is but a dream of woe.
Oft fostered on the lap of ease,
Grow racking pain and foul disease,
And nervous whims, a ghastly train,
Inflicting more than corp'ral pain:
Oft gold and shining pedigree
Prove only splendid misery.
The
king who sits upon his throne,
And calls the kneeling world his own,
Has oft of cares a greater load
Than he who feels his iron rod.
No state is free from care and pain
Where fiery passions get the rein,
Or soft indulgence, joined with ease,
Begets a thousand ills to tease:
Where fair Religion, heavenly maid,
Has slighted still her offered
aid.
Her matchless power the will subdues,
And gives the judgment
clearer views:
Denies no source of real pleasure,
And yields us
blessings out of measure;
Our prospect brightens, proves our stay,
December turns to smiling May;
Conveys us to that peaceful shore,
By raging billows lashed no more,
Where endless happiness remains,
And one eternal summer reigns.
VERSES SENT TO A LADY ON HER
BIRTHDAY.
The joyous day illumes the sky
That bids each care and sorrow fly
To shades of endless night:
E'en frozen age, thawed in the fires
Of
social mirth, feels young desires,
And tastes of fresh delight.
In thoughtful mood your parents dear,
Whilst joy smiles through the
starting tear,
Give approbation due.
As each drinks deep in mirthful wine
Your
rosy health, and looks benign
Are sent to heaven for you.
But let me whisper, lovely fair,
This joy may soon give place to care,
And sorrow cloud this day;
Full soon your eyes of sparkling blue,
And velvet lips of scarlet hue,
Discoloured, may decay.
As bloody drops on virgin snows,
So vies the lily with the rose
Full on your dimpled cheek;
But ah! the worm in lazy coil
May
soon prey on this putrid spoil,
Or leap in loathsome freak.
Fond wooers come with flattering tale,
And load with sighs the
passing gale,
And love-distracted rave:
But hark, fair maid! whate'er they say,
You're but a breathing mass of clay,
Fast ripening for the grave.
Behold how thievish Time has been!
Full eighteen summers you have
seen,
And yet they seem a day?
Whole years, collected in Time's glass,
In
silent lapse how soon they pass,
And steal your life away!
The flying hour none can arrest,
Nor yet recall one moment past,
And what more dread must seem
Is, that to-morrow's not your own--
Then haste! and ere your life has flown
The subtle hours redeem.
Attend with care to what I sing:
Know time is ever on the wing;
None can its flight detain;
Then, like a pilgrim passing by,
Take
home this hint, as time does fly,
"All earthly things are vain."
Let nothing here elate your breast,
Nor, for one moment, break your
rest,
In heavenly wisdom grow:
Still keep your anchor fixed above,
Where Jesus reigns in boundless love,
And streams of pleasure flow.
So shall your life glide smoothly by
Without a tear, without a sigh,
And purest joys will crown
Each birthday, as the year revolves,
Till
this clay tenement dissolves,
And leaves the soul unbound.
Then shall you land on Canaan's shore,
Where time and chance shall
be no more,
And joy eternal reigns;
There, mixing with the seraphs bright,
And
dressed in robes of heavenly light,
You'll raise angelic strains.
THE IRISH CABIN.
Should poverty, modest and clean,
E'er please, when presented to view,
Should cabin on brown heath, or
green,
Disclose aught engaging to you,
Should Erin's wild harp soothe the
ear
When touched by such fingers as mine,
Then kindly attentive draw
near,
And candidly ponder each line.
One day, when December's keen breath
Arrested the sweet running rill,
And Nature seemed frozen in death,
I thoughtfully strolled o'er the hill:
The mustering clouds wore a
frown,
The mountains were covered with snow,
And Winter his mantle of
brown
Had spread o'er the landscape below.
Thick rattling the footsteps were heard
Of peasants far down in the vale;
From lakes, bogs, and marshes
debarred,
The wild-fowl, aloft on the gale,
Loud gabbling and screaming were
borne,
Whilst thundering guns hailed the day,
And hares sought the thicket
forlorn,
Or, wounded, ran over the way.
No music was heard in the grove,
The blackbird and linnet and thrush,
And goldfinch and sweet cooing
dove,
Sat pensively mute in the bush:
The leaves that once wove a green
shade
Lay withered in heaps on the ground:
Chill Winter through grove,
wood, and glade
Spread sad desolation around.
But now the keen north wind 'gan whistle,
And gusty, swept over the sky;
Each hair, frozen, stood like a bristle,
And night thickened fast on the eye.
In swift-wheeling eddies the
snow
Fell, mingling and drifting amain,
And soon all distinction laid low,
As whitening it covered the plain.
A light its pale ray faintly shot
(The snow-flakes its splendour had shorn),
It came from a
neighbouring cot,
Some called it the Cabin of Mourne: {221}
A neat Irish Cabin,
snow-proof,
Well thatched, had a good earthen floor,
One chimney in midst of the
roof,
One window, and one latched door.
Escaped from the pitiless storm,
I entered the humble retreat;
Compact was the building, and warm,
Its furniture simple and neat.
And
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