Chief nourisher, great nature's second course,
Say, did his stern abettor* feast on thee?
Nay prey'd on her the vulture of remorse;
Her slumbers were but blood-stained revery.†
For sleep, that lulls the unpolluted heart,
Changing its nature, bids the felon start.
"Out, crimson spot !" alas! it cries you nay:
Aside, her mirror conscience will not lay;
But night reflect the horrors of the day.
But wound there is, o'er which the balm,
And sweetness of its holy calm,
Elysian slumber's silent hour,

Like wine and oil, can softly pour.

Were it not so, how should we find

The poet call it balm of stricken mind?—

Is my mind hurt ?§-No shriek of conscience scares; Of buried crime-no hideous phantom glares;

But peace of mind refreshingly attest

Calm nights of innocent untroubled rest :
Or if repose be (rarely) not enjoyed,
'Tis to my body, not my soul, denied.
Is my mind hurt, (it well might be)
By others' animosity?-

Not so; it can smile pensively;
Nay, brighten into transient glee;

* Lady Macbeth.

+ Act 5, Sc. 1.-Somnambulism is Revery.

"You see, her eyes are open :→

Nor darkling then, the flash entomb
In murk of quick-devouring gloom;
But let the garish beam of sprightly Day.
To twilight's milder radiance pine away.
Twilight, pale emblem of declining Age,
Wearied of life, that seeks the hermitage :*
Soft, waning lustre, mingled dark and light,
That meekly fading, languish into night!—
Is my heart wounded? It can sigh,
Certes, at times, dejectedly,

O'er a new perfidy detected,
Or itself outraged and neglected;
While a rare grief-drop, from the eye,
May bear this sigh-gust company ;
And, like the veil of summer-cloud,
My cheek and brow pale sorrow shroud;

But soon, my temper, open and serene,

When scarce the shower is past, shines out again. Nay, I can mingle smile with sigh;

'Gainst shock of Man's malignity,

Clothed in bright Heaven-wrought panoply;
Corselet and shield, of proof and power,

To guard from "iron sleet of arrowy shower :†
Sharp sleet, with mortal venom deep imbued;
Venom, in murk of utter darkness brew'd,
By serpent Slander, and her hissing Brood.

* And may at last my weary age

Find out the peaceful hermitage.-Milton.
+ Iron sleet of arrowy shower.-Gray.
Sharp sleet of arrowy shower.-Milton.

66

A FALSE ALARM.

-prohibete minas !-talem avertite casum!

Fill high the sparkling bowl;

VIRGIL.

The rich repast prepare :"

The Lordly train that meant to share,
O say why tarry they? and where?—
What wild low murmur thrills my soul?
Flits there a death-sob in the air,
Moaning its fearful augury?

Or does the Tempest answer me ?*

66

The Tempest speaks.

Gaily the gallant vessel goes;

Unmindful of the whirlwind's sway,

That, hush'd to horrible repose,

Grimly expects its evening prey:
Sat youth and joy at helm and prow;
Listener, my breath has laid them low!

The four first stanzas were composed during the day, on which an appalling report prevailed, that a packet had gone down, crowded with passengers; and containing, amongst these, ten distinguished Noblemen, Peers of Great Britain and this country. The remaining stanzas were added after this report had been corrected; and the real (and still melancholy) truth had been ascertained. The lines were written during the visit of George IV. to Ireland.

Look not to greeting welcome here;
For deep beneath the tumbling wave,
Your guests have found a watery grave;
Or welter on a watery bier."

When in the hall the banquet spread,
Their lustre lights profusely shed

On glittering guest, and sumptuous cheer,
And Musick forms the atmosphere,—
If famish'd Tiger's growl were heard,
Or ravening Lion's wrath appear'd,
Alas! how frightful thus to see
Fate rushing on Festivity!

When Samson's patriot vigour burns,
And feast to ghastly carnage turns,
We bow before the heaven-taught ire;
And even in trembling, we admire.

But here we part with what we cherish'd ;
Worth, Loyalty, Rank, Talent, all!

It is the Innocent have perish'd;

It is the Amiable that fall!

False Rumour hence! and shuddering Fear

Avaunt you! softer tidings cheer;

Leading from horrible surmise,
To soothing hopes again:

Gulp'd by the whelming hurricane,
No gorgeous train of Nobles sleep
In caverns of th' insatiate deep;

Their knell while gathering billows roar;
Or wildly wailing gusts deplore;

And shriek their obsequies.

All safe from wreck, and tempest fury, bring
Their brilliant welcome to their cordial King.

Alas! some hapless victims have
Drain'd to the death the briny wave;
And tho' they be not of the grand,
Or purple Nobles of the Land,
Yet must soft Pity join the tear

That Friendship mingles with their liquid bier.

For the poor lost ones while we grieve,

Let melting charity relieve,

With liberal hand, and solace warm,

The naked wretches, that survive

The pelting of that pitiless storm!

When Charity hath done her Christian part,
And soft regrets have purified the heart,
To gladness be the glittering rein
Less soberly than freely given;
Nor Care corrode, nor Sorrow stain
The loyal vows we waft to Heaven;
The joy, that with a generous swell,

Which who shall blame? or what shall quell?

Cries-" hence with legend stale, of fated stone!

The Irish Heart is George's Irish Throne !"

To the classic reader I need not observe, that for whatever is good in my first and second stanzas, his acknowledgments

I