50 



SONNET 



TO A CLUSTER OF SNOW-DROPS IN 

 FEBRUARY. 



FiHST in the virgin coronet of Spring, 

 Meek modest flowers ! your stainless 

 buds I hail ; 

 O now.ere Zephyr breathes kind welcoming. 

 Or your light sister Primrose decks the 

 vale 

 "With brigiit-hue'd yellow bloomings, — 

 silentlyi 

 Under this old worn copse, unfenc'd 

 from cold. 

 While vegetation yet doth torpid lie, 

 Your little trembling bells I pleas'd 

 behold, 

 Spangling the earth withlustre. O ye look, 

 Snowdrops! so fair, so purified, so bland, 

 Ye lovely cheerers in this little nook. 

 Ye seem to have dropp'd frorn some 

 bright angel's hand, • 

 Forming his couch to rest on : then be ye, 

 Sweet flowers ! the type of Heaven's own 

 purity. Enort. 



STANZAS 



To her who has a right to appropriate them, 



and a disposition to appropriate the 



Author. 

 There is a beauty which the pow'r 



Of Time must pass uninj'ring by, — 

 A blooming amarantiiine flow'r, 



Which can each withering blast defy ; 

 And, while earth's sweeping tempests lour, 



Can lift unharm'd its head on high. 



'Tis not the beauty which I view 

 With fond delight in thy fair face, 



My ****, where every hue 



That Health, (gay limner!) paints,! trace. 



And all my soul hath imag'd to 

 Itself of loveliness and grace. 



It is not this : for Time, alas ! 



May rub the glowing tints away, 

 And o'er those cheeks his rough hand pass. 



And wrinkles plant where dimples play ; 

 And on the brow that polish'd was. 



Print the coarse furrows of his sway. 



'Tis not the lustre of thine eye, 



Tho' bright as is the evening star, 

 When o'er the azure arch on high 



She shines in glory from afar, 

 Ere Night hath darken'd all the sky 



With the vast shadow of her car. 

 Not this; — for Sickness' damps may light 



And settle on its brilliant rays ; 

 Not this ; — for Age may turn its bright 



To dim, and shroud it from our gaze ; 

 Not this ; — for Death's long gloomy night 



Will close, extinguishing its blaze, — 

 No! the immortal beauty is, 



A mind that Virtue hath array'd 

 In her ten thousand graces"; — 'tis 



A mind that Piety hath made 

 Her scat, her throne, for ever : this 



The flow'r that doth not, can not, fade. 



Original Poetry, [Feb. 1 



And this, my ****, hast tliou ; 



And O! were it my lot to see 

 Decay and wither, even now, 



Each mortal charm I view in thee, — 

 Tho' I must grieve for them, — the glow 



Of mj heart's love unchill'd would be. 



I love thee, dearest, for thy mind, 

 And, 'mid tlie fiercest storms of time 



That blight each grace of earthly kind. 

 This will be flourishini; sublime; 



Nor aught can e'en Death's icy wind. 

 But waft it to a bright and changeless 

 clime. 



Aud the right hand of God shall plant it 

 there ; 

 And there, if Faith's beatific reward 

 To me be given, my soul with thine shall 

 share 

 The sunshine and the glory shed abroad. 

 By His own countenance, o'er that region 

 fair, 

 The ever-blooming garden of the Lord. 

 Pendleton f near Manchisicr, T. H. 



STANZAS, 



ON THE DEATH OF THE RIGHT HON. 

 JOHN PHILPOT CURRAN. 



Erin ! O Erin I the sacred tear 



May fall from thine aged eye ; 

 Thou victim of sorrow ! thro' many a year 



Thou may'st cherish the secret sigh. 



O'er thy care-worn frame, — o'er thy wasted 

 form, — 

 Let the mantle of grief be bound ; 

 "Twill shield thee alike from the " pitiless 

 storm," 

 And picture thy feeling around. 



For gone is that genius whose heavenly 

 mind 

 Enlighten'd thy hapless land ; 

 Whose eloquence flow'd for th' oppress'd 

 of mankind. 

 An eloquence rapid and grand. 

 For gone is that genius to worlds of bliss, 



Whose brightness illumin'd us here, 

 Who shone with a glory unequall'd in this. 



And a brilliancy none came near. 

 O Curran ! O Curran! and art thou flod. 



From a country so lov'd alone? 

 And oh ! must thou moukler amongst those 

 dead, 

 Who were born, and who perish'd un- 

 known ? 



Alas! that a soul such as thine could'nt 

 live. 

 And ever amongst us dwell ; 

 What light such a star would to mankind 

 give, 

 What an impulse around impel. 

 But such is our destiny, sooner or late, 



All human must yield to the s'ave; 

 The prince, as the hcg-jar, must bend to his 

 fate, 

 The despot, as well as the slave. 



Cold, 



