A Petition
Venus, when you string your bow,
Here no longer aim.
I am full of wounds enow:
Seek some other game.
Here no longer aim.
I am full of wounds enow:
Seek some other game.
Epitaph on the Tombstone of a Child, the Last of Seven That Died Before
This Little, Silent, Gloomy Monument,
Contains all that was sweet and innocent;
The softest pratler that e'er found a Tongue,
His Voice was Musick and his Words a Song;
Which now each List'ning Angel smiling hears,
Such pretty Harmonies compose the Spheres;
Wanton as unfledg'd Cupids, ere their Charms
Had learn'd the little arts of doing harms;
Fair as young Cherubins, as soft and kind,
And tho translated could not be refin'd;
The Seventh dear pledge the Nuptial Joys had given,
Toil'd here on Earth, retir'd to rest in Heaven;
Contains all that was sweet and innocent;
The softest pratler that e'er found a Tongue,
His Voice was Musick and his Words a Song;
Which now each List'ning Angel smiling hears,
Such pretty Harmonies compose the Spheres;
Wanton as unfledg'd Cupids, ere their Charms
Had learn'd the little arts of doing harms;
Fair as young Cherubins, as soft and kind,
And tho translated could not be refin'd;
The Seventh dear pledge the Nuptial Joys had given,
Toil'd here on Earth, retir'd to rest in Heaven;
Upon the Anonymous Author of Legion's Humble Address to the Lords
Thou tool of faction, mercenary scribe,
Who preachest treason to the Calveshead tribe,
Whose fruitful head, in garret mounted high,
Sees legions, and strange monsters, in the sky;
Who would'st with war and blood thy country fill,
Were but thy power as rampant as thy will:
Well may'st thou boast thy self a million strong,
But 'tis in vermin that about thee throng.
Who preachest treason to the Calveshead tribe,
Whose fruitful head, in garret mounted high,
Sees legions, and strange monsters, in the sky;
Who would'st with war and blood thy country fill,
Were but thy power as rampant as thy will:
Well may'st thou boast thy self a million strong,
But 'tis in vermin that about thee throng.
The Launch of a First-Rate
England hails thee with emotion,
Mightiest child of naval art!
Heaven resounds thy welcome; Ocean
Takes thee smiling to his heart.
Giant oaks of bold expansion
O'er seven hundred acres fell,
All to build thy noble mansion
Where our hearts of oak shall dwell.
'Midst those trees the wild deer bounded
Ages long ere we were born,
And our great-grandfathers sounded
Many a jovial hunting-horn.
Oaks that living did inherit
Grandeur from our earth and sky,
Still robust, the native spirit
In your timbers shall not die.
To the Battle, Men of Erin
To the battle, men of Erin,
To the front of battle go;
Every breast the shamrock wearing
Burns to meet his country's foe.
What though, France, thine eagle standard
Spreading terror far and nigh,
Over Europe's skies hath wander'd
On the wings of victory—
Yet thy vauntings us dismay not,
Tell us when ye, hand to hand,
Ever stood the charging bay'net
Of a right true Irish hand.
Erin, when the swords are glancing
In the dark fight, loves to see
Foremost still her plumage dancing,
To the trumpet's jubilee.
To the front of battle go;
Every breast the shamrock wearing
Burns to meet his country's foe.
What though, France, thine eagle standard
Spreading terror far and nigh,
Over Europe's skies hath wander'd
On the wings of victory—
Yet thy vauntings us dismay not,
Tell us when ye, hand to hand,
Ever stood the charging bay'net
Of a right true Irish hand.
Erin, when the swords are glancing
In the dark fight, loves to see
Foremost still her plumage dancing,
To the trumpet's jubilee.
Lines On My New Child Sweetheart
I hold it a religious duty
To love and worship children's beauty;
They've least the taint of earthly clod,
They're freshest from the land of God;
With heavenly looks they make us sure
The heaven that made them must be pure;
We love them not in earthly fashion,
But with a beatific passion.
I chanced to yesterday behold
A maiden child of beauty's mould;
'Twas near, more sacred was the scene,
The palace of our patriot Queen.
The little charmer to my view
Was sculpture brought to life anew.
Her eyes had a poetic glow,
The Second Rapture
No, worlding, no, 'tis not thy gold,
Which thou dost use but to behold;
Nor fortune, honour, nor long life,
Children, or friends, nor a good wife,
That makes thee happy: these things be
But shadows of felicity.
Give me a wench about thirteen,
Already voted to the queen
Of lust and lovers; whose soft hair,
Fann'd with the breath of gentle air,
O'erspreads her shoulders like a tent,
And is her veil and ornament;
Whose tender touch will make the blood
Wild in the aged and the good;
Whose kisses, fast'ned to the mouth
Which thou dost use but to behold;
Nor fortune, honour, nor long life,
Children, or friends, nor a good wife,
That makes thee happy: these things be
But shadows of felicity.
Give me a wench about thirteen,
Already voted to the queen
Of lust and lovers; whose soft hair,
Fann'd with the breath of gentle air,
O'erspreads her shoulders like a tent,
And is her veil and ornament;
Whose tender touch will make the blood
Wild in the aged and the good;
Whose kisses, fast'ned to the mouth
Impromptu, To Oriana
Lady! who didst—with angel-look and smile,
And the sweet lustre of those dear, dark eyes,
Gracefully bend before the font of Christ,
In humble adoration, faith, and prayer!
Oh!—as the infant pledge of friends beloved
Received from thy pure lips its future name,
Sweetly unconscious look'd the baby-boy!
How beautifully helpless—and how mild!
—Methought, a seraph spread her shelt'ring wings
Over the solemn scene; and as the sun,
In its full splendour, on the altar came,
God's blessing seem'd to sanctify the deed.
And the sweet lustre of those dear, dark eyes,
Gracefully bend before the font of Christ,
In humble adoration, faith, and prayer!
Oh!—as the infant pledge of friends beloved
Received from thy pure lips its future name,
Sweetly unconscious look'd the baby-boy!
How beautifully helpless—and how mild!
—Methought, a seraph spread her shelt'ring wings
Over the solemn scene; and as the sun,
In its full splendour, on the altar came,
God's blessing seem'd to sanctify the deed.
Signs and Tokens
Said the red-cloaked crone
In a whispered moan:
"The dead man was limp
When laid in his chest;
Yea, limp; and why
But to signify
That the grave will crimp
Ere next year's sun
Yet another one
Of those in that house--
It may be the best--
For its endless drowse!"
Said the brown-shawled dame
To confirm the same:
"And the slothful flies
On the rotting fruit
Have been seen to wear
While crawling there
Crape scarves, by eyes
That were quick and acute;
As did those that had pitched
On the cows by the pails,
In a whispered moan:
"The dead man was limp
When laid in his chest;
Yea, limp; and why
But to signify
That the grave will crimp
Ere next year's sun
Yet another one
Of those in that house--
It may be the best--
For its endless drowse!"
Said the brown-shawled dame
To confirm the same:
"And the slothful flies
On the rotting fruit
Have been seen to wear
While crawling there
Crape scarves, by eyes
That were quick and acute;
As did those that had pitched
On the cows by the pails,
Life Laughs Onward
Rambling I looked for an old abode
Where, years back, one had lived I knew;
Its site a dwelling duly showed,
But it was new.
I went where, not so long ago,
The sod had riven two breasts asunder;
Daisies throve gaily there, as though
No grave were under.
I walked along a terrace where
Loud children gambolled in the sun;
The figure that had once sat there
Was missed by none.
Life laughed and moved on unsubdued,
I saw that Old succumbed to Young:
'Twas well. My too regretful mood
Died on my tongue.
Where, years back, one had lived I knew;
Its site a dwelling duly showed,
But it was new.
I went where, not so long ago,
The sod had riven two breasts asunder;
Daisies throve gaily there, as though
No grave were under.
I walked along a terrace where
Loud children gambolled in the sun;
The figure that had once sat there
Was missed by none.
Life laughed and moved on unsubdued,
I saw that Old succumbed to Young:
'Twas well. My too regretful mood
Died on my tongue.