our glory,

Our vision, when absent when present Where thou art, O Liberty! there is my home.

Farewell to the land where in childhood I've wandered!

In vain is she mighty, in vain is she brave!

Unblest is the blood that for tyrants is squandered,

And fame has no wreaths for the brow of the slave.

But hail to thee, Albion! who meet'st the commotion

Of Europe as calm as thy cliffs meet the foam!

With no bonds but the law, and no slave but the ocean,

Hail, Temple of Liberty! thou art my home.

OH think, when a hero is sighing,
What danger in such an adorer !
What woman can dream of denying
The hand that lays laurels before her?
No heart is so guarded around,

But the smile of a victor will take it; No bosom can slumber so sound,

But the trumpet of glory will wake it.

Love sometimes is given to sleeping,

And woe to the heart that allows him; For oh, neither smiling nor weeping

Has power at those moments to rouse him.

But tho' he was sleeping so fast,

That the life almost seemed to forsake him,

Believe me, one soul-thrilling blast

From the trumpet of glory would wake him.

OCCASIONAL EPILOGUE.

SPOKEN BY MR. CORRY, IN THE CHARACTER OF VAPID, AFTER THE PLAY OF THE DRAMATIST, AT THE KILKENNY THEATRE.

(Entering as if to announce the Play.) LADIES and Gentlemen, on Monday night, For the ninth time-oh accents of delight To the poor author's ear, when three times three

With a full bumper crowns his Comedy! When, long by money, and the muse, forsaken,

He finds at length his jokes and boxes taken,

And sees his play-bill circulate — alas, The only bill on which his name will pass! Thus, Vapid, thus shall Thespian scrolls of fame

Thro' box and gallery waft your wellknown name,

While critic eyes the happy cast shall con, And learned ladies spell your Dram. Per

son.

'T is said our worthy Manager intends To help my night, and he, you know, has friends.

Friends, did I say? for fixing friends, or parts,

Engaging actors, or engaging hearts, There's nothing like him! wits, at his

request,

Are turned to fools, and dull dogs learn

to jest;

Soldiers, for him, good "trembling cowards " make,

And beaus, turned clowns, look ugly for

his sake;

For him even lawyers talk without a fee, For him (oh friendship!) / act tragedy! In short, like Orpheus, his persuasive tricks

Make boars amusing, and put life in sticks.

1 The late Mr. Richard Power.

Memory sheds

Even 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.

And, strange to say, he won the fair.