30 CONCHOLOGY. 



LVIII. 



Not Artists' skill, nor Poet's lyre, 

 Though genius' self the chords inspire, 



And matchless taste impart ; 

 Suffice with all their powers to shew, 

 Thy irri descent splendid glow, 

 Bright as the tints in Iris' bow, 



Or paint thee as thou art. 



LIX. 



Pity such brilliancy should fade, 

 Exclaims, perhaps some pensive maid, 



Wliose thoughts on thee repose, 

 Bright Haliotes I^ and a sigh 

 Escapes, perhaps, that she must die, 

 And that the lustre of her eye 



In vacancy must close. 



