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Denis Florence MacCarthy
This eBook from the Gutenberg Project consists of approximately 63 pages of information about Poems.

“And there are more, of kindred mind;”—­
When, with a face more bland and kind,
  The Sage, in soften’d tone, replied: 
“’Twas Error made to me the den
More grateful than the haunts of men;
  Henceforth mankind shall be my pride.”

[Footnote A:  This alludes to a munificent donation of a very handsome fortune, which this Lady presented, without any claim of consanguinity or connexion, to a young Lady of great merit.]

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To the Tune of “Oh!  Lady fair! where art thou going?”

Sing, bird of grief! still eve descending,
And soothe a mind with sorrow rending;
Ne’er may I see the blush of morrow,
But close this night the sigh of sorrow;

Then, if some wand’rer here directed
Shall find my mossy grave neglected,
May he replace the weed that’s growing
With the nearest flow’r that’s blowing!

IMPROMPTU LINES

UPON A VERY HANDSOME WOMAN

Keeping the Hotel de Lion Blanc, at Dantzig.

The sign of the house should be chang’d, I’ll be sworn,
  Where enchanted we find so much beauty and grace;
Then quick from the door let the lion be torn,
  And an angel expand her white wings in his place.

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UPON SEEING A BEAUTIFUL INFANT SLEEPING ON THE
BOSOM OF ITS MOTHER.

Upon its native pillow dear,
  The little slumb’rer finds repose;
His fragrant breath eludes the ear—­
  A zephyr passing o’er a rose.

Yet soon from that pure spot of rest
  (Love’s little throne!) shalt thou be torn;
Time hovers o’er thy downy nest,
  To crown thy baby-brow with thorn.

Ah! thoughtless! couldst thou now but see
  On what a world thou soon must move,
Or taste the cup prepar’d for thee
  Of grief, lost hopes, or widow’d love,

Ne’er from that breast thou’d’st raise thine head,
  But thou would’st breathe to Heav’n a pray’r
To let thee, ere thy blossom fade,
  In one fond sigh exhale thee there.

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WRITTEN AT FREDENSBORG,

The deserted Palace of the late Queen Dowager Juliana Maria[A].

  Bless’d are the steps of Virtue’s queen! 
    Where’er she moves fresh roses bloom;
And, when she droops, kind Nature pours
Her genuine tears in gentle show’rs,
  That love to dew the willow green
    That over-canopies her tomb.

  But, ah! no willing mourner here
    Attends to tell the tale of woe: 
Why is yon statue prostrate thrown? 
Why has the grass green’d o’er the stone? 
  Why, ’gainst the spider’d casement drear,
    So sullen seems the wind to blow?

  How mournful was the lonely bird,
    Within yon dark neglected grove! 
Say, was it fancy?  From its throat
Issu’d a strange and cheerless note;
  ’Twas not so sad as grief I heard,
    Nor yet so wildly sweet as love.

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