WRITTEN AT KILKENNY,
ON THE THEATRICALS OF THAT CITY.
Amid the ruins of monastic gloom,
Where Nore’s meand’ring waters wind along,
Genius and Wealth have rais’d the tasteful dome,
Yet not alone for Fashion’s brilliant throng;—
In Virtue’s cause they take a noble aim;
’Tis theirs in sweetest harmony to blend
Wit with Compassion, Sympathy with Fame,
Pleasure the means, Beneficence the end[A].
There, if on Beauty’s cheek the tear appears
(Form’d by the mournful Muse’s mimic sigh),
Fast as it falls, a kindred drop it bears,
More sadly shed from genuine Misery.
Nor, if the laughter-loving Nymph delight,
Does the reviving transport perish there;
Still, still, with Pity’s radiance doubly bright,
Its smiles shed sunshine on the cheek of Care.
So, if Pomona’s golden fruit descend,
Shook by some breeze, into the lake below,
Quick will the dimple, which it forms, extend,
Till all around the joyous circles flow.
Bless’d be the liberal mind, th’ undaunted
That bade loud Folly from the Stage retire;
That teach us how to think, and how to feel,
And once again our godlike Bard admire!
Thus aided, see his rescued genius spring;
Again he pours the phrenzy of his song;
With EV’RY FEATHER[B] in his eagle wing,
Once more in majesty he soars along.
Oft, deck’d with smiles, his spirit shall explore,
Erin! thy beauteous vales and classic ground;
And ev’ry ripple of thy winding Nore
To him shall sweetly as his Avon’s sound.
22d Oct. 1805.
[Footnote A: The theatricals of Kilkenny are supported by gentlemen of rank and fashion in Ireland, and the profits are applied to charitable purposes.]
[Footnote B: Alluding to several fine passages of Shakspeare, which have been long omitted in representation, but restored at the theatricals of Kilkenny.]
UPON SEEING THE DILAPIDATED STATE OF
Well with the purpose does the place
For e’en the very house is crack’d, you see.
ON THE GRAVE OF ROBESPIERRE.
Passant, ne pleure point son sort;
Car, s’il vivait, tu serais mort.
Nay, passenger, don’t mourn his lot;
If he had liv’d, why you had not.
AN INDIAN MASSACRE-SONG.
See, the waves clasp the Sun, as he sinks from our
And Despair sullen rides on the wings of the night;
Lo! he comes, and reproaches our arms with delay,—
Then arise, let us go where Revenge points the way!