i ih DOO aR | 
[ June 
ORIGINAL POETRY. 
TO IRELAND. 
BY DR. DRENNAN. 
MY Country !—fhall I mourn er blek, 
Thy tame and wretched happinefs ? 
’Tis truc—the vaft Auantic tide 
Hes {coop’d thy harbours, deep and wide., 
Bold to protect, and prompt to fave, 
From fury of the weftern wave. 
And Shannon points to Europe’s trade ; 
For that, his chain ef lakes were sales 
For that, he {corns to wafte his ftore, 
In channel of a fubject fhore; 
- But courts the fouthern wind to bring, 
A world upon its rapid wing. 
True—thy refplendent rivers run. 
And fafe beneath a cee rate fun, 
Springs the young verdure of thy plain, 
‘ Nor dreads his torrid, eaftern reign. 
True—thou ait peas in nature’s plan; 
Nothing feems wanting here but—Man. 
. Man, to fixdue, not ferve the foil, 
To win end wear its golden fpoil ; 
Man, conicious of an earth his own, 
Np favage biped, torpid, prone: 
Living, to dog his brother brute, 
And hung’ring for the lazy root, 
* Food for a foft contented flave, 
~ Not for the hardy and the brave. 
Had Nature been her enemy, 
Yerne might be fierce and free. 
- To the ftout heart, and iron hand, 
Temp’rate each fky, and tame en land. 
A climate and a foil lefs kind, 
Had form’d a map of richer mad 3 
_ Now a mere fterile fwamp of foul, 
Tho’ meadows fpread and rivers roll; 
. A nation of abortive men, 
That dart —the fongue, and point—the per, 
And at the back of Europe hurl’d, 
A bafe Pofferier of the world. 
In lap of Araby the blefs'd, 
“Man lits, with luxury epprels’ d, 
While tpicy odours blown Se 
‘ Enrich the air, and gems, the Moca 
But through the pathlets burning nate 
- Man marches with his patient beait ; 
Braves the hot fun, and heaving font, 
And calls it free and happy land. 
Enough to make a defert known, 
Arms and the many and fand, and itonc. 
dD: iblin, March 20° 
SONNET, 
IN COMMEMORATION 
Siz WILLIAM JONES. 
Shae S of the Worthies, Selden, Milton, all 
ho fit infpher’d on yon high dwelling- 
place, 
Immortal guardians of the human race, 
Which while on earth ye ferv’d—now that ye 
call 
Th’ afcended Jones to walk your fany halle 
OF 
Why teach ye not mankind, as erft, t” inura 
With folemn thow the virtuous, and to burn 
Memorial incenfe, and with hymns t’ inftail, 
At their rear’d ftatues in the temple’s aile, 
To paufe revering—thinking o’er their deeds? 
So ‘hould your new companio~’s earthly weede 
Become a fainted relique. Bid him hail! 
Europe and Afia, afk your pureft meeds. 
Clafp’d o’er his diftant tomb, Learning and Free- 
dom waii. 
Fune is 
EEE 
Encuiso HEXAMETER EXEMPLIFIED. 
‘The Germans have adopted a variety of the 
ancient meafures into their poetry with good 
effect; and, indeed, their moft celebrated 
Epic poem, the Mefiah, is written in hex- 
ameter verfe: they poffefs too, befides a. 
variety of other pieces, tranflations from 
Horace and.Anacreon, in which the meafures 
of the originals have been imitated.” 
They haye, however, been obliged, by the 
fcarcenels of long vowels, and the rifenefs of 
fhort fyllables, in their language, to tolerate 
the frequeut fubftitution of trochees to fpon- 
dees in their hexameter verfe: and they 
{can, like other modern nations, by emphafis, 
not by pofition, The following tranfverfen 
of a paflage from Offian’s Carthon, may give 
_ an idea of the praéticability of fuch metres in 
the Englith tongue : 
‘HOU, who roll’ft in the firmament, round 
as the fhield of my fathers, 
Whence is thy girdle of glory, O Sua! and thy 
light everlafting ? 
Forth thou com’{t in thy aweful beauty; the 
{tars at thy rifing 
Hafte to their azure pavillions 
pale in the waters ; 
But thou movet alone = who dareth to wander 
befide thee ? 
f the mountain decay. y, and the hard rock 
ne afunder ; 
Ocean fhrinks, and again BEOWS} lof is the moon 
in the heavens 2 
While thou ever remaineft the fame, to rejoice 
in thy brightnetfs. . . 
Altho’ laden wifh forms be the- wind, loud 
thunders te rolling, - 
pee be glaring count thou look’ from 
the clouds in thy beauty < 
Laughing the ftorm; but, alas! thou fhineft 
in yain upon Offian : : 
He no more may behold thy effulgency, whether 
thy fair locks 
Yellowly curl on the clouds of the morning, or 
red in the weft wave 
Quivering dip. Yet thou art perhaps but like 
me, for a feafon— 
Finite e’en thy years—-thou too fhalt be fleeping 
in midnight, 
; the moon finks 
Oaks o 
Deaf 
