ON THE PRINCE REGENT'S RETURNING THE PICTURE OF SARAH, COUNTESS OF JERSEY, TO MRS. MEE.

WHEN the vain triumph of the imperial lord,
Whom servile Rome obey'd, and yet abhorr'd,
Gave to the vulgar gaze each glorious bust,
That left a likeness of the brave or just;
What most admired each scrutinizing eye
Of all that deck'd that passing pageantry?
What spread from face to face that wondering air?
The thought of Brutus- for his was not there!
That absence proved his worth, that absence fix'd
His memory on the longing mind, unmix'd;

And more decreed his glory to endure,
Than all a gold Colossus could secure.

If thus, fair Jersey, our desiring gaze
Search for thy form, in vain and mute amaze,
Amid those pictured charms, whose loveliness,
Bright though they be, thine own had rendered less;
If he, that vain old man, whom truth admits
Heir of his father's throne and shatter'd wits,
If his corrupted eye and wither'd heart
Could with thy gentle image bear depart,
That tasteless shame be his, and ours the grief,
To gaze on Beauty's band without its chief:
Yet comfort still one selfish thought imparts,
We lose the portrait, but preserve our hearts.

What can his vaulted gallery now disclose?
A garden with all flowers-except the rose; -
A fount that only wants its living stream;
And night with every star, save Dian's beam.
Lost to our eyes the present forms shall be,
That turn from tracing them to dream of thee;
And more on that recall'd resemblance pause,
Than all he shall not force on our applause.

Long may thy yet meridian lustre shine,
With all that Virtue asks of Homage thine:
The symmetry of youth-the grace of mien-
The eye that gladdens—and the brow serene;
The glossy darkness of that clustering hair,

Which shades, yet shows that forehead more than fair.
Each glance that wins us, and the life that throws
A spell which will not let our looks repose,

But turn to gaze again, and find anew

Some charm that well rewards another view.

These are not lessen'd, these are still as bright,
Albeit too dazzling for a dotard's sight;
And these must wait till every charm is gone
To please the paltry heart that pleases none,
That dull cold sensualist, whose sickly eye
In envious dimness pass'd thy portrait by ;
Who rack'd his little spirit to combine
Its hate of Freedom's loveliness, and thine.

July, 1814.

TO BELSHAZZAR.

I.

BELSHAZZAR! from the banquet turn,
Nor in thy sensual fulness fall:
Behold! while yet before thee burn
The graven words, the glowing wall.
Many a despot men miscall

Crown'd and anointed from on high;
But thou, the weakest, worst of all-
Is it not written, thou must die?

II.

Go! dash the roses from thy brow

Gray hairs but poorly wreathe with them;
Youth's garlands misbecome thee now,

More than thy very diadem,

Where thou hast tarnish'd every gem:-
Then throw the worthless bauble by,
Which, worn by thee, e'en slaves contemn;
And learn like better men to die.

III.

Oh! early in the balance weigh'd,
And ever light of word and worth,
Whose soul expired ere youth decay'd,
And left thee but a mass of earth.
To see thee moves the scorner's mirth :
But tears in Hope's averted eye
Lament that even thou hadst birth
Unfit to govern, live, or die.

HEBREW MELODIES.

In the valley of waters we wept o'er the day
When the host of the stranger made Salem his prey;
And our heads on our bosoms all droopingly lay,
And our hearts were so full of the land far away.

The song they demanded in vain-it lay still

In our souls as the wind that hath died on the hill,
They called for the harp, but our blood they shall spill,
Ere our right hands shall teach them one tone of their skill

All stringlessly hung on the willow's sad tree,
As dead as her dead leaf those mute harps must be,
Our hands may be fettered, our tears still are free,
For our God and our glory, and Sion! for thee.

October, 1814.

THEY say that Hope is happiness,

But genuine Love must prize the past;
And Memory wakes the thoughts that bless-
They rose the first, they set the last.

And all that Memory loves the most
Was once our only hope to be;
And all that hope adored and lost
Hath melted into memory.

Alas! it is delusion all

The future cheats us from afar,

Nor can we be what we recall

Nor dare we think on what we are.

October, 1814.

THE IRISH AVATAR.

I.

ERE the daughter of Brunswick is cold in her grave,
And her ashes still float to their home o'er the tide,

* On the King's visit to Ireland in 1821.

Lo! George the triumphant speeds over the wave,

To the long-cherish'd isle which he loved like his — bride.

II.

True, the great of her bright and brief era are gone,
The rainbow-like epoch where Freedom could pause
For the few little years, out of centuries won,

Which betray'd not, or crush'd not, or wept not her cause.

III.

True, the chains of the Catholic clank o'er his rags,
The castle still stands, and the senate 's no more,
And the famine which dwelt on her freedomless crags
Is extending its steps to her desolate shore.

IV.

To her desolate shore - where the emigrant stands
For a moment to gaze ere he flies from his hearth ;
Tears fall on his chain though it drops from his hands,
For the dungeon he quits is the place of his birth.

V.

But he comes! the Messiah of royalty comes!
Like a goodly Leviathan roll'd from the waves!
Then receive him as best such an advent becomes,
With a legion of cooks and an army of slaves!

VI.

He comes in the promise and bloom of threescore,
To perform in the pageant the sovereign's part-
But long live the shamrock which shadows him o'er!
Could the green in his hat be transferr'd to his heart!

VII.

Could that long-wither'd spot but be verdant again,
And a new spring of noble affections arise -

Then might freedom forgive thee this dance in thy chain,
And this shout of thy slavery which saddens the skies.

VIII.

Is it madness or meanness which clings to thee now !
Were he God - as he is but the commonest clay,
With scarce fewer wrinkles than sins on his brow-
Such servile devotion might shame him away.

IX.

Ay, roar in his train! let thine orators lash
Their fanciful spirits to pamper his pride
Not thus did thy Grattan indignantly flash
His soul o'er the freedom implored and denied.

X.

Ever glorious Grattan! the best of the good!
So simple in heart, so sublime in the rest!
With all which Demosthenes wanted endued,
And his rival or victor in all he possess'd.

XI.

Ere Tully arose in the zenith of Rome,

Though unequall'd, preceded, the task was begunBut Grattan sprung up like a God from the tomb ages, the first, last, the saviour, the one!

Of

XII.

With the skill of an Orpheus to soften the brute;
With the fire of Prometheus to kindle mankind;

Even Tyranny listening sate melted or mute,

And Corruption shrunk scorch'd from the glance of his

mind.

XIII.

But back to our theme! Back to despots and slaves!
Feasts furnish'd by Famine! rejoicings by Pain!
True Freedom but welcomes, while slavery still raves,
When a week's saturnalia hath loosen'd her chain.

XIV.

Let the poor squalid splendour thy wreck can afford (As the bankrupt's profusion his ruin would hide) Gild over the palace. Lo! Erin, thy lord!

Kiss his foot with thy blessing for blessings denied.

XV.

Or if freedom past hope be extorted at last,

If the idol of brass find his feet are of clay,

Must what terror or policy wring forth be class'd

With what monarchs ne'er give, but as wolves yield their prey?

VOL. V.-P P