And Sylphs, like other pretty creatures,

EXTRACT

FROM A PROLOGUE WRITTEN AND SPOKEN BY THE AUTHOR, AT THE OPENING OF THE KILKENNY THEATRE, OCTOBER, 1809.

YET, even here, though Fiction rules the hour, There shine some genuine smiles, beyond her power;

And there are tears, too—tears that Memory sheds Ev'n o'er the feast that mimic fancy spreads, When her heart misses one lamented guest, 1 Whose eye so long threw light o'er all the rest! There, there, indeed, the Muse forgets her task, And drooping weeps behind Thalia's mask.

Forgive this gloom-forgive this joyless strain,
Too sad to welcome pleasure's smiling train.
But, meeting thus, our hearts will part the lighter,
As mist at dawn but makes the setting brighter;
Gay Epilogue will shine where Prologue fails-
As glow-worms keep their splendour for their tails.

I know not why-but time, methinks, hath pass'd
More fleet than usual since we parted last.
It seems but like a dream of yester-night,
Whose charm still hangs, with fond, delaying light;
And, ere the memory lose one glowing hue
Of former joy, we come to kindle new.
Thus ever may the flying moments haste
With trackless foot along life's vulgar waste,
But deeply print and lingeringly move,
When thus they reach the sunny spots we love.
Oh yes, whatever be our gay career,
Let this be still the solstice of the year,
Where Pleasure's sun shall at its height remain,
And slowly sink to level life again.

THE SYLPH'S BALL.

A SYLPH, as bright as ever sported
Her figure through the fields of air,
By an old swarthy Gnome was courted,
And, strange to say, he won the fair.

The annals of the oldest witch

A pair so sorted could not show, But how refuse?-the Gnome was rich, The Rothschild of the world below;

1 The late Mr. John Lyster, one of the oldest members and best actors of the Kilkenny Theatrical Society.

Thus gifted, thou never canst sleep in the shade; If the stirrings of Genius, the music of fame, And the charms of thy cause have not power to persuade,

Yet think how to Freedom thou'rt pledg'd by thy Name.

Like the boughs of that laurel, by Delphi's decree
Set apart for the Fane and its service divine,
So the branches, that spring from the old Russell
tree,

Are by Liberty claim'd for the use of her Shrine.

MY BIRTH-DAY.

"My birth-day "—what a diff'rent sound That word had in my youthful ears! And how, each time the day comes round, Less and less white its mark appears!

When first our scanty years are told,
It seems like pastime to grow old;
And, as Youth counts the shining links,
That Time around him binds so fast,
Pleas'd with the task, he little thinks

How hard that chain will press at last. Vain was the man, and false as vain,

66

Who said "were he ordain'd to run 'His long career of life again,

"He would do all that he had done."-
Ah, 'tis not thus the voice, that dwells
In sober birth-days, speaks to me;
Far otherwise-of time it tells,

Lavish'd unwisely, carelessly;

Of counsel mock'd; of talents, made
Haply for high and pure designs,
But oft, like Israel's incense, laid
Upon unholy, earthly shrines;
Of nursing many a wrong desire;

Of wandering after Love too far,
And taking every meteor fire,

That cross'd my pathway, for his star.All this it tells, and, could I trace

The' imperfect picture o'er again, With pow'r to add, retouch, efface

The lights and shades, the joy and pain, How little of the past would stay! How quickly all should melt away All-but that Freedom of the Mind,

Which hath been more than wealth to me;

1 FONTENELLE.-"Si je recommençais ma carrière, je ferai tout ce que j'ai fait."

Those friendships, in my boyhood twin'd,
And kept till now unchangingly;
And that dear home, that saving ark,

Where Love's true light at last I've found, Cheering within, when all grows dark, And comfortless, and stormy round!

FANCY.

THE more I've view'd this world, the more I've found,

That, fill'd as 'tis with scenes and creatures rare, Fancy commands, within her own bright round, A world of scenes and creatures far more fair. Nor is it that her power can call up there

A single charm, that's not from nature won,-
No more than rainbows, in their pride, can wear
A single tint unborrow'd from the sun;
But 'tis the mental medium it shines through,
That lends to Beauty all its charm and hue;
As the same light, that o'er the level lake
One dull monotony of lustre flings,

Will, entering in the rounded rain-drop, make
Colours as gay as those on angels' wings!

SONG.

FANNY, DEAREST !

YES! had I leisure to sigh and mourn,
Fanny, dearest, for thee I'd sigh;
And every smile on my cheek should turn
To tears when thou art nigh.

But, between love, and wine, and sleep,
So busy a life I live,

That even the time it would take to weep
Is more than my heart can give.
Then wish me not to despair and pine,
Fanny, dearest of all the dears!
The Love that's order'd to bathe in wine,
Would be sure to take cold in tears.

Reflected bright in this heart of mine,
Fanny dearest, thy image lies;
But, ah! the mirror would cease to shine,
If dimm'd too often with sighs.
They lose the half of beauty's light,

Who view it through sorrow's tear;
And 'tis but to see thee truly bright
That I keep my eye-beams clear.

First course-a Phoenix, at the head,
Done in its own celestial ashes;
At foot, a cygnet, which kept singing
All the time its neck was wringing.
Side dishes, thus-Minerva's owl,
Or any such like learned fowl:
Doves, such as heav'n's poulterer gets,
When Cupid shoots his mother's pets.
Larks, stew'd in Morning's roseate breath,
Or roasted by a sunbeam's splendour;
And nightingales, berhymed to death-

Like young pigs whipp'd to make them tender.

Such fare may suit those bards, who're able
To banquet at Duke Humphrey's table;
But as for me, who've long been taught

To eat and drink like other people;
And can put up with mutton, bought

Where Bromham 3 rears its ancient steeple-
If Lansdowne will consent to share
My humble feast, though rude the fare,
Yet, season'd by that salt he brings
From Attica's salinest springs,

"Twill turn to dainties;- while the cup
Beneath his influence bright'ning up,
Like that of Baucis, touch'd by Jove,
Will sparkle fit for gods above!

VERSES TO THE POET CRABBE'S INKSTAND. 4

WRITTEN MAY, 1832.

ALL, as he left it !-ev'n the pen,
So lately at that mind's command,
Carelessly lying, as if then

Just fall'n from his gifted hand.

Have we then lost him? scarce an hour, A little hour, seems to have past, Since Life and Inspiration's pow'r Around that relic breath'd their last.

Ah, pow'rless now-like talisman,

Found in some vanish'd wizard's halls, Whose mighty charm with him began, Whose charm with him extinguish'd falls.

4 Soon after Mr. Crabbe's death, the sons of that gentleman did me the honour of presenting to me the inkstand, pencil, &c. which their distinguished father had long been in the habit of using.