John Carr

Wide thro' the azure blue and bright
Serenely floats the lamp of night;
The sleeping waves forget to move,
And silent is the cedar grove;
Each breeze suspended seems to say -
"Now, Leline, for thy Roundelay!"

My Delia's lids are clos'd in rest;
Ah! were her pillow but my breast!
Go, dreams! one gentle word impart,
In whispers place me by her heart;
While near her door I'll fondly stray,
And sooth her with my Roundelay.

But, ah! the Night draws in her shade,
And glimm'ring stars reluctant fade:
Yet sleep, my love! nor may'st thou feel
The pangs which griefs like mine reveal:
Adieu! for Morning's on his way,
And bids me close my Roundelay.

These shades were made for Love alone, -
Here only smiles and kisses sweet
Shall play around his flow'ry throne,
And doves shall sentinel the seat.

Come, Delia! 'tis a genial day;
It bids us to his bow'r repair: -
"But what will little Cupid say?" -
"Say! sweet? - why, give a welcome there."

There not a tell-tale beam shall peep
Upon thy beauty's rich display, -
There not a breeze shall dare to sweep
The leaves, to whisper what we say.

When stormy show'rs from Heav'n descend,
And with their weight the lily bend,
The Sun will soon his aid bestow,
And drink the drops that laid it low.

Oh! thus, when sorrow wrings the heart,
A sigh may rise, a tear may start;
Pity shall soon the face impress
With all its looks of happiness.

Alas! but like a summer's dream
All the delight I felt appears,
While mis'ry's weeping moments seem
A ling'ring age of tears.

Then breathe my sorrows, plaintive lute!
And pour thy soft consoling tone,
While I, a list'ning mourner mute,
Will call each tender grief my own.

Thou, lamp! the gods benignly gave,
To light a lover on his way;
Thou, Moon! along the silv'ry wave,
Ah! safe this flutt'ring heart convey: -

Sweet is thy light, and sweet thy shade,
The guide and guardian of our bliss,
A lover's panting lips to lead,
Or veil him in the ravish'd kiss.

Her white robe floats upon the air;
My Lyra hears the dashing oar:
Ye floods, oh! speed me to my fair!
My soul is with her long before.

Oh! lightly haste, thy lover view,
And ev'ry anxious fear resign;
Ye tow'rs, no longer fear'd, adieu!
The treasure which ye held is mine!

See, the waves clasp the Sun, as he sinks from our sight,
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!

In the deed should we fall, (since who'll e'er breathe a slave?)
Our free souls shall repose in the realms of the brave;
In the song we shall live, and fresh heroes inspire,
While the son shall exult in the fate of his sire.

Then know, ye white race! ye too long shake the rod;
By this arm ye shall soon be dismiss'd to your God!
Then demand, if he bade ye torment, why he gave
All the soul of a man to the breast of a slave?

Then prepare; know our hatchets atone for our wrong,
And our hearts, like our hatchets, are stubborn and strong:
Sleep you...

Poor Molly O'Flannagan (Lord rest her soul!)
Drank so deeply of whiskey, 'twas thought she would die;
Her fond lover, Pat, from her nate cabin stole,
And stepp'd into Dublin to buy her a pie.
Oh! poor Molly O'Flannagan!

Tho' chin-deep in sorrow, yet fun he lov'd well;
A pie-man pass'd near, crying "Pies" at his aise;
"Here are pies of all sorts." - "Oh! if all sorts you sell,
Then a twopenny magpie for me, if you plaise!"
Oh! poor Molly O'Flannagan!

The Cit, relying on his trade,
Which, like all other things, may fade,
Longs for a curricle and villa:
This Hatchet splendidly supplies,
The other Cock'ril builds, or buys,
To charm himself and Miss Hautilla.

Then swift, O London! he retires,
To be, from all thy smoke and spires,
From Saturday till Sunday, merry:
On Sunday crowds of friends attend;
His house and garden some commend,
And all admire his port and sherry.

His mistress urg'd him now to play,
And cut to wealth a shorter way,
Now as a bride she heads his table;
But still our Cit observ'd his time.
Returning at St. Cripple's chime,
At least as near as he was able.

But soon she could not bear the sight
Of town; for walls with bow'rs unite,
As well as smoke w...

Echo! thou sweet enchantress of the grove!
Oh! cease to answer to the tones of love;
Or teach my Delia in thine art divine,
Thou loveliest nymph! to hear and answer mine!

To such extremes were I and Bet
Perpetually driven,
We quarrell'd every time we met,
To kiss, and be forgiven.

ORIGINAL.

Passant, ne pleure point son sort;
Car, s'il vivait, tu serais mort.


TRANSLATION.

Nay, passenger, don't mourn his lot;
If he had liv'd, why you had not.

How fairly Fortune all her gifts imparts;
We win your money, Ann, and you our hearts.

Well with the purpose does the place agree;
For e'en the very house is crack'd, you see.

By painful sickness long severely prest,
Here sinks, on Nature's sacred lap of rest,
A friend, who, in a life too short, display'd
A mind in virtue bright, without one shade.
Hence with unusual grief is Fondness mov'd,
Hence more than Pity's sighs for one belov'd;
Unshaken Honour sheds a manly tear,
And weeping Virtue stops, a mourner here.

Epitaph To The Memory Of A Worthy Man, The Rev. Mr. Sleep, Curate Of Kingswear Church, Devon, Whose Devotional Elocution Was Remarkably Impregnated With Soporific Qualities.

Reader! since Parson Sleep is gone,
And lies beneath yon humble stone,
Whene'er to Kingswear Church we go,
Holy the sabbath-day to keep
(Indeed 'tis right it should be so),
We never more shall go to sleep.

Bristol! in vain thy rocks attempt the sky,
The wild woods waving on their giddy brow;
And vainly, devious Avon! vainly sigh
Thy waters, winding thro' the vales below; -

In vain, upon thy glassy bosom borne,
Th' expected vessel proudly glides along,
While, 'mid thy echoes, at the break of morn
Is heard the homeward ship-boy's happy song; -

For, ah! amid thy sweet romantic shade,
By Friendship led, fair drooping Beauty moves;
Thy hallow'd cup of health affords no aid,
Nor charm thy birds, that chant their woodland loves.

Each morn I view her thro' thy wave-girt grove,
Her white robe flutt'ring round her sinking form;
O'er the sweet ruin shine those eyes of love,
As bright stars beaming thro' a midnight storm.

Here sorrowing Love seeks a ...

When men exert their utmost pow'rs,
To while away the tedious hours,
With soothing Flatt'ry's art,
When ev'ry art and work well skill'd,
And ev'ry look with poison fill'd,
Assail a woman's heart,

Tho' ardently she'd wish to be
Proof 'gainst the charms of Flattery,
The task is hard, I ween;
Self-love will whisper "'Tis quite true,
Who can there be more fair than you?
Who more admir'd, when seen?"

Then take this tempting gift of thine,
Nor e'er again wish me to shine
In any borrow'd bloom:
Nor rouge, nor compliments, can charm;
Full well I know they both will harm;
Truth is my only plume.

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.