148 
Original Peetry^ 
[Sept. 1, 
Herculeaft toils my song Inspir’d, 
And all my soul with rapture fir’d; 
But not Herculean toils could move. 
Or ought, my lyre, but strains of lover 
To heroes, then, I bid adieu. 
And, Love, my lyre devote to you. 
TO JAMES WEBB, Esc^. 
WITH A VOLUME OF MISG E L L AN E 0 Up 
POEMS BY THE AUTHOR. 
scorn not them of pimple race, 
Fond fools, who find their dearest plea¬ 
sure 
In one kind smile, their verse to grace ; 
One sympathising tear their treasure! 
Ah scorn them not! for they have joVs 
When Friendship Fame’s coy voice would 
borrow. 
That steal from memory every sorrow. 
And send a bliss no care alloys. 
But he who cold to poesy, 
Would damp the hallow’d fire ; 
The beam of his contemptuous eye. 
Falling like ice-bolt from on high. 
Might quench at once the pyre : 
And fanafy’s wildest flashes die,— 
Like northern lights across the sky, 
A moment blaze, then trackless fly. 
And in the beam expire. 
Even I, unworthy votaress 
At that resplendent shrine. 
Such thrilling joys even I confess, 
And all those fears are mine: 
1 would not to the senseless ear 
Of the dull worlaly-wise, 
Pour forth ray rustic melodies. 
Or breathe my wooa-notes clear. 
But thou upborne on harmony. 
Who trill’st thy liquid song j 
Now rap: in musid’s exiacy, 
Now gliding from the throng. 
To taste, to share, the home-blest life. 
With woman, sister, daughter, wife! 
(As skylark, poised on daring wing, 
in noon day stillness carolling; 
Now hovering high, and now descending, 
His sweet divisions varying, blending; 
'J’ill dropping in his dear-lov’d nest,' 
The parent warbler sinks to rest:) 
Thou must have felt the thrilling spell. 
The fairy dream unspeakable ; 
The stirring thought, the blood wild rushing. 
Bright visions, like the rainbow flushing ; 
The better part of poesy ; 
Which flashing o’er the gifted hour. 
Mock slow expressioii’s feeble power; 
And, like the cistus lovely flower. 
Grasp at them and they fly 1 
He who dare hope those dreams to bind 
That dart in stillness o’er the mind. 
First bid him try 
To fix the forms in yonder glass, 
Or chain the shadows as they pass j— 
So vain is poesy ! 
Yet scorn not her of simple race. 
Who feels such dreams her dearest pleasure ; 
"Who seeks thy smile her verse to grace. 
Thy sympathising tear heSr treasure! 
Mary Russel Mitfobo. 
Bertram Housey July 15, 1811. 
ELEGIAC LINES 
To the Memory of Mr. Alexander Bar. 
TiiOLOMAN, late Editor of the TorkHerald. 
By W.H. e. IRELAND, Es«^. 
^HE huntsman’s horn sounds mournful thro’ 
the vale, 
O’ertome with sadness, must the sports¬ 
man yield ; 
Thy knell stern death, proclaims the fearful 
tale, 
Since staunch Bartholoman hath left 
the field. 
No more with native honesty and truth. 
He breathes the language of a soul sincere ; 
Nor gives instruction to the ripening youth. 
Unaw’d by grandeur and disdaining fear. 
He sleeps, alas ! from earthly comforts torn. 
Nor feels the sorrow, that bedews his 
tomb; 
His anguish’d offspring-Widow left for¬ 
lorn ; 
Awaiting, pensively their future doom. 
Arouse my energies !•—why let despair. 
O’er reason hold one moment’s fell con- 
troul ? 
Tho’ dead to mortals; he is call’d to share. 
The bliss attendant on a virtuous soul. 
’Twas his to prove that industry and toil 
With perseverance smooth the rugged 
way ; 
’Twas bis to cultivate a barren soil; 
And, York’s true Heralr, trumpet free¬ 
dom’s lay. 
Staunch to his country’s rights he scorn’d dis- 
grace. 
And dar’d the venal ministerial band ; 
His sterling columns gold cou’d ne’er debase. 
His Politics were blazon’d through the 
land. 
True JVhig princiyes were soundtand pure, 
He ever prov’d corruptions deadly bane; 
Convinc’d that Ma^na Ckarta an secure. 
To England’s sons, their liberty again. 
Link’d to those sports our father’s lov’d to 
shaie, 
He claim’d a mind with kindred fervor 
fir’d, 
Nor long he vainly sought—his ardent care. 
Gain’d him the soul congenial he requir’d.* 
* Mr. Willi'am Pick, who, for many years, 
conducted tlie sporting annals of tlie Herald, 
1 was 
