SONG.

ON THE BIRTHDAY OF MRS.

WRITTEN IN IRELAND. 1799.

Of all my happiest hours of joy,

And even I have had my measure, When hearts were full, and ev'ry eye

Hath kindled with the light of pleasure, An hour like this I ne'er was given,

So full of friendship's purest blisses;
Young Love himself looks down from heaven,
To smile on such a day as this is.

Then come, my friends, this hour improve,
Let's feel as if we ne'er could sever;
And may the birth of her we love

Be thus with joy remember'd ever !

Oh banish ev'ry thought to-night,

Which could disturb our soul's communion; Abandon'd thus to dear delight,

We'll ev'n for once forget the Union!

On that let statesmen try their pow'rs,

And tremble o'er the rights they'd die for;

The union of the soul be ours,

And ev'ry union else we sigh for.

Then come, my friends, &c.

In ev'ry eye around I mark

The feelings of the heart o'erflowing;

From ev'ry soul I catch the spark

Of sympathy, in friendship glowing.

Oh! could such moments ever fly;

Oh! that we ne'er were doom'd to lose 'em ;
And all as bright as Charlotte's eye,
And all as pure as Charlotte's bosom.

Then come, my friends, &c.

For me, whate'er my span of years,
Whatever sun may light my roving;
Whether I waste my life in tears,

Or live, as now, for mirth and loving;
This day shall come with aspect kind,
Wherever fate may cast your rover;
He'll think of those he left behind,

And drink a health to bliss that's over!
Then come, my friends, &c.

SONG. 1

MARY, I believ'd thee true.

And I was blest in thus believing;

1 These words were written to the pathetic Scotch air "Galla Water."

MORALITY.

A FAMILIAR EPISTLE.

ADDRESSED TO

J. AT-NS-N, ESQ. M. R. I. A.

THOUGH long at school and college dosing,
O'er books of verse and books of prosing,
And copying from their moral pages
Fine recipes for making sages;
Though long with those divines at school,
Who think to make us good by rule;
Who, in methodic forms advancing,
Teaching morality like dancing,
Tell us, for Heaven or money's sake,
What steps we are through life to take:
Though thus, my friend, so long employ'd,
With so much midnight oil destroy'd,

I must confess, my searches past,
I've only learn'd to doubt at last.
I find the doctors and the sages
Have differ'd in all climes and ages,
And two in fifty scarce agree
On what is pure morality.

"Tis like the rainbow's shifting zone,
And every vision makes its own.

The doctors of the Porch advise, As modes of being great and wise, That we should cease to own or know The luxuries that from feeling flow:"Reason alone must claim direction, "And Apathy's the soul's perfection.

But thus it is, all sects we see

Have watchwords of morality:
Some cry out Venus, others Jove;
Here 'tis Religion, there 'tis Love.

But while they thus so widely wander,
While mystics dream, and doctors ponder;
And some, in dialectics firm,

Seek virtue in a middle term;

While thus they strive, in Heaven's defiance,
To chain morality with science;
The plain good man, whose actions teach
More virtue than a sect can preach,
Pursues his course, unsagely blest,
His tutor whisp'ring in his breast;
Nor could he act a purer part,
Though he had Tully all by heart.
And when he drops the tear on woe,
He little knows or cares to know

1 Aristippus.

That Epictetus blam'd that tear,
By Heaven approv'd, to virtue dear!

Oh! when I've seen the morning beam Floating within the dimpled stream; While Nature, wak'ning from the night, Has just put on her robes of light, Have I, with cold optician's gaze, Explor'd the doctrine of those rays? No, pedants, I have left to you Nicely to sep'rate hue from hue. Go, give that moment up to art, When Heaven and nature claim the heart; And, dull to all their best attraction, Go-measure angles of refraction. While I, in feeling's sweet romance, Look on each day beam as a glance From the great eye of Him above, Wak'ning his world with looks of love!

THE

TELL-TALE LYRE.

I've heard, there was in ancient days
A Lyre of most melodious spell;
"Twas heav'n to hear its fairy lays,
If half be true that legends tell.

'Twas play'd on by the gentlest sighs,

And to their breath it breath'd again

In such entrancing melodies

As ear had never drunk till then!

Not harmony's serenest touch

So stilly could the notes prolong; They were not heavenly song so much As they were dreams of heavenly song!

If sad the heart, whose murm'ring air
Along the chords in languor stole,
The numbers it awaken'd there
Were eloquence from pity's soul.

Or if the sigh, serene and light,

Was but the breath of fancied woes, The string, that felt its airy flight, Soon whisper'd it to kind repose.

And when young lovers talk'd alone,

If, mid their bliss that Lyre was near,

It made their accents all its own,

And sent forth notes that Heaven might hear.