.



O, NEVER talk again to me

Of northern climes and British ladies; It has not been your lot to see,

Like me, the lovely girl of Cadiz. Altho' her eyes be not of blue,

Nor fair her locks, like English lasses', How far its own expressive hue

The languid azure eye surpasses ! Prometheus-like from Heaven she stole

The fire that thro' those silken lashes In darkest glances seems to roll,

From eyes that cannot hide their flashes; And as along her bosom steal

In lengthen'd flow her raven tresses, You'd swear each clustering lock could feel,

And curl'd to give her neck caresses. Our English maids are long to woo,

And frigid even in possession; And if their charms be fair to view,

Their lips are slow at Love's confession; But, born beneath a brighter sun,

For love ordain’d the Spanish maid is, And who,—when fondly, fairly won

Enchants you like the girl of Cadiz ? The Spanish maid is no coquette,

Nor joys to see a lover tremble; And if she love, or if she hate,

Alike she knows not to dissemble. Her heart can ne'er be bought or sold

Howe'er it beats, it beats sincerely; And, tho' it will not bend to gold,

'Twill love you long, and love you dearly, The Spanish girl that meets your love

Ne'er taunts you with a mock denial; For every thought is bent to prove

Her passion in the hour of trial.

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