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EMILY,

IMITATED FROM AN IRISH SONNET

BY ERANCIS SKURRAY A. M.

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 smil'd,
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.

STANZAS,

To the Memory

of

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."

BY MR. DAVID CAREY,

AUTHOR OF "THE PLEASures of nature.” &c.

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 throes.

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Is withdrawn to his own empyrean of light, How few, ah, how few!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 sound 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 Britisla Poets," in whose house he had resided for some time, and who accompanied him on his visit to Ireland,

Yet bosoms there are, O! the dearest, the best,
(And may Heaven on their path shed its loveliest
beam!)

Who soothe the lone wanderer's pulses to rest,
And weep with a dear and a lasting esteem.

And such o'er thy doom, lov'd, unfortunate BOURNE !
On sad sister shores, breathe the sigh of regret;
For thy virtues the good and the virtuous mourn,
Ah! memorials sweet! they shall never forget.

As some bark that has glean'd, as she travers'd the deep,

The

gems of the Orient, the pride of the wave, Hails, joyfully hails, lovely Albion's green steep,When loud roars the tempest, and deep yawns the

grave;

So gaily we saw thee on life's summer sea

The regions of Science and Fancy explore,

Then seek each fond scene dear to friendship and thee, And breathe thy last sigh on thy lov'd native shore.

When the blooms of thy mind, like the Spring met

the eye,

How bright was the prospect that Fancy pourtray'd!Now faded, ah! faded for ever, they lie

Where the green turf of Erin now covers thy head;

And Friendship his fond ineffectual care
Bewails, as he lingers and sighs to depart,
And Piety weeps 'mid her holiest prayer

For a child that was lovely and dear to her heart.

"Tis thus as we journey life's dark valley through, Bright sunbeams of Hope oft illumine the road;→→→ How brightly, alas! but how transient too!

For love, hope, and joy, find one gulphing abode.

But pass undismay'd, O ye righteous! the bound;
Though dim, mark the vista that opens afar !
On the ruins of Time, o'er the darkness profound,
Salvation has lighted her bright morning star;

And the Cherubim train their glad welcome extending,

Heaven's triumph recording, her loud organ blow For a soul from the confines of Darkness ascending, That has trod the lone blood-press of Death and of Woe !

Then weep not the pleasures so fading and dear,
For the handmaids of Bliss in yon starry abode,
Shall wipe from your eyes the disconsolate tear,
And ray on your pathway the smiles of

your God.

EPIGRAM, on the celebrated Madam La Valliere. From the French.

In ancient days arose a fane,

Where every lover knelt to impart
To Venus kind, in suppliant strain,
The dearest secret of his heart.

Could such a temple now be found,
Though thousands thither should repair,
To heaven would rise no other sound
Than "O! I die for La Valliere."

S. W. I.

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