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TRIFLES IN POETRY.
1





TRIFLES IN POETRY,
INCLUDING
HERMITS MINSTRELSY.
BY CHARLES O'FLAHERTY.
JAQUES,—"Will You sit down with me, and we two will rail against
our Mistress, the World, and all our misery ?"—
ORLANDO,-"I will chide no breather in the World but myself,
against whom I know most faults."
JAQUES, "The worst fault you have is to be in love."
ORLANDO,—“It is a fault I would not change for your best virtue.”
AS YOU LIKE IT.
numm
Dublin:
Printed for the AUTHOR, by R. CARRICK, 29, Bachelors'-walk.
-000-
1821.


25741A


Hodges
29 0.19
2-1
PREFACE.
Were the following TRIFLES worthy of such a distinction, they
should be
DEDICATED
TO HER
"who has the softest mein,
And sweetest eyes, that e'er were seen.
Fully aware, however, that any portion of merit, which even
my little Volume might, by possibility, possess, comes in "such a
questionable shape," that the Offering would be unworthy of the
Shrine, I shall not brighten one page of it with a name on which
mine eye might, delighted, rest; thus teaching my heart one lesson
of practical Philosophy, perhaps the most difficult,-that of self de-
nial.
The following unpresuming TRIFLES are now submitted to my
indulgent friends only, amongst whom some of them have already
obtained pretty general circulation; particularly those written for con-
vivial parties: Many of the following, have also appeared in the
Dublin Morning Post, and all, with two or three exceptions, were
written on the impulse of the moment.
No. 2, Clarendon-street.
1st Dec. 1821,
C. O'F.





The indulgence of the Reader is requested for such typogra-
phical errors as occur in the following Pages:-
In the Extract from NOURENHI, page 15, the seventh line should read
"She'd start at each soft "whisper" of the wind."
In the "Lines spoken by Mrs. Edwin," page 43, the word "with" is
omitted in the eighth line, which should read
This heart felt more than sympathy "with" you."
In page 57, the eighth line should read
"Since all I suffer "comes" from all I prize."
In page 75, the word "breath" occurs in the third and fourth lines for
"breathe."
There are doubtless other inaccuracies, which the Reader
will please correct.


1


CONTENTS.
Love and Folly,
Serenade, "The Moon-beam trembles o'er the Lake,'
Stanza's, "My weeping Maid,"
Air from an Opera in M. S. "In early Youth,"
An Address written for Private Theatricals,
Stanza's Addressed to a Lady, "Go, Woman,' go,"
Extracts from NOURENHI, an Eastern Tale in M. S.
A Valentine, Addressed to
Hermits Minstrelsy, No. 1, "The Hermits Invoca-
tion to the Evening Star,"
Stanza's "Ah why did I e'er gaze,"
-
Lines sent to a Friend on the Morning of his Mar-
riage,
Stanza's, "Sweet Maid tell me why,”,
Fragment,
Stanza's, "I will not ask to press that cheek,"
Hermits Minstrelsy, No. 2, "The Hermits Philo-
sophy,"
Page
2
3
7
12
17:
·
19
- 21
24
26
33
36
·
38
Stanza's, "How oft, my Love, when thon hast slept," 40
A


Additional Lines to the Epilogue to the WONDER,
"6
Spoken by Mrs. Edwin, iu the Character of
Violante, on the Night of her Benefit, February,
the 11th 1818.
Through the Glen where Mary stray'd,”
Thespian Thoughts,
Stanza's, "When young Affections impulse brings,”
Hermits Minstrelsy, No. 3. "Blue Devils chased
out of Ireland by St Patrick,"
·
43
·
4.4
·
45
Extract from "Sketches in Wicklow," in M. S.
Descriptive of the Vale of Ovoca,
50
51
53
The Mountain Hether,
Lines Addressed to
ing train,"
.* 56
"If Sorrows weep-
57
59
Stanza's "I twin'd a Wreath for Mary's brow,"
Stanza's, Written on leaving Dublin, "Without a
single hope to cheer."
61
Hermits Minstrelsy, No. 4, "The Pilgrims Matin
Song,"
62
Lines, Written at Lough Dan, County Wicklow,
"Mary, without a thought of thee,"
64
66.
Stanza's, "Oh! if those Hebe charms of thine,"
Hermits Minstrelsy, No. 5, "The Hermits Welcome," 67
Impromptu, Written in the Pit of the Theatre, du-
ring the representation of the Opera, "Love in
a Village,'
"9
Stanza's, Written at Roundwood, County Wicklow,
"By Vartreys banks I wander'd lone,"
·
69
69
70
Elegiac. Stanza's, "Oh! when my restless spirits' fled," 71
Hermit's Minstrelsy, No. 6, "The Hermits Vesper
Song,"
12
1


Impromptu, "Why is Love like a Potatoe?"
Stanza's, Written at Roundwood, County Wicklow,
"Ah! what avails th' unvarying thought?"
Stanza's, "Though Hope has rung Love's passing
Bell,"
Hermits Minstrelsy, No. 7, "The Pilgrims Chant,"
Polacca Sung by Braham, in the Serious Opera AR-
TAXERXES,
Stanza's, "Pale gleams yon wakeful, midnight Star,"
Hermits Minstrelsy, No. 8, "When Life's youthful
pleasures first waken the senses,"
9
"Forget me not," from an Opera in M. S.
Stanza's, "I once had launch'd a little Bark,"
Hermits Minstrelsy, No. 9, The "Eronauts,"
Sonnet, "Dear Mary, 'tis no easy task,”
73
74
75
76.
78
79
80.
81
·
82
83
86
Serenade from an Opera in M. S. "List to the Lay
of Love,"
·
Hermits Minstrelsy, No, 10, "The Loves of Judy
Rooney, and Looney Connor,"
Elegiac Stanza's "Alas! that the Visions so fondly
we cherish,"
888888
87
88
90
Stanza's" Though Fate's dark storms around us low'r" 91
Hermit's Minstrelsy, No. 11, "Biddy Maguire of
Ballinaclash,"
Stanza's "This Rose which I have pull'd for thee,"
"Those Chatt'ring Belle's,"
Stanza's "Come, dearest, here's the path to Love,"
Stanza's, "Farewell!-The Storm has past,"
Stanza's, "Oh! tempt not thus my heart to stray,"
92
95
96
97
89
99


Stanza's, "When the bright Sun of Love has set,"
Stanza's, Written in the Vale of Ovoca, "Here, 'mid
Ovoca's peaceful Vale,"
·
Elegiac Stanza's, "Avaunt ye idle terrors of the
brain,"
Sonnet, "The Sandal,"
100
101
- 105
- 106
107
Hermit's Minstrelsy, No. 12, "The Humours of
Donnybrook Fair,"
An Address written for the First Appearance of a
Friend, at the Theatre Royal,
·
111
Serenade, "The tears of Night have long since wept," 113
Hermits Minstrelsy, No. 13, "Mr. and Mrs. Paddy
Murphy's Visit to Dublin,"
·
An Address Spoken by Mr. Farrell, at the Theatre
Royal, on the Night of his Benefit,
Stanza's, "Her soul-inspiring Harp is mute,"
·
114
117
118
Hermits Minstrelsy, No. 14. "The Hermits Medley," 119
Lines sent to a Friend on the Morning after a Party, 124
To Julia, "How swiftly flew the hours away,'
·
126


TRIFLES in POETRY.
LOVE AND FOLLY.
As Love one sunny morning lay
On rosy banks reclining,
And in his wild and wayward play,
For Time, fresh chaplets 'twining,
A Maid tripp'd by, with laughing eye,
Each smile to Love a treasure;
'Twas Folly sought the God, who thought
The Maidens' name was Pleasure.
His captive senses soon she led,
(But who that lov'd could blame him?)
And then, true woman, swift she fled,
For Folly well might claim him.
Too soon he flew, again to view
Those eyes, his hearts' undoing;
"Ah! hapless child, by smiles beguil'd,
'Tis Folly you're pursuing !"
B


2
TRIFLES IN POETRY.
They travers'd hill and valley, still
He wander'd on delighted,
Nor miss'd his bow'rs of Peace, until
He found himself benighted.
No friendly shed, the earth his bed, •
Vain, vain each hope he cherish'd,
And that drear night, exhausted quite,
Love, led by Folly,-perish'd.
SERENADE.
THE Moon-beam trembles o'er the Lake,
Yet silence reigns within thy bow'r,
Awake, dear Maid, awake, awake,
'Tis now the promis'd hour.
The partial ray that faintly gleams,
Like Mem'ry's fondest vision seems,
As o'er the Lake serene it beams,
Reflecting many a flow'r!
Arise, dear Maid, for Zephyr's sighs,
That waft along the Moon-lit grove,
But whisper soft, "arise," "arise,"
Then could'st thou love, reprove?
The Bird of Night, on yonder spray,
That warbling, pours his plaintive lay,
In each fond note but seems to say,
66
Awake, arise to Love!"
&


TRIFLES IN POETRY.
3
STANZA'S.
My weeping Maid forbear,
'Tis vain to grieve at fate,
Come let us, love, the worst await,
Then cease, my weeping fair;
For oh! that soft, appealing look,
My heart, but ill indeed could brook.
What, tho' thy cheek is pale,
Yet like the lily fair,
What, tho' no roses linger there,
To meet the Summer gale;
Yet thus, when ruder charms have flown,
Thus, thus I feel thou'rt more my own.
Then come my weeping Maid,
And I will whisper peace,
And bid thy bosom's anguish cease,.
And feel in tears repaid;
Nor once thy gentle heart reprove,
Or blame the tears whose source is Love!
B 2


TRIFLES IN POETRY.
- AIR,
From an Opera in M. S.
IN early Youth when life is new,
C
And Hope's bright ray delighteth,
The trusting heart enjoys the view,
Nor fears the Storm that blighteth ;
But when those sunny hours are o'er,`
To such a gloom they leave us,
We feel that Life can charm no more,
When Hope could thus deceive us.
AN ADDRESS,
Written for Private Theatricals.
'ERE yet the Classic Drama had refin'd,
In semi-barbarous Ages, rude Mankind
'Ere unborn Talent yet had infant birth,
When intellectual darkness reign'd o'er Earth,
And Genius, dormant, lay in death-like sleep,
Like pearls in ocean, buried vast and deep;
What was the spell that could, ev'n then, convey,
Of Reasons' clearer light, one meteor ray?
What was the charm that could dissolve the gloom?
Whose was the Pen that could Lifes' page illume?
Oh! 'twas the Drama's power, 'twas Shakespeares' pen,
That taught Mankind to think and feel as Men,


TRIFLES IN POETRY.
5
That led them on, with feelings scarce defin'd;
To own with truth th' omnipotence of Mind,
Promethean like, its fire from Heaven stole,
And prov'd to Man, th' existence of a Soul.
If such its pow'r, forgive us, Amateurs,
Pleasure our HOBBY, we but aim-at-yours,
And having mounted our ACCELERATOR,
We've gain'd your smiles, what recompense were greater?
For where Thalia holds her sportive Court,
The Graces, rich in loveliness, resort,
And every smile, from lips like theirs, conveys,
A bliss alike beyond reward or praise.-
*
And yet the Stage is not the only school,
Where Men, and Women too, have played the fool;
Look through the World, you'll find, through mirth or gloom,
All dress for Characters they but assume:
Thus they who strut, quite " a la Militaire."
Tight stays, loose morals, and false whiskers wear,
Half fierce, half feminine-yet what more odd is,
Ladies seem now, sweet souls, to have no bodies
Still spoil'd by Fashion, though by Nature grac'd,
Profuse of charms, there yet appears no Waist.
I've seen a vain Coquette well act her part,
And shun the youth who won her virgin heart,
Still trifling on, with those she most despis'd,
To pain the constant heart that most she priz'd!
I've seen a Prude at Church (nay, do not doubt,)
Look so demure, you'd think she was devout,
And yet her thoughts were not of Heav'nly birth,
But, like her downcast eyes, were fix'd on Earth!
B 3


6
TRIFLES IN POETRY.
I've heard a Poet rail at Love and Wine,
And all the "follies" of th' immortal Nine ;
I've heard à Soldier own he was afraid,
But then, 'twas of the frowns of some fair Maid;
I've heard a starch old Maid avow, and that's
More strange, "a vast antipathy to Cat's!"
All this was Acting, (bell rings) but the Prompters' bell,
Has warn'd me hence, and so, kind friends, Farewell!
For whilst I'm prattling here, those folks behind,
May raise a dust, the Curtain, and the *Wind!
The Farce of the night was Raising the Wind,


TRIFLES IN POETRY.
7
STANZA'S
Addressed to a Lady,
"Rebellious Hell
If thou can'st mutiny in a Matrons veins,
To flaming Youth, let Virtue be as wax
And melt in her own fires!
SHAKESPEARE.
Increase and multiply, is Heav'ns command;
And that's a Text I clearly understand. "
POPE.
"I never knew a Woman
But loved our bodies, or our souls too well,
Each master whim maintains its hour of empire,
And, obstinately faithful to its dictates;
With equal ardour, equal importunity,
They teaze us to be damn'd, or to be sav'd."
Go, Woman go;-
HORACE WALPOLE.
-since thou can'st break
The dear, yet fatal spell,
That lured those hearts, too fond and weak,
Thine harshly to repel;
The Rose of Innocence, that shed
O'er thee its purest charm, lies dead:-
To thee, and it, Farewell
Go, Woman go!thy pow'r is o'er,
We feel we ne'er can love thee more!


8
TRIFLES IN POETRY.
Oh! once thy smiles appear'd so chaste,
They shed a hallow'd light,
As Cynthia's rays, that o'er some waste,
Dispel the shades of Night;
Thus, o'er the waste of Life, thy smile,
Could Sorrow of its sighs beguile,
It shone so purely bright;
And Virtue's self, such smiles might wear,
Thy bosom seem'd so cold, so fair!-
Yet oh! since thus each social tie
That bound thee to thy friends,
Since ev'ry link without a sigh,
Thy worse than folly, rends;
Since Friendship, o'er thy fallen fame
May weep, yet with thy dear-bought name
Just Indignation blends!-
Since in thy veins, such fires can burn,
Go, go!-but ne'er again return !—
Of Woman's Love, 'twere vain to speak,
But where was Woman's Pride?
Say-Can the lily of thy cheek
Thy conscious blushes hide?
Oh! Love's pure flame, indeed were dim,
Since Hymen's Torch is lit for him
Who claims th' unblushing Bride!-
No, no,- Pride ne'er belonged to thee,
Thine was a heartless Vanity!


TRIFLES IN POETRY.
Yes!-fall'n, for ever fall'n art Thou,
Yet had Love led the way,
We should not feel as deep as now
Tho' thou hadst gone astray;
Oh! had thy heart, with feelings fraught
With purer thoughts, its impulse caught
From Love's too tempting ray,-
We still might weep for that lost gem,
Yet pity, while we should condemn !
But now, without that Meteor light
That Love sheds o'er our path,-
When erring hearts from Youth unite,
Such merit not Man's wrath :-
But thou art no confiding Maid,
Nor Woman's weakness, can'st thou plead,
Thou second "Wife of Bath;
99
Blush, blush,-thus of thy Pride bereft,
If yet the blush of Shame be left!
And he, thy groom, thy chosen one,
This Lord of thy desires;
This Star of Love, whose radiance shone,
To light in thee such fires;
Ey'n him, whom thou wilt "Husband" call,
Ev'n him thou'lt loath, this God of all,
When Passion pall'd expires!
When reason re-assumes her sway,
Thou'lt cast this "loathsome weed" away!


10
TRIFLES IN POETRY.
Yet such the force of Woman's wit,
On Scripture thou would'st call,
And deeply vers'd in Holy Writ,
Thou'st palliate thy fall!-
And turn each passage various way's,.
And dwell on ev'ry doubtful phrase,
And quote th' Apostle Paul!
Nay, impious, call on Heaven's creed,
To sanctify a shameless deed!
Ta' Ephesian Matron, true to him,
Who slept within the tomb,
With cheek as pale, and eye as dim,
Wept in that house of gloom,
And all companionship forswore,
And vow'd to love, to live no more,
But share her husband's doom;
Yet for her Paramour, his corse
Was sacrific'd without remorse!
No relic's of a purer love
Wept o'er her widow'd knee,
No higher duties vainly strove
To make wild passion flee;
And he, whose sighs in softest breath,
Stole o'er her bosom,slept in death:
She felt alone,————and free!
But Thou, without remorse or dread,
Would'st
wrong the living and the dead!
*See Petronius Arbiter


TRIFLES IN POETRY.
11
Oh! why not roam to that fam'd Isle*
Where Paphian temples rise,
Where Woman's wild and wanton smile
Love's Deity may prize?
No passion's need be there restrain'd,
There too, Religion's name's profan'd
In mock'ry of the Skies;
The Sacrafices they allow,
Are such, a fitting Priestess, Thou!
Yes, roam, no matter where, but ne'er
To those fond hearts return,
Who hold thy Mem'ry still too dear,
Tho' Thou those hearts may'st spurn;
Whilst we, still, still to Friendship true,
Some faded Rose-leaves here shall strew,
Fit emblem's o'er thine Urn;
And deeming thee as dead, shall weep
In sorrow o'er thine early sleep!—
Go, Woman, go! since thou wilt break-
The dear, yet fatal spell
That lured those hearts, too fond and weak,
Thine, harshly to repel;
The Rose of Innocence that shed
O'er thee, its purest charm, lies dead,
To thee and it, Farewell;-
Go, Woman, go,-thy power is o'er,
We feel we ne'er can love thee more!-
* Cyprus


12
TRIFLES IN POETRY.
EXTRACTS FROM NOURENHI,
AN EASTERN TALE IN M. S.
She was a form of life and light,
t
That, seen, became a part of sight,
And rose, where'er I turn'd mine eye,
The Morning Star of Memory!—
BYRON.
"Twas Morn and radiantly the Sun arose,
Tinting the Eastern land with golden hue,
Awak'ning Nature from her soft repose,
While o'er the vales of Candahar, Heav'n threw
Its look of love, from Skies of clearest blue;
Now young Nourenhi from her turret tow'r
Look'd forth, scarce heeding that too lovely view,
Nor mark'd she, Night's cold dew-drop on each flow'r,
Was dried by Heav'ns own warmth, in that auspicious hour.
Why from her lattic'd casement looks the Maid ?—
Is it to gaze upon the cloudless sky?—
Is it to view the last few stars that fade,
Or muse upon the Hir* that murmurs by ?—
Why bends she thus her eyes to earth? and why
Do those two lovely lips still falt'ring move,
Checking the half breath'd, and unconscious sigh ?-
Oh! can she have a thought she would reprove,
Whose bosom scarcely knows, as yet, the name of Love?
* The Hir, a river of Persia, which passes through the Province of
Candahar, aud is called after a town of the same name (Hir) in the
province of Kerman.


· TRIFLES IN POETRY.
13
1
Nourenhi, couldst thou think 'twas to behold
The stranger Youth who seem'd to live in thee,
Oh! had thy gentle heart its secret told,
How would'st thou weep in Loves' captivity?
Yet though that heart is now no longer free,
And though thy thoughts to him, still, still recur,
Unknown the cause, or tears thy lot should be;
Yet still thou hast not pow'r from thence to stir,
But at thy lattice muse, and view the flowing Hir.
For there the Stranger in the mornings rov'd,
And on its winding banks hath often stray'd,
And look'd, and sigh'd, and gaz'd, as though he lov'd,
And turn'd his speaking eyes unto the Maid;
And in the Turret she hath still delay'd,
Unknowing why, yet wanting pow'r to go,
Soft pity for the grief his mein betray'd;
Still kept Nourenhi ling'ring; for deep woe,
His clouded brow, his air, his gesture seem'd to shew.
Like Zephyrs breathing sighs that, trembling, steal
Along the surface of the wat'ry deep,
So soft her murmurs, they but scarce reveal,
A love too pure to speak, too strong to sleep;
No more her heart its peaceful calm may keep,
No more its wonted peace her soul may feel,
Wild wishes fill her breast, she wakes to weep,
Her heart nor knows what yet that heart doth ail,
Nor owns that it hath yet a throb 'twould fain conceal.
C


14
TRIFLES IN POETRY.
Oh! happy, blissful state of youthful love,
When the wak'd soul first trembles o'er a sigh,
When the fond heart would fain each throb reprove,
When virgin love, first lights a virgin's eye;
Ah! happy then if tranquilly to die,
And meet with purer souls in spheres above;
To beam, 'mid Seraphs thron'd in peace, on high,
Ere yet with wilder throbs the breast might move,
Or lawless passion teach the yielding soul to rove.
Nourenhi's thoughts so chaste, her soul would start,
And fly in terror, had the Maid once known
'Twas Love that triumph'd o'er her youthful heart,
And flutt'ring held his soft, his envied throne;
His little wings now nearly useless grown,
Or way'd to fan the flame, not to depart;
Nor could the Maid, nor would she now have flown,
Though yet her soul, unus'd to guile or art,
Felt not 'twas Love that caus'd the painful, thrilling smart.
New hopes, new fears in soft confusion rise,
She knows not why, yet blushes tinge her cheek,
Oft to the earth she bends her lovely eyes,
And falters when she but essays to speak;
'Mid solitude she now doth vainly seek,
The lost repose she dearly, now, may prize,
Too soft to spurn the God, to fly too weak,
To shades of soft retirement now she hies,
Nor knows that, nurs'd by thought, young Love is fed on
sighs.


TRIFLES IN POETRY.
15
The pure expression of her Heav'n-lit face,
Brought forth to light each thought that sway'd her
mind,
Each feeling of her breast, you there might trace,-
'Twas a retreat where Innocence lay shrin'd;
Yet now a passion vague and undefin'd,
Disturb'd that bosom, late the home of Peace,
She'd start at each soft wisper of the wind,
And now her cheeks cold paleness would give place,
To tints of warmer hue, the next sound would erase.
The dark, long lashes of that speaking eye,
Now fringe those brilliant orbs of liquid light,
And o'er that brow the lilies tint doth lie,
Beneath each raven tress more purely white,
Like "unsunn'd snow," amid the shades of Night;
Ah ! who, unmov'd, such matchless charms might spy,
Or gaze untouch'd on eyes so darkly bright,
On cheeks ting'd with the rose's softest dye,
Nor yield to charms like these, the tribute of a sigh.
·
Oh! there are chords around the human heart,
That but once touch'd, awake a painful thrill,
Call forth a pang that mocks the Despots art,
that has the pow'r to more than kill;
pang,
This chord once press'd, think'st thou 'tis in Mans' will,
His writhing features in a smile to wear,
A
If he should feel what I have felt,-feel still,
Then, if 'tis not enough to end his care,
It proves this truth, that Man may yet outlive despair.
C 2


16
TRIFLES IN POETRY.
Ask me not of the past,-'twere vain to speak,
But read my suff'rings in my features gloom,
Read there,-Oh! stubborn heart, thou woulst not break,
Though all thy hopes lie buried in her tomb-
She's dead!-but think'st thou I could weep my doom?
Think'st thou that I could lose my grief in sighs?
No! though this heart scarce in my breast had room,
No wretched tear from Nature's kind supplies,
Reliev'd this madd'ning brain, these burning eyes.
My Morn of Life is o'er, and through its Noon,,
The dark'ning shades of Eve, are gath'ring fast;
What is Existence, but a wretched boon,
A breath Man wastes in sighs, 'till all is past ?—
The few bright moments of our Youth, which cast
Some sunny rays to guide the Wanderer on,
Are Joy's phosphoric lights, which seldom last
Beyond the instant of their flashing; gone,
Ere
yet the heart's aware such Meteors have shone.


TRIFLES IN POETRY.
17
A VALENTINE.
Valentines Day, Feb. 14, 1815.
SWEET Maiden! if the votive strain,
That I have wak'd in follys' hour,
Oh! could it, but for moments gain
From thee one sigh or smile, no pow'r
On Earth, could make me e'er resign
The hope to be thy Valentine!
Who is there that unmov'd could view
•
Thy many bright and blooming charms,
Thy pouting lips of vermil hue,
And the rich Heav'n within thine arms,
When ev'n thy ringlet's playful 'twine,
Has bound to thee, thy Valentine !-
Thine eyes that like twin stars appear,
Shooting their rays of liquid light
Throughout Loves planetary sphere,
'Till Phœbus, envious, visits Night,
They lead the heart I thus consign
To thee, thy faithful Valentine!-
c3


18
TRIFLES IN POETRY.
}
Thy bosom,but I dare not speak
Of Heav'n itself, -its charms are such,
------
Words applied here, indeed were weak,
For 'tis a theme I must not touch,—
Forgive this wand'ring tongue of mine,
And pity, love, thy Valentine !-
Oh! why assume a coldness now ?—
There needs no Prophet to presage,
The health that glows upon thy brow,
(-
.
Too soon must fell the chill of age;
Then while Youth, Beauty, still are thine,
Enjoy them, with thy Valentine!-
In after years, when Youth has flown,
And Time has clipp'd Love's wanton wing,
Say, how cans't thou in Age atone,
If thou'st mispent Life's genial Spring ?
Then might'st ev'n thou, in secret pine,
And where would be, thy Valentine?-
Ev'n now our moments fleet away,
Then Oh! while Youth yet, yet, is ours,
'Twould be but wise, whilst here we stray,
To strew the path of Life with flow'rs;
That path might lead to bliss divine,
If trod by thee, and Valentine !--


TRIFLES IN POETRY.
19
Oh! think me but some Pilgrim faint,
Who breathes to thee his murmur'd pray'r,
Be thou my tutelary Saint,
And ah! what Saint is half so fair ?-
Love is my Idol, thou'rt Love's shrine,
Then let me be, thy Valentine! This
Hermit's Minstrelsy,
No. 1.
THE HERMIT'S INVOCATION TO THE
EVENING STAR."
A DUETT.
AIR," Fly not yet.
OH! when the Star of Evening beams,
And when the moon-light faintly gleams,
We Hermits then, from slumbers creeping,
Thus, our holy vigils keeping;
Chace the hours of night.
'Tis then, that Pleasures roses wreathing,
Strains of rapture softly breathing;
Oh! 'tis then, that, free from sorrow,
Hours of bliss from night we borrow—
Hours of pure delight!
Bright Star,
Bright Star,
Thou, who yet doth shine so clearly,
Thou whom maiden's love so dearly,
Shed thy partial light!


20
TRIFLES IN POETRY.
Let drowsy mortals court the day,
And pass, in sleep, those hours away;
That wiser souls, in mirth employing,
Wake from slumbers, Life enjoying,
Music, love, and wine;
Tho' Hermits we, 'tis here you'll find us,
Staff and scrip are left behind us ;
And our Cell with joy is ringing,
Whilst with one accord we're singing-
Anthems to the Vine!
Pale Star,
Pale Star,
'Tis to thee, soft-beaming Hesper,
We will breathe our evening vesper
Oh! still deign to shine!*
• The above Duett was written for a convivial Society, called
"The Hermits," of which the Author was a Member. It was the
the Hermit's Charter Song, and used to be sung in their Cell by
Messrs. R. and S. at the Hebdomal Meetings of that Society.
All those under the Head" Hermits' Minstrelsy,” were written
for the same Society.


TRIFLES IN POETRY.
21
STANZA'S
May, 30th 1815.
"How beautiful she was!
The hue of her cheek was like the fruit-tree blossom,
And her eye shone matchless in its brightness !".
BARRY CORNWALL.
Ah! why did I e'er gaze
On that soft eye of blue ?-
1 might have known, its rays
Of such a heav'nly hue,
Must this weak heart subdue;
Yet lost amid Love's maze,
I fain would pass my days,
In thinking, love, of You!-
Oh! would it not be wise,
From charms like thine to fly,
Nor, if my peace I prize,
A second venture try ?-
And yet so weak am I,'
I still must court those eyes,
Where so much danger lies,
And hope, and fear, and sigh!-


22
TRIFLES IN POETRY.
Yet let me not repine,
Perchance I yet may see,
One lovely smile of thine,
Unclouded light on me;
And ah! if such from thee,
Might ever yet be mine,
All else I could resign,
Thy love alone to be!-
And if my pen could trace,
And if, my Mary, thou
Would'st let me sing each grace,
Which binds me to thee now;
If thou woulds't this allow,
Then smiles from that bright face,
Would fear and doubt displacé,
If thou woulds't hear my Vow!-
Oh! could I have the pow'r,
But equal to my will,
I'd cull a lovely flow'r
From
-'s verdant hill:
I'd shield it from the chill,
When Winter's blasts should low'r,
And each fond, fleeting hour,
Should add to Passion still!


TRIFLES IN POETRY.
23
23
Transplanted to these arms,
I'd wear it in my breast,
Its gently-budding charms,
Should to this heart be prest;
Securely it might rest,
Safe from all rude alarms,
For Love, ev'n Fate disarms,
'Mid Bow'rs by Beauty blest !-
Oh! all its sweets I'd sip,
And in transporting bliss,
My ever ready lip,
Should dwell upon its kiss;
And if in joy like this,
My soul might hope to dip,
Such blissful Partnership,
Sure would not be amiss.
Then Mary, if the strain
Which will not brook control,
Oh! could it hope to gain
The look that might console,
Then hours on hours might roll,
And Gods should think me vain,
Whilst Thou alone shoulds't reign,
The Empress of my soul!-


24
TRIFLES IN POETRY.
LINES SENT TO A FRIEND ON THE MORNING
OF HIS MARRIAGE,
"The treasures of the deep are not so precious,
As are the concealed comforts of a Man
Lock'd up in Womans' love!"
"Health to my Friend!" whose genial prospects glow
In all the sun-shine Love's pure joys bestow,
Whose fondest wish, oh! rare, ev'n here is crown'd,
Where Love its recompense has seldom found,
Whose rays of Happiness, together blend,
In rain-bow hues of bliss.-"Health to my Friend!".
"Tis now some years, since first, in Youths' fair morn
We trod Lifes path of flow'rs, nor felt a thorn,
For us, the varied Seasons seem'd to bring
But varied pleasure, each returning Spring
Still wafting in its fresh and perfum'd sigh,
Some promise of a Joy, long since gone by!—
Such were our days of boy-hood, wild and bright,
Whilst our young hearts throbb'd only with delight,
As Time, with wings untir'd, still realis'd
The evanescent hopes that most we priz'd,
Whilst newer pleasures, followed pleasures flown,
We bless'd this lovely World, we thought our own,
And hail'd the smiles of light that Phoebus threw,
Like those, to whom the sense of Life was new.
Ev'n I, in hours like these, have felt delight,
Ere yet Hope's blossoms met untimely blight,
Ere yet my tranced Soul, in Passion's strife,
Woke to the sad reality of Life!-


TRIFLES IN POETRY.
25
Yet while some folly, which my weak heart wooed,
With wild enthusiasm I pursued,
Your calmer eyes could steadier paths discern,
Whilst I, no more a boy, have much to learn,
Whilst I, a hapless Wanderer, still remain
A broken link in Life's endearing Chain,
Which o'er the heart where pure
Affection lies,
And ev'ry pulse throbs true to Nature's ties,
Has pow'r omnipotent, to rule or bind
Each hope, thought, wish, and passion of the Mind!-
Thus then, of Hope's bright promises bereft,
With nothing, save distracting Mem'ry left,
I seek in Pleasures sphere, still vainly sought,
A respite from that mental madness, Thought!—
But hence with gloom, be mine the task to greet
My Youths' Companion with a strain more sweet,
Pale Melancholy hence, with sadden'd smile,
Ere Hymens torch shall light your Funeral Pile.
The God of Love, with Psyche, his young Bride,
Oe'r Nuptials of the heart should still preside!-
Her sweetest flow'rs, for thee shall Flora wreathe,
And Zephyrs, o'er the Chaplet, softly breathe,.
While Seraphs hov'ring o'er, on poised wing,
A sweet Epithalamium shall sing,
Attentive Echo shall the strain prolong
In each soft cadence of the Bridal Song,
And ev'ry bliss, whilst Love or Life endures,
That waits on Love or Life, my Friend, be yours!-
P. S. I trust for auld lang syne, that you'll excuse
A Muse, that possibly may not amuse.
D


26
TRIFLES IN POETRY.
STANZAS.
July 4th 1815.
"There is a sort of pleasing, half guilty blush, when the blood
is more in fault than the Man;'tis sent impetuous from the heart,
and Virtue flies after it ;-not to call it back, but to make the sensa
tion of it more delicious to the nerves:-'tis associated."
STERNE.
1
1
Sweet Maid, tell me why
From your
love thus you fly,
And of Hope nearly leave me bereft ;
Nor deign, ere you go
One smile to bestow,
To cheer the fond heart you have left ?----
Yet is it not vain
Still, still to complain,
With thy smiles in remembrance before me?
Love, I cannot resist,
But must cease to exist
Ere I cease, my sweet Maid, to adore thee!
Oh! would that to Thee
I might now bend the knee,
And express all this bosom is feeling;
Nor attempt once to rise
'Till you'd pity my sighs,
And sure, love, you'd not keep me kneeling!-


TRIFLES IN POETRY.
27
And while on my knees,
If it would not displease,
I'd pray without any restraint;
And low at your feet
"Ave Mary," repeat,
And you'd be my dear little Saint!-
And there I'd remain
'Till you'd pity the pain,
That you cause to this suffering breast;
Nor from that spot move
'Till you'd feel for your love,
And your eyes softly tell me the rest!
For you could impart
Such bliss to this heart,
Since Peace from my bosom has fled;
That anguish must fly
From the beam of that eye,
Such rapture thy glances might shed.
Oh! thus, o'er and o'er,
'Twere bliss to implore,
For one lock of thy dearly priz'd hair ;
One bright, glossy tress
Were sufficient to bless,-
If you'd deign Nature's blessings to share.
D2


28
TRIFLES IN POETRY.
But should blushes rise
From thy cheeks to thine eyes,
My feelings could not bear control;
But within these fond arms,
I'd circle thy charms,
And kiss thee,I would on my soul!-
And as each soft blush
Would increase, with the flush
That thy dear little heart would be in;
I'd tell thee in sooth,
And tell thee, with truth,
That not to kiss thee, were a sin!-
For the glow on that cheek
Nature's language doth speak,
And 'twere folly her law to resist ;
Then Mary, let mine,
Press those two lips of thine,
For believe me, thou'rt made to be kiss'd!-
Sure you could not suppose
That the colour, which glows
On thy sweet little, beatiful lip;
Should remain still unpress'd,
And the lover unbless'd,
Who would sigh all its sweetness to sip!—


TRIFLES IN POETRY.
29
29
Nor could you think me
Such a Stoic, to see
A Maid, that e'en Hermits might fire;
But think I must long
By persuasion, or song
Or all possible means to get nigh her!-
And if I should try,
(Just between You and I,)
To whisper a word in her ear;
Then much I might tell
Of my loving so well,
Was I sure there was nobody near !-
Yet I fear whilst I'd speak,
That that soft blooming cheek,
Would attract those attentive lips to it;
Just to take a small kiss,
From my dear little Miss,
Aye! 'tis twenty to one but they'd do it!-
For freely I own,
So wild am I grown,
And this heart such a warmth has got in it;
That whenever I view
Such a Hebe as you,
I'm bewilder'd, in less than a minute.
D 3


30
TRIFLES IN POETRY..
Those bright-beaming eyes,
Have ta'en by surprise,
This heart, which throbs most when 'tis nearest,
The bosom, where dwells,
(Sure 'tis Love thus impels,)
The one that on Earth it holds dearest.
Yet what can I do,
Shall I give it to you?-
Perhaps you could keep it in order,
Oh! was such a maid sure
To perfect its cure,
I'd pray that kind Love might reward her!-
Oh! it ne'er could repine
If 'twas once placed next thinė,-
Would you grant but its loving petition;
Yet there's no knowing what
The poor thing would be at,
It is in such a longing condition!-
Then my sweet little soul,
As our youthful hours roll,
Let's thus enjoy Life's sunny weather;
For 'twere pity to part
Mine, from your little heart,
So e'en let them ramble together.


TRIFLES IN POETRY.
31
And should mine go astray,
Yours might point out the way,
And bring it back, love, to its duty;
Yet it never could slip
If once press'd to that lip,
Inspir'd, thus by Youth, Love, and Beauty.
And could you excuse
This flight of my Muse,
A Muse that would still fly to You;
Let it peacefully rest
On that beautiful breast,
If you've any compassion, pray do!-
For tho' Folly may seem
To govern the theme;
Yet believe me it prompts not one line;
Oh! could Folly soar
To features, that bore
The stamp of an image divine?—
No! Love is the child,
As playful, and wild,
As the mountain breeze kissing the rose;
'Tis he that inspires
My soul with desires,
And robs this poor heart of repose!-


32
TRIFLES IN POETRY.
Believe me 'tis he
So wanton and free,
That makes me still think of the bliss, in
Those beautiful arms,
And all the bright charms,
This moment Love fain would be kissing.
'Tis he that takes aim,
With his darts tip't with flame,
Oh! would that the urchin might lose 'em ;
He causes those sighs
For the rapture, that lies
A rich mine of bliss in thy bosom !—
Then look on me, love,
With an eye like a dove,
And let this poor heart, when 'tis weary,
Forget all its woes,
And softly repose,
On thy dear little bosom, my Mary !---


TRIELES IN POETRY.
33
FRAGMENT.
"See in her Cell sad Eloisa spread,
Propp'd on some tomb, a neighbour of the Dead!-"
POPE.
Ask the pale Nun, who wastes her bloom of youth
Amid a Convent's solitary gloom,
Ask her, "Does real happiness dwell there?',-
Who, forc'd perchance, by mandates harsh, to quit
A world she scarce had seen, seeks through the Aisle,
But vainly seeks, the Peace that's fled her breast;
Perchance her happiness was offer'd up
A Sacrifice, at Pride's unworthy shrine!-
If so, poor Maid, thy heart may yet awake
To Nature's genial throb, if yet that heart
Hath slumber'd in a calm unknown to Love.
Thy bosom yet may glow for joy's resign'd,
Resign'd for ever, ere those joys were known,
Thy soul may sigh for hopes for ever crush'd,
And Life, to thee must prove a dreary void."
Or if, oh! if her plighted vows were giv'n,
To some fond youth who liv'd for her alone,
Who dar'd in extacy to press those lips,
That breath'd the Vow of constancy and truth;
Sealing the bond of ever faithful Love
With Nature's holy, pure, and sacred kiss.
The Veil that hides her beauty from that world
She still regrets, envelopes not her mind;
Whilst Memory and Solitude combine
To keep one form still present to her view,
D


34
TRIFLES IN POETRY.
Her Orisons are breath'd in prayer for him,
Thought, "busy thought," still roves on pinions free
And sighs are wafted to her distant love.
Her heart, this moment wak'd once more by Hope,
The next, struck down by fell and dark Despair!
Thus by the adverse winds, some hapless Bark,
(The wreck of what she was, and wearied out
Long struggling with a fate she could not shun,)
Is rudely driven on some desert coast!—
Like thee, perchance, she calmly sail'd through Life,
And, on the Oceans heaving bosom borne,
Whilst prosp'rous breezes fill'd each swelling sail,
Steer'd to the port, to which her wishes turn'd.
Like thee, perchance, in sight of land, she hail'd
The joyous hour, she saw the distant speck
Enlarging on her raptur'd view, 'till Fate
Destroy'd her hopes, as she had murder'd thine.
And can the solitude that reigns around,
Can the cold Shrine, or cemetary's gloom,
Beneath whose shade, some monumental urn,
Informs the stranger, "Here a Sister lies!"-
Can scenes like these, or thoughts which they inspire,
Restore composure to thy stricken soul?
No! no.-the hope were vain; thy peace has fled,
Nature outrag'd still, still asserts her rights,
And Hope, Despair, and Piety, and Love,
Maintain a dreadful conflict in thy breast.
Dost thou reflect that she, perchance ev'n she,
Whose ashes moulder in yon dreary spot,
Had once a heart like thine, as much alive
To all the fine pulsations of the soul?-
-


TRIFLES IN POETRY.
35
Perchance like thee, torn from her hopes of bliss,
She early fell a victim to her doom,
And thou in hers, mays't read thy hapless fate.
Perchance by desperation sway'd, Death's cold
Embrace she sought!—Ev'n thus some Maniac wretch,
Rushes with giant strides to Alpine heights,
And standing on some rock's extremest point,
Exulting views the grave he madly sought:
Beholds with triumph the Abyss below,
That desperate journey to another World,
Which once began, he never can retrace:
But what that world is, or Heav'n or Hell,
Or who, with outstretch'd arms, awaits below
Eager to catch his swift-descending soul,
At best is doubt!-Eternity lies there;
-
He seeks not to know more,- With desp❜rate stride,
He takes the fatal leap, and as he falls
Despair laughs wildly o'er the tomb of Hope!—
The yawning gulph re-echoes to that cry,
And as it rings discordant from its depths,
The Raven, scared, shrieks as it flies th' Abyss,
Leaving its gloom to Silence and to Death!-


36
TRIFLES IN POETRY.
STANZA'S.
July 18th 1815,
"No disguise can long conceal Love where it really is, nor feign
it where it is not."
ROCHEFOUCAULT.
I will not ask to press that cheek
Where roses with each other vie,
Nor will I, in thy glances seek
A look might bid me cease to sigh;
I will not ask one lock of hair,
That hair that waves so wild and free,
Nor will I, ev'n in murmurs dare
To whisper all I feel for thee !—
Yet think not, that I could not prize
The freshness of thy rosy lip,
Nor, when inspir'd by laughing eyes,
Not warmly wish thy kiss to sip ;-
But think, how dear to me each tress
That waves, that graceful brow above,
And think how much this heart must bless,
The eye that beams one look of love.-
And oh! think not, because my tongue
Hath left its tale of love untold;
Think not thy Hebe charms unsung,
Think not my soul to love so cold;
Nor think, because I do not speak
Of Love to thee, that Love is less,-
Oh! why should I my silence break,
When words could not my love express?—


TRIFLES IN POETRY.
$7
When thro' the long and sleepless Night,
My weary eyes at last may close,
Ev'n then, in visions warm and bright,
My soul is robb'd of its repose;
Ev'n then each feeling of my breast,
Unbounded, flies to Love and thee,
Whilst thou cans't still enjoy that rest,
That you and Love have stol'n from me.
Oh! could my love its warmth impart,
A love too tremulously fine,
Oh! could'st thou know this faithful heart,
Thou'dst feel its every throb is th ine ;
Yet though thy bosom still is cold,
Nor feels, nor owns one throb for me,
Yet thou cans't not from me withold,
The luxury of loving Thee!—
་་་་་
E


38
TRIFLES IN POETRY.
Hermit's Minstrelsy,
NO. 2,
"THE HERMIT'S PHILOSOPHY."
AIR-"Molly Malone."
Let Hermit's still cling,
To fancy's bright wing,
And jovially sing-
Thro' Life's fleeting day,
Nor let us repine,
When mirth, music, and wine,
All united combine,
To enliven our way.
But oh! let it be ours,
To gather the flow'rs,
That bloom in the bow'rs,
Of pleasure and love,
They are fools who refuse 'em,
The sweetest, we'll choose 'em,
To deck the fair bosom,
That softly may move;
Whilst Woman, dear Woman, may smile.
Whilst Woman, &c.


TRIFLES IN POETRY.
39
66
Should a Hermit espy,
Woman's soft-speaking eye,
Ah! should he not sigh,
To the silent appeal?
Or like Parthian Knight,
Should he conquer by flight,
And flee from her sight,
Should a Hermit not feel?
No!-May woman still spurn
Him, whose soul would not burn,
Each warm throb to return,
With the fervor of truth ;
May he who would measure,
His moments of pleasure,
Ne'er feel Life's best treasure,
In beauty and youth
In Woman, dear Woman's bright smile;
In Woman, &c.
Then let Mirth and Wine chace,
Gloomy Cares faintest trace,
And smiles light the face,
Of each Hermit to night;
Let our maxim still be,
To be joyous and free,
And with soft harmony,
Blend convivial delight.
E 2


40
TRIFLES IN POETRY.
Then, oh! let not a thought,
But with rapture be fraught,
For 'twere worse than a fault,
To let Care cloud the brow,
Or anticipate sorrow,
And grieve for the morrow,
When 'twere wiser to borrow,
Our happiness now,
In Woman, dear Woman's bright smile.
In Woman, &c.
STANZA'S
July, 26th 1815.
"See, how she leans her cheek upon her hand!-
"
SHAKESPEARE.
How oft my love, when thou hast slept,
Have I beneath thy window crept,
How oft has Love its vigils kept,
And breath'd its sighs to thee?—
Whilst thou, unconscious Love was near,
Hast pass'd those hours, to lovers dear,
In tranquil sleep, devoid of fear,
Nor thought of Love or me!-


TRIFLES IN POETRY.
41
How oft my love, when Peace had shed
Her genial influence o'er thy bed,
When ev'ry warmer thought had fled,
If Love could thee, forsake ;-
How oft have I, my lovely Maid,
Much wish'd to breathe a Serenade,
But faith was more than half afraid
That other's might awake?
Last night I saw that form, that face,
Oh! 'twas but for a moments space,
Yet Mem❜ry still, will long retrace
The look 'twill ne'er resign;
And think whose soft hand 'twas, that drew
The envious curtain shading You,
And closing Heav'n upon my view?
Ah! Mary, it was thine !-
Sure dearest, sure, it was not fair,
When nought but Love was waking there,
And I abroad at Midnight air,
With hope, with love elate,
Sure 'twas not fair to draw between,
That love-resisting, muslin screen,
And thus to close the blissful scene,
And leave me to my fate!-
E 3


42
TRIFLES IN POETRY.
Yet calmly You retir'd to rest,
With Peace an inmate of thy breast,
Thy glowing cheek, in slumbers press'd
Thy soft, thy downy pillow;
(Oh! how that cheek in beauty glows!-)
In slumbers still thy bosom rose,
Though You, while courting soft repose,
Left me to seek the Willow!-
The Heav'ns with glitt'ring stars were bright,
I gaz'd upon the Moon's soft light,
I blew a kiss,I bade "Good Night"!-
Unheard, unfelt, unseen;
Yet still I linger'd, still I stay'd,
For Hope with Love still, still delay'd,
I turn'd to go,I bless'd the Maid,-
But curs'd the muslin screen!


TRIFLES IN POETRY.
43
ADDITIONAL LINES
To the Epilogue to the "WONDER,”
Spoken by Mrs. Edwin, in the Character of Violante, on the
Night of her Benefit, February, 11th 1818.
When late, some few Moons' since, this beating heart,
Would fain, to You, its Farewell thanks impart,
Methought one tender feeling I could trace
Shading the sun-bright smiles that lit each face,
Like those soft clouds that make their silent way,
Ting'd with the splendours of the God of Day!—
Perhaps it was but thought, yet oh! if true,
This heart, felt more than sympathy you.
Oh! no, no pen, no language has the pow'r
To speak the thrilling anguish of that hour,
As my heart, full to bursting, sunk so deep,
'Twere some relief from agony, to weep,
For then my sad Farewell was meant sincere,
Though tempted to return to Friends so dear.
Oh! since your Shamrocks wild, have kiss'd my feet,
A presage of this welcome, warm and sweet,
Your native kindness has with truth imprest,
Green Erin's emblem in my grateful breast!-


44
TRIFLES IN POETRY.
THROUGH THE GLEN WHERE MARY STRAY'D,
A CANZONET.
Music by T. Robinson.
Through the Glen where Mary stray'd
Cherishing Love's deep dejection,
The Fairy scene I long survey'd,
Hallow'd thus by young affection.
The Grotto here, the Cascade higher,-
The rustic, Alpine Bridge above it,
If wand'ring eyes that scene admire,
Oh! mine, for Mary's sake, must love it !--
The gushing Waters cooling sound,
The breath of Zephyr fresh and airy,
The very Birds, nay all around,
Seem'd but to breathe of Love and Mary !—
When absence such a scene endears,
We find a charm in Melancholy,
Thus Love could linger there for years,
Yet Mary, this, the World calls Folly!-
The wither'd leaves of Autumn fell
Like early-blighted hopes around me,
As Love traced her, who with Love's spell,
By Mem'rys magic power bound me !-
But vain ev'n Mem'ry to impart
One Joy to cheer a Life so dreary,
Peace-Hope-all lost-this broken heart,
The only relic left of Mary !—
17th September, 1819.


TRIFLES IN POETRY.
45
SIR,
THESPIAN THOUGHTS.
To the Editor of the DUBLIN MORNING POST.
If these trite Thoughts, which from my calm retreat
I send per Dundrum Penny-Post, should mect,
(I've paid the postage,) ev'n your toleration,
Then grant them, Mr. Editor, (1) Emancipation:
That is, allow them liberty to roam
On Freedom's, (Paper) wings, far, far from home,
Poor Children of the Brain, he who begot 'em
Sends them 'mid Critic Cavillers, odd rot 'em,
To" strut and fret their hour upon a Page,"
Their aim, THE MORNING POST, their theme, THE STAGE;
I "push their fortunes," from my peaceful arbour,
And date this, from "My Cottage, Windy Harbour,"
A home of wind, well suited to light words,
Which yet to them a home no more affords,
But, traversing the Earth, (as Thoughts are free,)
They leave Dundrum to goats, to girls,
and me.
Leaving our Youths companions, is a grief
So pure, so sacred, we scarce wish relief
From that sensation, which, (though pain,) endears
Each friend who claims the tribute of our tears.
'Twas so with them, they cast a wistful look
On Mrs. Norton's Goats, the Mountain brook,
And found, in ev'ry look, fresh cause to grieve,
And when at last, they took a final leave,
Mov'd like a Post, (the penny 'twas that bore them,)
Dundrum behind, "the world was all before them."
(1) And 'twere good policy, from Man to's brother,
That he who merits one, should meet with th' other.


46
TRIFLES IN POETRY.
The Urchins are but wild, and though I send 'em,
1 own I can't say much to recommend 'em ;
Perhaps you (justly) think, I first should show, Sir,
Some "higher flights," nay term me but a proser,
And closing on my "Thoughts" your Press diurnal
Exclude them from the columns of your Journal.
Yet when of Literature the very LEES
Float idly, (rest Longinus,) shall ev'n these
Poor lines be now rejected ?-'twould disclose
A sad partiality for frantic prose.
Too steep Parnassus' Hill for me to climb,
I aim not, Sir, at Poetry sublime,
But send you, writ in haste, my "Thoughts in rhyme."
A THEATRE !-Oh! 'tis a classic dome
Raised to the Gods on high,-the Muses home-
Apollo's Temple, where the Graces meet,
And (2) Seraphs breathe in airs "divinely sweet,"
Where his, (Apollo's) triumph (3) still is kept-
A Cradle where the infant Shakespeare slept;-
A THEATRE !-why'tis a Mart for Fame,
The Bazaar of true Genius: There a name,
The Poet, Actor, Painter, all may raise
Their first, their best reward, a Nation's praise.
(2) Who is there, having "Music in their Souls," that has not listen-
ed to Kathleen O'More with breathless attention and delight?
1
(3) In the Musical Afterpiece of Midas.


TRIFLES IN POETRY.
47
Yet "there be Players that I have seen play,"
Of whom, perhaps, the best that we can say
Is, that they keep their station, like the Domine,(4)
'Mid-way betwixt Thalia and Melpomene;
No smiles or tears are theirs-they stand aloof,
As though the hearts they bore were passion proof,
The scene, or grave, or gay-such but perplex it,
And we feel grateful-when they make their exit.(5)
But then our Dramatists-Oh! in these Isles
There lives not one can claim Thalia's smiles;
And he, (6) whose name shall live on History's page
The first, the last Menander of the Age,
Stands bright and lonely,(7) as a land-mark, placed
By Genius, to direct a People's taste.
(4) The gravity of Domine Sampson, never fails to excite the laugh-
ter of the audience, his effort at being "hilarious," is most doleful
mirth. It has been said, that the gravest bird is an Owl, the gravest
beast an Ass, and the gravest Man, a Fool! If so, we should hang
up Philosophy.'
29
(5) Actors of this description on the boards of a regular Theatre,
remind me of the weeds that grew on the Monk's grave, which, in the
language of Sterne, "had no business there."
(6) The late Richard Brinsley Sheridan.
"9
(7) The censure implied here is not meant to apply to the Tra-
gedies of the present day, some few of them are worth reading; but
where is the living Dramatist on whom Thalia smiles?-It would be
a truly melancholy task to take a Review of our modern Comedies and
Farces, adapted as they are to the coarse stomach of JOHN BULL, and
consisting of such productions as Love and Gout, Exchange is no Rob-
berry, Too late for Dinner, Where shall I dine? and a long et cetera
of imbecile attempts at humour, "weary, stale, flat, and unprofitable.'
Aladdin, professing to be no more than show, is really preferable to
such abortions of the brain. But we have Opera's too, yes, we have
The Slave for instance, which is, with the exception of Anziko and
Coanza, (another slavish thing, which was doubly damned at the Crow-,
street Theatre, having been attempted a second night, after the "deep
damnation" of the first,) the most contemptible production that the
bad Writers of the present day have yet produced.


48
TRIFLES IN POETRY.
Our Theatre (8) has op'd, howe'er, and we
Feel grateful to our present Patentee,
For his not introducing Gas,(9)—it shews us
He'd not distress our lungs, or curl our noses.(10)
Being merciful, I shall not lay much stress
Upon George Coleman, Esquire's, damn'd ADDRESS
Of Genius so devoid, nay not one spark, it
Seem'd as purchas'd in an English MARKET.
"Go George, I can't endure you,”—mend your pen,
Or, as atonement, never write again.
"Something too much of this,"I fain would speak
Of those who die some twice or thrice a week,
Of those who try to make the " barren” laugh,
(But we export our Corn, we import Chaff,)
1
(8) The new Drop-scene is classical and elegant; of the Proscenium
I shall not speak, as I am convinced it is but temporary, but it is
with regret I perceive that there is no Green Curtain; nor has there,
as yet, been a green cloth spread for Tragedy, perhaps being the co-
lour of my Country, makes me miss these theatrical requisites the
more; but I am compassionate, "Sir, as well as patriotic, and it goes
to my heart to see that interesting and promising young actress,
Miss Kelly, throw herself on the bare boards. Another matter of
deep regret is, that the Dublin Theatre has been left for the two
last years without an Actress to take the lead in high Comedy.
For "even such a time" have the Ladies Townly, Teazle, and Contest,
the Widows Belmour, Cheerly, and Bell Bloomer, and the Mes-
dames Violante, Juliana, and Belinda, been, to us, in a state of
somnambulism.
(9) Wax-lights are far more elegant than Gas, besides a central
Chandelier, however splendid, gives to a Theatre too much the appear-
ance of a Circus.
(10) The smell of Gas is very offensive.


TRIFLES IN POETRY.
49
Of those who execute a Song, nay all
That "fret their hour" within the Thespian Hall; (11)
But I must check at once my feather's flight,
It was a Goose's,- that with which I write,
"Sans doubt," perhaps, you'll say no matter, I
Can bear the winged shaft that I let fly;
But have nor time, nor room, left for a word,
The Post-boy being booted, and be-spurred-
I must make up "My Thoughts;" so here they go,
And am,
Windy Harbour,
14th February, 1821
Your most obedient,
CURIO*
(11) It may not, perhaps, be out of place to mention here, that I
saw two Farces "enacted" on one night at the Rotunda Theatre;
they were Is he Jealous? and The Rendezvous. The bills of the day an-
nounced Mrs. Humby as the Rose of both; this announcement was
perfectly correct.
*The foregoing appeared in 'the Dublin Morning Post, shortly
after the opening of the New Theatre Royal


50
TRIFLES IN POETRY.
STANZA'S.
"Poets in Youth, generally become Philosophers as they advance
-We grow chilly when we sit out "our fire."
in years;-
When young Affections impulse, brings
One bounding throb of gladness,
When heart to heart still warmly clings,
Nor thinks such fondness, madness,→
Ere Hope has borrow'd Times swift wings,
Or Mem❜ry yields but sadness!—
Oh! then the dream of Youth how bright,
Life's morn how fair,-
how dark the night!--
Well may we those pure
hours regret,
When Joy came uninvited,
And hearts congenial oft have met,
That now are disunited :-
When Life's young pulse throbb'd wild, ere yet
Hope's blossoms all are blighted!-
Yet such Man's destiny, and vain
Th' attempt, to break misfortune's chain!-
It is entail'd, ev'n at our birth,
Though smiles we vainly borrow,
That all alike who tread this Earth,"
Must wake at last to sorrow,
Still following close, to-day's wild mirth,
The anguish of to-morrow!—
His birth right then Man should not scorn,
For he's the heir of Sorrow born!


TRIFLES IN POETRY.
51
Hermi's Minstrelsy,
NO. 3,
BLUE DEVILS CHASED OUT OF IRELAND BY SAINT
PATRICK.
AFR Patrick's Day.”
Sung in the Refectory, at the Supper given by the HERMITS, on
the Night of the 16th of March, 1816, to usher in the
Morning of the Anniversary of their Patron Saint
with becoming devotion.
The Supper Tables were tastefully decorated with a
profusion of Shamrocks.
-000
Come, Jolly old Hermits, while others may sigh away,
Ours be the hope that's awaken'd by joy,
For with the Blue Devils, the Devil may fly away,
So Imps, big and little, take warning;
We Hermits, enjoy such a moment as
this is,
And welcome with rapture each soul-beaming smile,
Sorrow we banish,
And Care too must vanish,
With pale Melancholy,
And all such like folly,
Unfit for the Hermits of this verdant Isle,
Who sit up all night,
To catch the first light,
That breaks in, on St. Patrick's Morning..
(Chorus)-Fol, lol, de rol, lol, &c.
12


52
TRIFLES IN POETRY.
As St. Patrick, one Morn, in bed lay a thinking,
Of this thing,—and, that thing—and many things more,
While as yet, a few Stars in the Heav'ns were winking,
The Arch of green Erin adorning;
He Jump'd out of bed in the Devil's own hurry,
And into his breeches his two legs he thrust,
Blue Devils to chase,
And, och! hone, such a race,
Was ne'er seen since that day,
When he shewn them some play,
Before the Old boy, faith they flew like the dust,
Says the Saint, "Now," says he,
"Musha, Bad luck to me,"
"But
you run well this Patrick's Morning."—
(Chorus)-Fol, lol, de rol, lol, &c.
Oh! give me a Shamrock, I'll pour a libation,
To brighten the plant, that St. Patrick upheld,
A symbol of Union and Love to our Nation,
Bidding Hermits all discord be scorning;
Our Cell, shall ne'er echo to one note of sorrow,
While here we sit merrily taking our Tea,
And tho' Reason may fail in,
A true Bacchanalian,
Yet Joy shall ne'er leave us,
Nor Sorrow e'er grieve us,
•
While thus we can pour out the native Roscrea,
For Erin gives birth
To genuine Mirth,
On St. Patrick's day in the Morning!
(Chorus)-Fol, lol, de rol, lol, &c.


TRIFLES IN POETRY.
53
EXTRACT FROM "SKETCHES IN WICKLOW,' IŃ M. S.
Descriptive of the Vale of Ovoća. '
Addressed to
"If Woman can make the worst Wilderness dear,
Think, think what a Heav'n she must make of Cashmere !
"Amid the many lovely scenes that grace
MOORE
">
Thy Mountains, Wicklow, there lies one more sweet
To Contemplation's eye, more sought by those,·
The feeling and the pure, whose hearts may claim -
A sense of kindred with that lovely Vale,
More rich in all the softness of repose
Than all beside!- ——It breathes of tenderness,´›
To me 'tis dearer far than those wild views:
That strike the sense with wond'ring admiration,
Yet leave the heart, that truer test, untouch'd !——
Embower'd amid the shade of trees, that live
Along the mountains side, and flow'rs, that yield-
Their lavish fragrance to the breath of Morn,
(To Nature grateful for a home so sweet,)
This Valley lies.'Tis Nature's Paradise;
A second blooming Eden, where fall'n Man,
In "seeing what he sees," more deep must feel·
A vain regret at having lost the first!-
A Western Tempe, where th' Enthusiast,
Sooth'd by the scene, and "charm'd to Poetry,"
May drink from the pure fount of Inspiration!—
+
F 3


54
TRIFLES IN POETRY.
There, in that Vale of soft tranquility,
Fann'd by the fragrance, wak'd by Zephyr's sighs,
Whilst Heav'n its golden rays of glory shed,
I've wander❜d by the gentle Avon's banks,
And, lost in thought, have mark'd its silent way,
Through the soft bosom of that peaceful glen,
Where, wedded to Ovoca's rippling stream,
1
Together they have pass'd their destin'd course,
'Till lost in the eternity of Ocean!-
Alone amid a Solitude so sweet,
With nought of wordly cares to break the spell,
The heart, nor silent there, but oh! most eloquent,
I've mus'd upon the lesson Nature taught !—
There Fancy form'd a Cottage of content,
Where Love and Peace might dwell;-A Hebe there,
It were a bliss so pure, so exquisite,
Might tempt a Hermit to abjure his vows,
To share with her, her cottage and her heart!-
And cold must be his heart, that would not turn,
At twilight hour, to the expanse of sky,
Viewing each distant Planet as a world,
And whilst one full sensation of delight
Would thrill his soul with feelings scarce defin'd,
Worship the Star that lit him to his love !—
Oh! in a scene so form'd by Natures hand
For bliss, the very home of happiness,
Where is the heart could throb with one regret
For the World's wilder joys ?-Forgotten all :


TRIFLES IN POETRY.
55
And Man, when wand'ring here, taught by the birds,
(Themselves untaught, tho' not less sweet,) like them
Must breathe his song of gratitude to him,
Who form'd the sweet retreat; which echoes still,
As day declines, to the clear Vesper hymn,
Pour'd by the warblers of the sylvan scene.
Their Orisons at early Morn they pay,
In the wild strains that charm the list'ners ear!-
"Tho Moons on Moons in endless' change may roll,
This Valley still shall wear, unchang'd, its smile,
And 'mid its roses wild, and myrtles sweet,
The same soft sense of harmony pervade !→→→→
Ling'ring we turn, as loth to quit a scene
Where all the souls best sympathies are wak'd,
Where those who 'neath Misfortunes heavy hand
Have sunk o'erpower'd, could they still feel, would find
Their sorrow sooth'd to sadness.'Twas of Thee
I thought,and with a wish to bear my grief's
To some more wild and more congenial spot,
I sought Lough Dan, and in that gloomy Lake
As in a mirror, saw my woes reflected!"


56
TRIFLES IN POETRY.
THE MOUNTAIN hether.
Music by T. Robinson.
Sung by Mr. McKeon, of the Theatre Royal, at the Anacreontic
Society.
Olt! fly my Jessy, fly wi' me,
An' thus thro' life we'll wander,
A heart is a' love offers thee,
The world contains nae fonder.
Nae gowden store, nae flocks have I,
Nae lands to win your mither,
Then fly wi' me, my Jessy, fly
Across the Mountain Hether!-
Oh! come my Jessy, leave em a',
An' Love shall light each morrow,
For thy young heart is not of snaw,
An' mine has lov'd thro sorrow!-
Come,-close I'll hold thee to this breast,
An' shield thee from rude weather,
An' sweet shall be my Jessy's rest,.
Tho' on the Mountain Hether!-
Yon Evening Star shall be our guide,
The path lies straight before us,
Come, Jessy, come,the World is wide,
See Hesper hovers o'er us!-
I'll fold my plaid around thy form,
An' sweet we'll rest together,
Nor feel the wind, nor fear the storm,
Upon the Mountain Hether!-


TRIFLES IN POETRY.
57
LINES Addressed TO
"Ah! me, for aught that I could ever read,
Could ever hear by tale or history,
The course of true love never did run smooth:--
But either it was different in blood;
Or else misgraffed in respect of years;
Or else it stood upon the choice of friends:
Or if there were a sympathy in choice,
War, death, or sickness did lay seige to it."
SHAKESPEARL
If Sorrows weeping train might wait on Joy,
Or Love, too fondly cherish'd, Peace destroy,
If aught of ill could emanate from thee,
Whose Heav'n-born smile 'twere happiness to see;
If, to the blush that brightens Beautys cheek,
The source of Sorrow, not in vain we seek,
Some paradox in erring Nature lies,
Since all I suffer, come from all I prize!-
'Tis "passing strange," the form to Man most dear,
The Houri of his hopes whilst wand'ring here,
She, who to tardy Time lends Love's swift wings,
Ev'n she to whom his heart most fondly clings,
Should thus, by wayward Fate, be doom'd to be
Th' unconscious, lovely cause of Misery!-
Ah! why will Mem'ry still recur to hours,
When Hopes bright rain-bow rose o'er Loves sweet bow'rs?
Why, why, tenacious of the past, still turn
To weep in secret o'er Affections Urn,
Seeking the treasur'd relic's buried there,
Tho' guarded by the Demon of Despair?-
There was a Star that o'er my path still shone,
That most of all Heav'ns lights I've gazed upon,


58
TRIFLES IN POETRY.
That but to view its distant glories shine,
And catch those smiles of light, that once were mine,
That but to feel, beneath its rays so bright,
The consciousness of living in its light,
Was to this heart, a bliss intense, yet pure,
Too sweet for Earth, too perfect to endure.-
Oh! it was as a centre to my soul,
A Sun, round which my ev'ry thought would roll,
A source of life, and light, and warmth, that shed
Around this ardent heart, ere Hope had fled,
That sense of being, which through joy or strife,
Once felt, for ever influences Life!-
Yet true, its last few, fading beams that fell,
Could ne'er the gloom around that heart dispel,,
But gave to light in all the truth of grief,
The sorrows, beyond pity or relief!-
So, when portending clouds the skies deform,
Some Vessel struggles with the angry Storm,
Vainly, yet proudly, buffeting the waves,
Those restless Cemetaries, wat'ry graves,
A nameless Wreck, without, or sail, or mast,
A victim to the Storm, she sinks at last !—
Yet when the Tempests' o'er, the winds subside,
And Morns soft blushes meet the tranquil tide,
When the Suns splendours with returning day,
O'er the calni bosom of the Waters, play,
In beams of brightness, lovely to behold,
Whose very touch is warmth, whose hue is gold,
Still, still they light on the dismasted deck,
And all the horrors of the hapless Wreck-


TRIFLES IN POETRY.
59
5.9
Thus, tho' the radiance of thy smile may throw
Its bright effulgence o'er the deepest woe,
Unfelt its warmth, like Moon-beams o'er a tomb,
Which cheer not there, where all around is gloom;
Oh! thus its lovely light, reveals at best
The Wreck of Happiness, within this breast,
Yet fails, one joyous feeling to impart,
To this devoted, lost, and broken heart!—
STANZA S.
"Then listen,
And lay
your white arm mid'st the branches, thus
(Sweet contrast!) and your head against this trunk,
And clear your marble forehead from those thick
And shadowy tresses.
So, your eye bent tow'rds me:
How bright it is!- -and like the glow-worms light,
Shines most methinks, in darkness.
Listen now;
But 'tis a melancholy Song: 'twas framed
When once I thought I had lost you,"
BARRY CORNWALL.
I'twined a Wreath for Mary's brow,
Whilst bright her eye of beauty beam'd,
And breathing o'er it Loves pure Vow,
In tenderness I thus exclaim'd :-
"Oh such a Chain was made for us,
And still should bind hearts form'd like ours,
When ev'ry throb through Life, should thus
Inhale the breath of flow'rs!"-


60
1
TRIFLES IN POETRY.
She took the Wreath, but e'er the dews
By Mornings genial warmth were dried,
The Violets lost their brighter hues,
The Roses wither'd, droop'd, and died!-
"And thus," I cried, "will Love awhile
Like flow'rs in Sun-shine freshly bloom,
And thus will droop, and thus beguile,
Love's light and changeful plume!
'Twas Folly,-yet I griev'd to see,
The Plants that I had rear'd with care,
Should prove, with April smile, to me
At once so fleeting and so fair :-
With Nature I have vainly strove,
The leaves ere this have long decay'd,
I should have known, that Woman's love,
And Summer flow'rs, will fade!--


TRIFLES IN POETRY.
61
STANZA'S.
WRITTEN ON LEAVING DUBLIN.
"The World, in my imagination, is divided only into two regions
that where she is, and that where she is not,"
/ ROUSSEAU.
Without a single hope to cheer,
From ev'ry Joy estrang'd,
Bereft of all could make Life dear,
My very nature chang'd,-
O'er Earth's wide, wild, and weary waste,
Reckless of all I roam,
Since Fate, Life's path for me has traced,
Which leads to Sorrows home!-
When lighter hearts, and happier friends,
Shall live beneath thy smile,
When Flatt'rys incense, soft ascends,
To win, to lure, beguile,-
When Pleasures round, or Folly's whim,
Assail thy gentle heart,
Oh! wilt thou give one thought to him,
Whose pulse of Life thou art ?—
G


62
TRIFLES IN POETRY.
One lovely flow'r, of all beneath
The Heav'ns, one flow'r alone,
I thought to twine into a Wreath,
Which Love might call his own.-
Throughout all Nature's wide parterre,
In Youths most sunny hour,
I've priz'd o'er all, that blossom fair,
And worshipp'd Love's own flow'r.
Hermit's Minstrelsy,
NO. 4.
THE PILGRIM'S MATIN SONG.
Written for the Hermits first Pilgrimage to the Co. Wicklow,
June 9, 1816.
AIR" A Rose Tree in full bearing."
When Morning's rays first breaking,
Come faint and feeble o'er the hill,
When Night's pale stars yet waking,
Thro' clouds of light, are glimm'ring still;
When th' untrim'd lamp, expiring,
Tells Pilgrims of the wane of Night,
When Moonbeam's are retiring,
We journey by that doubtful light.


TRIFLES IN POETRY.
63
Our Pilgrimage beginning,
With Hermits early Matin Song;
Each brother blithely, singing,
We cheerly pass the hour's along ;
And when the Night is closing,
And tears of dew, the Heavens weep,
On beds of heath reposing,.
Each Pilgrim sinks in tranquil sleep.
And should our weary way, be
O'er paths by feet but seldom worn,
And should some Mountain Hebe,
With rustic charms those paths adorn;
Shall we be deem'd unholy,
If, with a pure, devoted zeal,
We bend in homage lowly,
And at the Shrine of Beauty kneel ?
This World's a desert only,
- Where Man, the Pilgrim's born to roam,
His journey drear and lonely,
But Woman's bosom is his home;
Her sunny smiles befriending,
Like rays from Heaven, make him blest,
Whene'er, his sorrow's ending,,
Life's Pilgrim seeks that place of rest.
G 2


64
TRIFLES IN POETRY.
LINES
WRITTEN AT LOUGH DAN, COUNTY WICKLOW.
Addressed to
"She bade him wait, be silent, and forget
Such nonsense :- -He heard this, and, lov'd her yet;
He lov'd-oh! how he lov'd. -His heart was full
Of that immortal passion.'
BARRY CORNWALL,
thus scan
Mary, without a thought of thee,
My life, my love, my destiny,
Oh! think'st thou, could mine eye
The Solitude of lone Lough Dan?—
Oh! think'st thou, could I hither roam,
To Sorrows most sequester'd home,
Nor feel, depriv'd of Hope and Thee,
Its gloom a fit abode for me?.
What, tho' some year's are o'er, since first
Thy smiles that ruling Passion nurst,
Which, like the Lightnings flash, illumes
The very spot that it consumes;
Which hurls its vivid fires, that throw
A wild sublimity round Woe,
Leaving the blasted heart in gloom
With desolation for its doom;
Yet thus, of Happiness bereft,
'Twill, with the wreck of Passion left,
Still wildly, madly cherish there,
The darker feeling of Despair!--


TRIFLES IN POETRY.
65
Yes! there's a feeling of the heart,
When nought on Earth can peace impart,
When respiration's drawn by sighs,
Which, half suppress'd, relief denies ;→→
'Tis that depression of the Mind,
When Sorrow's in the breast enshrin'd,
When, churlishly, the heart would keep
Its anguish to itself, and weep
In tears of blood, that would but trace,
The Sorrows they could not efface !—
Oh! think'st thou, could I wander here,
To regions such as these; so drear,
So desolate the scenes they shew,
Nor feel a fellowship with Woe?—
Forget thee!Yes, when lone Lough Dan,
Shall meet with smiles, th' intruder, Man.-
When Lugnaquilla's snow-crown'd head,
Shall bow to hear his lordly tread.-
When Peace shall +Luggela forsake,
And quit the bosom of its Lake,
Then shall I feel from anguish free,
Then shall I cease to think of Thee!-
* Lugnaquilla, the highest of the Wicklow Mountains, towers
above a lofty range, situated about five Miles to the S. W of
Glandalough.
+ Luggela, in the County Wicklow, celebrated for the beauty
of its Scenery; Nature may be said to repose on the bosom of its
Lake, so "stilly calm" is all around.—Ône might almost imagine
it was formed as a retreat for the Spirit of Solitude, surrounded as
it is by an immense range of lofty Mountains, that form a perfect
and natural Amphitheatre.
G 3


66
TRIFLES IN POETRY.
STANZA'S.
"Oh! teach me how I should forget to think."
"
SHAKESPEARE.
Oh! if those Hebe charms of thine,
Have rais'd a Passion known to few,
If yet this heart, at Beautys shrine,
Has pour'd its vows, fond, warm, and true,
If Passions wildest thrill was mine,
When loveliness first met my view;
Let ev'n its wild excess, attest
Who loves thee fondest, truest, best!
In Years to come, when other ties,
Shall bind thy heart, unthought of now,
Should he, whose pure, impassion'd sighs
Were giv'n to thee,-oh! say would'st thou,-
Should he then stand before thine eyes,
With Sorrow stamp'd upon his brow,-
Oh! would'st thou, in that hour, repress
One sigh for so much wretchedness?—
One lov'd, last relic, still I wear,
One Amulet, so dear thou art,
One Talisman of Love I bear,
With which fond Mem'ry will not part ;
No! Mary, no ;- -I could not tear
Thine Image from this ruin'd heart,
Where yet it lies in-urn'd, a dear
Memorial of a Love sincere!-


TRIFLES IN POETRY.
67
Hermits Minstrelsy
NO. 5.
THE HERMITS WELCOME.
Written for the Hermits' Annual Commemoration, Sept. 7, 1816.
་་་་
RECITATIVE.
"MUSE of the Hermits, leave Parnassus' height,
And to our Cell, oh! take thy wonted flight;
"Yet ere thou comeṣt, bathe thy brilliant wing,
"In the fam'd waters of Castalia's spring!"
Air-"Paddys Wedding."
Ye souls so bright,
Who worship Night,
Enjoying Hermits revelry,
Come sing the strain
Of Joy, again,
Inspir'd by Mirth and Jollity.
For tho' the Sun
His race has run,
What tho' his glorious course be past,
Yet from yon skies,
Shall Stars arise,
And thro' the gloom their radiance cast.
Then seize the Wine,
To bathe the shrine
Of Mirth, that shall our cares dispel:
For while we live,
We freely give,
A welcome to the Hermits Cell.


68
TRIFLES IN POETRY
From realms above,
The God of Love,
Descended once on Erin's shore ;
He wander'd wild,
A truant child,
And vow'd he'd leave this land no more.
"I'll pass my hours,
"In wreathing flow'rs,
"For Erin's gen'rous sons," said he,
"Nor sigh for skies,
"But here I'll prize,
"The Land of Hospitality!"
Then seize the Wine,
To bathe the shrine
1
Of Love, that shall our cares dispel,
For while we live,
To him we'll give,
A welcome to the Hermits Cell!
Our Scrip, tho' spare,
We Hermits share,
Our berries wild, and oaten-cake;
For what our board
Can e'er afford,
The weary traveller shall partake.
And like that dome,
The wanderers home,
Our Cell shall prove a *Choultry here;
* A Choultry is a public building erected near the road, and
devoted solely to the use of travellers of all ranks; they are very
numerous in the East, particularly over the whole Continent of
India, and as the building of them is deemed an act of great piety,
a rich native is generally anxious to erect, or contribute to the
crection of one, before he dies.


TRIFLES IN POETRY.
69
Where Laymen all,
May freely call,
And share with us the Hermits cheer!
Then seize the Wine,
To bathe the shrine
1
Of Mirth, that shall our cares dispel ;
For while we live,
We freely give,
A welcome to the Hermits Cell.
IMPROMPTU,
Written in the Pit of the Theatre, during the representation of
the Opera, "Love in a Village.
"
ADDRESSED TO MISS ROSETTA B
What was it could my thoughts engage,
Where Woman still with Woman vied?—
Was it Rosetta on the Stage?
No! 'twas Rosetta by my side !—


70
TRIFLES IN POETRY.
STANZA'S
WRITTEN AT ROUNDWOOD, CO. WICKLOW.
“Thou'rt gane awa frae me, Mary.”—
BURNS.
By Vartreys banks I wander'd lone,
Whilst Thought look'd back from Mem'rys throne,
And mused on hours, for ever flown,
Since we're doom'd to sever!---
My heart, while it may vainly swell,
Has felt, and feels, this truth too well,
Yet asks, "Will Fate those clouds dispel ?"-
Mary Never, Never -
Amid those trackless Mountains wild,
I've gazed around, and sadly smil'd,
Whilst thy lov'd charms, still Time beguil'd,
Dear,-ah! dear as ever.
In Fancy beaming bright, as when
They first inspir'd my votive pen ;-
Ah! will those hours return again?
Mary, Mary,Never!-
ཨ་་་་


TRIFLES IN POETRY.
71
ELEGIAC STANZA'S.
"Dark Tree, still sad when others grief has fled,
The only constant Mourner o'er the dead."
BYRON.
Oh! when my restless Spirits' fled,—
When my imprison'd Soul is free,
Then let me rest my weary head,
Beneath yon waving Cypress Tree.
There, in that peaceful Solitude,
Let me find rest when Life is o'er,
No wordly passions there obtrude,
There Loves wild throb is felt no more.
Nor oh! let footsteps rudely tread,
To spoil the tint that Nature gave,
Or crush the wild flow'r on that bed,
Should it yet blossom o'er my grave.
But let some Youth, if such there be,-
Whose love, like mine, has long been tried ;
Let him that e'er has lov'd like me,
Carve on the Tree," He lov'd and died!"
་་་་་་་


72
TRIFLES IN POETRY.
Hermits Minstrelsy
NO. 6.
·
THE HERMIT'S VESPER SONG.
Air-"Shawn Bwee,"
YE Anchorites all who have offer'd up vows,
To pay true devotion to Momus,
Invoking the God to join our carouse,
With t'other bright youth, Mr. Comus.
Let us now, while the Sun of enjoyment shall rise,
Full and bright at this o'erflowing brimmer;
Emulate those choice Spirits that rove thro' the skies,
While Hermits, like them, full of whim are.
(Chorus) Follol de rol lol &c.
The Goddesses too, and their beautiful zones,
What Hermit could ever resist them;
With lips, such as Venus de Medici owns,
Too happy the God that has kiss'd them.
Oh! could they be tempted on this earth to dwell,
We'd worship them then as our duty;
While their splendour would form, in the Hermits drear cell,
A bright Constellation of Beauty!
(Chorus) Fol lol de rol lol, &c.


TRIFLES IN POETRY.
73
Diana herself thought the clouds were too cold,
And when Night o'er Mount Latmos was closing,
Enamour'd descended, unseen to behold
Her shepherd Endymion reposing;
Then oh! still may Woman resemble Miss Di,
And with smiles cheer the hearts that adore her;
When in such a chaste Maid from her own native sky,
She has such an example before her!
(Chorus) Fol lol de rol lol, &c.
IMPROMPTU.
'Why is Love like a Potatoe ?" said Jane,
To the Gardener Pat, who was working hard by,
"Faith Miss," replied Paddy, "the reason is plain,
They're indigenous Plants, and both shoot from the Eye!"
H


74
TRIFLES IN POETRY.
STANZA'S.
WRITTEN AT ROUNDWOOD, CO. WICKLOW.
"The Lady of his Love re-enter'd there,
She was serene and smiling then, and yet
She knew she was by him belov'd:-She knew,,
For quickly comes such knowledge, that his heart
Was darken'd with her shadow, and she saw
That he was wretched.".
BYRON.
Ah! what avails th' unvarying thought,
That turns with truth to thee?
What, Life itself?nought, Mary, nought,
It bears no charm for me!
The flow'rs that Hope strew in my path,
Though faded; once were sweet,
'Till Fate, with unrelenting wrath,
Proclaim'd, we ne'er may meet!—
The Heav'n of Life thus overcast,
With clouds, that, low'ring, shed
Their darken'd shadows, but to blast
The heart whose hopes are dead;
Lone, joyless now I tread this Earth,
Unmov'd ev❜n by Despair;
Since Life, to wretchedness gave birth,
And both I'm doom'd to bear!


TRIFLES IN POETRY.
75
STANZA'S.
"There is not a day in which your figure does not appear before
me; your conversations return to my thoughts; and every scene,
place, or occasion, where I have enjoyed them, are as livelily painted on
my mind, as an imagination equally warm and tender, can be capable
to represent them."
POPE, TO LADY MARY WORTLEY Montague.
Tho' Hope has rung Love's passing Bell,
Tho' Hope has prov'd untrue,
Yet breath dear Maid, one last "Farewell,"
Oh! breatheone last "Adieu :”
On Earth, perchance, we ne'er may meet,
Yet still, belov'd, 'twill be
A bliss to me, divinely sweet,
To live for Love and Thee!-
4
Could not my "minds eye," rest on You,
My heart should turn to tears;
But Mem'rys ray still pierces thro'
The Vista of past years !—
Thus Life itself;-which else were nought,
Ev'n Life shall prove to me,
A bliss, when pass'd in one long thought,
Dear, lovely Maid, of Thee!-
·000
H 2


76
TRIFLES IN POETRY.
Hermit's Minstrelsy,
No. 7,
THE PILGRIM'S CHANT.
Written for the Hermits' Pilgrimage to the Hill of Howth,
July 7th 1816, being the Second for the Season.
AIR," The Young May Moon."
ARISE, ye Hermits-Morning's ray
Has tinged the darker clouds with grey,
Then oh! 'tis time
Yon hill we climb,
Our pure devotion there to pay;
For see you not, what streaks of light,
Beam o'er the Hill of Howth so bright,
While "Dalkey's Isle,"
Now seems to smile,
Reliev'd from shades of sombre Night!
And see, enrich'd with golden hue,
The "Mugglins" meet our holy view;
While "Ireland's Eye,"
Is just hard by,
And keeps an eye out for Pilgrim's too;
As storms of Life, the Hermit's brave,
So calm the "Mugglins" meet the wave;
For they, with pride,
Repel the tide,
And fearless view the Ocean-grave!


TRIFLES IN POETRY.
77
The Spirits that skim along the deep,
And weary Mariners' sing to sleep,
Have sigh'd the tale,
Along the gale,
"Their Carnival here the Hermit's keep; "
And all the little sprites that roam,
By Moonlight o'er the Water's foam,
Their Scallops would bring,
As a pure Offering,
And feel with the Hermits' quite at home!
*The Staff, the Scrip, the Sandal, and the Scallop, were emble-
matic of the Pilgrim; while this kind of devotion was in favour,
love intrigues were frequently carried on under that disguise, hence
many of the old Ballads and Novels made Pilgrimages the subject
of their stories. The Scallop was one of the essential badges of their
vocation, for the chief places of their devotion being beyond sea, or
on the coasts, the Pilgrims were accustomed to put Scallops upon
their Hats, to denote the intention or performance of some vow.
н 3


78
TRIFLES IN POETRY.
OH! GLORY IN THY BRIGHTEST HOURS.
A Polacca, Music by W. O'Rourke.
Sung by Braham, in the Serious Opera " Artaxerxes. "
Oh! Glory, in thy brightest hours,
It never yet was thine,
To shew such sweet, and blooming flow'rs,
As Love and Hope entwine ;-
The Wreath that binds the Warriors brow,
May shed a splendour there,
The Hero, while the vanquish'd bow,
The Wreath unstain'd may wear ;
But Glory, in thy brightest hours,
It never yet was thine,
To shew such sweet, and blooming flow`rs,
As Love and Hope entwine.
000


TRIFLES IN POETRY..
79
>
STANZA'S.
"Oh! many a lone and lovely Night,
It sooth'd to gaze upon the Sky;
For then I deem'd the heav'nly light,
Shone sweetly on thy pensive eye!"-
BYRON.
Pale gleams yon wakeful, midnight Star,
When, near the close of Night,
Aurora's bright and rosy Car,
Heralds the Morning Light;
And paler still that Star appears,
Whene'er a partial ray,
Beams brightly o'er Nights dewy tears,
To usher in the Day.
Thus Mary, I, the long, long Night,
My weary Vigils keep,
So pale seem I at dawning light,
When unrefresh'd by sleep;
And as that Star still paler seems,
When Nights dark shadows fly,
So 'tis with me, when brightly beams
The Sun-shine of thine eye.
·000


80
TRIFLES IN POETRY.
Hermits Binstrelsy.
NO. 8.
WHEN LIFE'S YOUTHFUL PLEASURES FIRST
WAKEN THE SENSES.
AIR,-Langolee.
When Life's youthful pleasures first waken the senses,
When the pulse of the heart is alive but to Joy;
When each beam of the Morning its brightness dispenses,
And sheds some new charm Fate can never destroy;
When the hopes of the bosom with rapture are springing,
When the heart, peals of joy, to the senses is ringing,
When each hours happy change, fresh enjoyment is bringing,
Then Love has no sorrow, and Life no alloy !
When the lip that we love, o'er the virgin kiss trembles,
When eyes that we worship, our fond looks return;
Oh! we feel that the bright Sun of Love then resembles,
The rays of that Sun in the Heav'ns that burn;
But oh! blest is he, who Life's blisses partaking,
May ne'er from the dream of enchantment awaken,
To sigh for the hopes that have left him forsaken,
To worship and weep o'er cold Memory's Urn!
Yet tho' Life, Love, and Hope, may too often deceive us,
When Souls such as ours together are met,
When we drain the bright goblet, reflection must leave us,
And Wine, for a while, teach our souls to forget;
Then we grieve not, the smiles that we once felt delight in,
The look from those eyes, whose chaste beam must enlighten,
Shall never again, our lone path of life brighten,
When Hope's brilliant visions for ever have set.
་་་་་་


TRIFLES IN POETRY.
81
FORGET ME NOT.
From an Opera in M. S.
Forget me not my lovely Maid,
But let thy thoughts still turn to me,
Remember, love, tho' roses fade,
Yet other flow'rs I've pulled for thee;
For thee alone I live, I breathe,
And care not, tho' by all forgot,
So thou wilt weave for me a Wreath,
Then, dearest Maid, forget me not!
Forget me not,-forget me not,
My lovely Maid, forget me not!
Forget me not, tho' parted yet,
Oh! still the conscious bliss is mine,-
To feel, that I can ne'er forget,
The form I worship as my shrine.
Then cherish, love, the simple flow'r,*
The flow'r whose happy, happy lot,
Is still to bloom with thee its hour,-
Then, dearest Maid, forget me not.
Forget me not,-forget me not,
My lovely Maid, forget me not!
-000-
The flower" Forget me not.'


82
TRIFLES IN POETRY.
STANZA'S.
"A wand'ring Bark, upon whose pathway shone,,
All stars of Heav'n, except the guiding one!"-
MOOEE.
I once had launch'd a little Bark,
And in it all my worth consign'd,
Nor thought alas! of billows dark,
Nor fear'd the angry, faithless wind';:
But soon 'twas dash'd upon a rock,
And sunk; to rise again, ah! never,
Too weak to bear the Storms rude shock,
'Twas lost for ever!-
That little Bark, was ev'n my heart,
Which on the Sea of Life I cast;
With pride I view'd it then depart,
The Storm was Disappointments blast!-
My ev'ry hope, with fancy deck'd,
I put on board,-return they'll never,
The rock was Fate, on which 'twas wreck'd,
And lost for ever!-


TRIFLES IN POETRY.
8$
Hermits Minstrelsy.
NO. 9.
THE ERONAUTS.
AIR.—“ The Irish Phantasmagoria.”
Oh! did you not hear of the famous Balloon,
Sing farina na, sing farina ne,
HOW SADLER Shook hands with the Man in the Moon,
Sing farina na, sing farina ne,
The Mob was so eager, the sight to behold,
Such Noddies, and Jingles. and Carriages roll'd,
And myself run so fast, faith I caught a big cold,
-
(Spoken) That very nearly spoil'd my singing-
"Chick a chee ouralee, fa, lal de ral,
lal de ral le."
The day was so hazy, 'twould hardly go up,
Sing farina na, sing farina ne,
So to keep out the cold, faith myself took a sup,
Sing farina na, sing farina, ne,
And soon the two heroes were lost in the fog,
They reckon'd no mile stones-but fell in a bog,
And both were ask'd home by a true Irish Dog
That sung "Chick a chee, ouralee," &c.


84
TRIFLES IN POETRY.
'Twas Night when they follow'd their four-footed guide,
Sing farina na, sing farina ne,
The door of his Cabin stood smiling so wide,
Sing farina na, sing farina ne,
That each wisper'd th' other, "We now have the odds,"
"This visit is better than that to the Gods;"
So the Dog stirr'd the fire, and put down a few sods,
Singing, "Chick a chee, ouralee," &c.
When the blazing turf warm'd the wanderers' legs,
Sing farina na, sing farina ne,
The Dog did the honours-but they did the eggs,
Sing farina na, sing farina ne,
But first they drank, out of the real Innishone,
The health of the Dog, and they then drank their own,
And bless'd their kind Host, who such favour had shewn,
With his "Chick a chee, ouralee," &c.
In the morning then, after their rural shake down,
Sing farina na, sing farina ne,
To the Village they walk'd, for a Carriage to Town,
Sing farina na, sing farina ne,
And says SADLER, "We surely may now travel post,
"For there's You, and there's I, and the third is our Host,
"And sure among three 'tis a trifle at most."
We'll sing "Chick a chee, ouralee," &c.


TRIFLES IN POETRY.
85
In a Post-Chaise and four, then they gallop'd away,
Sing farina na, sing farina ne,
And wherever they came sure the mob did "Huzza,”
Sing farina na, sing farina ne,
For Jowler was placed, the two heroes between,
And the ship-wreck'd Balloon, on the roof it was seen,
So they made no delay, until in College-green*
They sung, "Chick a chee, ouralee," &c.
*The above was written on the Ascent of Messrs. Sadler and
Livingston, from Richmond Barracks, when they descended at Night
in the Bog of Allen, and were rescued by a Dog.
I


86
TRIFLES IN POETRY.
SONNET.
99
"I have a passion for the name of "Mary,'
For once it was a magic sound to me;
And still it half calls up the realms of fairy,
Where I beheld, what never was to be:
All feelings changed, but this was last to vary,
A spell from which ev'n yet I'm not quite free."
"Love, my Mary, dwells with thee,
On thy cheek his bed I see.'
""
MOORE.
BYRON.
Dear Mary, 'tis no easy task, to guard
A Soul like mine from Fancy's magic spell,
A Soul which yet, ev'n yet, would fondly dwell
On hopes from which it has been long debarr'd:
To me then, dearest, it were doubly hard
To view once more Hopes bright, uncertain beam,
Or touch upon the sweet, the dang'rous theme,
Since Fate, through Life, my happiness has marr'd!
I would, yet dare not, speak, for though my heart
Might prompt my pen some sweet truths to reveal,
Yet oh! believe me, it could ne'er impart
To thee one half of all that heart could feel:
On this one theme, my feelings still are such,
I must be mute, or say, perchance, too much!-


TRIFLES IN POETRY.
87
SERENADE.
From an Opera in M. S.
List to the Lay of Love my fair,
List!dearest Maid,-oh! list to me,
For Zephyr's wing that fans the air,
Shall waft the strain of Love to thee;
Then let the Star-light of thine eyes,
A radiance thro' the Night impart,
And give,-oh! give, unto my sighs,
One ray of Hope to cheer my heart!
List to the voice that softly steals,
Along the sighing breeze of eve,
List to the strain that thus reveals
A love that never can deceive.
Then let the Star-light of thine eyes,
A radiance thro' the Night impart,
And give,-oh! give, unto my sighs
One ray of Hope to cheer my heart!
I 2


88
TRIFLES IN POETRY.
Hermits Minstrelsy.
NO. 10.
THE LOVES OF JUDY ROONEY-AND
LOONEY CONNOR.
AIR-"Nancy Dawson."
"If you have tears prepare to shed them now."
Och! Judy Rooney, neat and tight,
SHAKESPEARE.
་
Twas She first gave my heart delight;
In bed I staid, awake at night,
A thinking of her beauty;
For oh! her eyes such conquest draws,
That she has gain'd the world's applause,
And Judy plays with hearts like straws;
With which, a knot*, but few tie!
Resolv'd to speak my mind, one day
I sought Miss Rooney where she lay,
Reclining on a cock of hay,
Her cheeks so rosy red, gra;
Say's I, "Och! Judy give relief,
For Love, that universal thief,
Has nearly kilt myself with grief,
Unless with me, you'll wed, gra."
The only inference we can draw from this argument is,
that although Miss Rooney flirted with many, yet such was the
peculiar attraction of her charms, that she still held her power over
all; and that though 'tis as easy for a flirt to tie the Nuptial Knot
as to twist straws; yet, with such, both are equally fragile. Mr.
Looney Connor was certainly possessed of some penetration, tho'
like all lovers, he deemed his own case an exception to the general
rule.EDITOR.


TRIFLES IN POETRY.
89
The live-long night, the ne'er a wink
I get, but still of You I think,—
Since Sorrow's dry, myself must drink,
Then bid not Looney part you;
For since my heart to you has flown,
My night-cap, it has useless grown,
So e'en take that, they're both your own,
My night-cap and my heart too.
With that, the soul, she smil'd to hear
Her lovely self, to me was dear,
And Judy's smile, brought Hope, to cheer
The faithful heart of Looney;
Upon the hay, I bent my knee,
"Your night-cap, you may keep," says she,
"But t'other trifle leave with me,
"Your own true Judy Rooney!"-
So then I threw my cap* at Care,
And, no one but ourselves being there,
'I just made bold, to kiss the fair,
While blushes crowded on her;
With down-cast eyes, she sigh'd a pow'r
She own'd-of Youth's I was the flow'r,
And Judy Rooney, from that hour,
Is Mrs. Looney Connor!-
* Quere---Does Mr. Connor mean his Night-Cap?
1 3


90
TRIFLES IN POETRY.
ELEGIAC STANZA'S.
"How richly were my Noontide trances hung
With gorgeous tapestries of pictur'd joys!"
Alas! that the visions so fondly we cherish
YOUNG.
In Youths happy Morn, should, ere Noon, fade away,
And the hopes we so ardently dwell on, should perish
And leave not one charm to enliven our way.
Oh! 'tis thus that the day-dreams of Youth oft deceive us,
And prove but Chimera's dissolving in Air,
They're bright while they last, but too often they leave us,
The lost, wretched Victims of grief or despair.
Alas! for the Youth, who looks on to the morrow,
And thinks the bright Sun on his prospects shall shine,
Oh! what are his pangs, if he wakes but to sorrow,
A sorrow as poignant, as lasting as mine?—
For oh! the bright Visions of Life fondly courting,
I sank in the trance of enjoyment to sleep,
'Till Fate with my happiness cruelly`sporting,
Destroy'd the Illusion and left me to weep!
n


TRIFLES IN POETRY.
91
STANZA'S.
Tho' Fates dark Storms around us low'r,
And clouds obscure the path of Life,
Thy smile of Love hath still the pow'r,
To bind me to this Vale of strife;
The Worlds harsh frowns this heart can bear,
All,-all;-and uncomplaining ache;
Too early nurtur'd by Despair,
For earthly Storms to bid it break !—
Yet since thy heart, still, still I share,
'Twere more than impious to repine,
Since yet thy gentle soul can dare
To love a fate as dark as mine;
Like that mild plant,* which, thro' the day
Blooms fair, yet scentless to the light,
Which, tho' it shrinks from Noons bright ray,
Yields all its perfume to the Night!—
Yes, yes,-when lighter hearts had flown,
And mine had felt Misfortunes chill,
In that dark hour, thine, thine alone,
Of all that throbb'd, was faithful still;
When standing, thus, 'mid ruin hurl'd,
Thy love, ev'n then, pure, ardent, free,
Could reconcile me to a World,
Which still was dear, possessing Thee!
·000
The "Night-scented Cyclamen," which has no fragrance in the
day, yet an agrecable odour at night.


92
TRIFLES IN POETRY.
Hermits Minstrelsy.
NO. 11.
BIDDY MAGUIRE OF BALLINACLASH.*
AIR" Paddy O'Doody's description of Pizarro.”
'Twas at Ballinaclash lived sweet Biddy Maguire,
As neat a young creature as Man could desire;
Oh! such was my love for this girl I ador❜d,
When I sigh'd in my sleep, they all told me I snor❜d,
For Biddy Maguire-Biddy Maguire,
Sweet Biddy Maguire of Ballinaclash,
"Ah! go 'long, ye gossoons," then says I to the wags,
"Don't think that you're talking to one of your gags,
"Faith Paddy is not such a gom of an elf,
"But to know if he snor'd, he must hear it himself,"
"For Biddy Maguire," &c.
Than straight to the darling on Sunday I goes,
Resolv'd to unburthen to her all my woes;
And, says I, "If a lover should sigh thro' his nose,
66
Pray what is the cause?"-" Pho, 'tis Love I suppose,"
Says Biddy Maguire, &c.
* Ballinaclash, a Village situated in the remote part of the
County Wicklow, a little beyond Rathdrum, and adjoining the
Meeting of the Waters, and Vale of Ovoca.


TRIFLES IN POETRY.
93
"Then Biddy Maguire," says I, "this is the case,
"In my sleep still I see your own elegant face;
"And with both my eyes shut, if I see you astore,
"With my ears open, sure I should hear if I'd "snore!"
Sweet Biddy Maguire, &c.
Then Biddy and I went together to Mass,
And may be she did'nt outshine ev'ry lass;
Oh! she look'd so divine, and she pray'd so devout,
That faith I scarce knew what myself was about,
With Biddy Maguire, &c.
Returning from Chapel, not over ten mile,
She hopt like a Leprechaun over each stile :
And Love with myself being busy the while,
I caught hold of her apron, and then caught a smile,
From Biddy Maguire, &c.
1
Now Biddy had got a most beautiful blush,
Oh! she was the girl took the rag off the bush ;
So what to no body myself would impart,
I told to the soul, 'twas the state of my heart,
For Biddy Maguire, &c.
"I've a Cabin," says I," tho' 'tis not over big,
"I've a small taste of ground, would give grass to a pig,
"I've a two-legged gander, a hen, and a drake,
"And sure I've myself, that would die for your sake,
Sweet Biddy Maguire, &c.


94
TRIFLES IN POETRY.
"And sure all I have, won't I share it with you,
"For your eyes, Biddy jewel, have pierc'd my heart thro';
"And you look so engaging, I vow and declare,
"That I'd just like to try to-a-get a young heir,"
With Biddy Maguire &c.
"Ah! then fie for shame, Paddy," says Biddy to me,
"How can you be after, a making so free;
"For Father O'Dogherty says it's a shame,
"To go give yourself heirs, without giving your name,
To Biddy Maguire, &c.
"By my soul," then says I, "sure the Priest must be right,
"So my name, tho' it's Paddy, I'll give you this night;
"And faith 'tis but little the worse of the wear,
"So come, 'ere the Clergy is off on his mare,"
Come Biddy Maguire, &c.
Then Biddy and I, both together were tied,
Oh! she made a most monstrously beautiful Bride;
So I bought some white ribbon, to make a fine sash,
For my elegant Biddy of Ballinaclash,
My tight little Biddy, my sweet little Biddy,
My beautiful Biddy of Ballinaclash!


TRIFLES IN POETRY
95
95
STANZA'S
This Rose which I have pull'd for thee,
And now so bright appears,
Which seems from Nature's dew-drops free,
This Morn was bath'd in tears;
But soon thy genial smiles restore
Its bright, its native bloom,
It lives for thee;it weeps no more,
But sheds a sweet perfume!
But when 'tis placed in that lov'd breast,
Oh! then it beams more bright,
And smiles, when thus supremely blest,
Thro' dewy tears of Night;
For ev'n this flow'r thy smiles can prize,
When cherish'd by thy Kiss ;
It lives some moments blest, and dies
In extacies of bliss!-
Oh! would my heart was such a flow'r,
That it might thus obtain,
One fleeting, yet one blissful hour,
For a long life of pain;
If thus, thy kiss I dared to sip,
And like this Rose be blest,
I'd breathe my Soul upon thy lip,
And die upon thy breast!-


96
TRIFLES IN POETRY.
56
THOSE CHATT'RING BELLE'S.
AIR-"The Bells of St. Petersburgh.”
Those Chatt'ring Belles, those Chatt'ring Belles,
What "Stories strange," their prattle tells,
Of Fashion, Folly ;-yet all own,
Who hears those Belles, admires their ton!—
1
Untam'd by Man, their tongues still wag,
Untir'd by Time, their tongues ne'er lag,
Their Mill-clack goes,-Caps serve for grist,
They chatter, o'er a game of Whist !—
And so 'twill be, 'till all are gone,
For Womens tongues will still ring on;
And She, who in that peal excels,
Ranks first amid those Chatt'ring Belles !*
* Can I be excused for attempting a Parody on that exquisite
Song of Moore's, "Those Evening Bells"?—I believe not.


TRIFLES IN POETRY.
97
STANZA'S.
"The Day, like a fair Beauty, is clear and dazzling; but the
Night, like a brown one, more soft and moving.---the Night has
somewhat of a more melancholy air than the Day, we fancy that
the Stars march more silently than the Sun, and our thoughts wan-
der with the more liberty, whilst we think all the World at rest but
ourselves:---Lovers, in their Songs and Elegies, address themselves
to the Night; it is the Night that hears their complaints, it is the
Night that crowns their joys."
FONTENELLE.
Come, dearest, here's the path to Love,
'Tis strew'd with blooming roses,
Come, let us thro' Elysium rove,..
While Nature yet reposes;
Yon Bow'r shall prove to us a Shrine,
We'll worship Venus, kneeling,
My trembling lip shall tell on thine,
The bliss my soul is feeling!-
Oh! haste, dear Girl, while Mortals sleep
Our fleeting joys we'll borrow,—
Come let us thus our Vigils keep
Nor wait th' uncertain morrow;
The Veil of Night has thrown a shade,
Then haste to me, my treasure,
Ev'n Hesper winks, then come dear Maid,
This hour was made for pleasure.
K


98
TRIFLES IN POETRY.
STANZA'S
"A Man of sense may love like a Madman, but never like a Fool."
ROCHEFOUCAULT.
"'Tis all too late,-thou wert, thou art
The cherish'd madness of my heart!"
BYRON,
Farewell!The Storm has past,
The Thunder-cloud has burst,
The hopes that I have fondly nurst,
Have wither'd in the blast!—
Though Life's by gloom o'ercast,
•
'Tis well to know the worst ;
1
To feel, though by Existence curst,
It may not, cannot last!—
Yes! I have flown to Wine,
And join'd the festive throng,
And madly thought the Spell of Song,
Could conquer pangs like mine!—
Yet vainer to repine;
Or do, to Love, such wrong,,
For oh! the heart Despair makes strong,
Still in Despair 'tis thine!


TRIFLES IN POETRY.
30
99
STANZA'S.
Oh! tempt not thus my heart to stray,
Nor seek a heart like mine to gain,
Uncheer'd by Loves auspicious ray,
Whose only sense of Life is pain :—
'Twere treasure thrown away, to give
Thy smiles to him whose hearts not free,
For she, for whom alone I live
Is lost to me!-
Oh! give thy smiles to some fond youth,
Whose bosom all thy bliss can share,
Whose hearts the seat of love and truth,
Whose soul can shield thee from Despair!-
But if a cruel Fate is thine,
And Hope, Love's rose-bud, disappears,
Then, Lady, then it shall be mine,
To dry thy tears.
་་་
K 2
25741A


100
TRIFLES IN POETRY.
STANZA'S.
ADDRESSED TO
"I have heard, or read somewhere, of a Gentleman who had
some genius, much eccentricity, and very considerable dexterity with
his pencil. In the accidental group of Life into which one is thrown,
wherever this Gentleman met with a character in a more than ordi-
nary degree congenial to his heart, he used to steal a sketch of the
face, merely, as he said, as a nota bene to point out the agreeable
recollection to his memory. What this Gentleman's pencil was to
him, is my Muse to me; the verses that I write to You, being a
Memento exactly of the same kind that he indulged in."
When the bright Sun of Love has set,
And Hopes last ray draws to a close,
Oh! can the soul its warmth forget,
And calmly sink into repose?
BURNS.
No! no, tho' nought but darkness reigns,
Tho' Hope's last fading beam is o'er,
The heart that lov'd, unchang'd remains,
Tho' Hopes no more!—
No more the Sun of Love shall rise,
To cheer for me Life's changeful Morn,
No more shall clear and cloudless skies,
My lonely path of Life adorn:
The Sun of Love has reach'd the West,
Its latest ray for me is o'er,
And now this heart seeks but for rest,
Since Hope's no more.


TRIFLES IN POETRY.
101
ST ANZA'S.
WRITTEN IN THE VALE OF OVOCA.
"there Nature seem'd to trace,
As if for Gods a dwelling place,
And ev'ry charm and grace had mix'd
Within the Paradise she fix'd!"-
BYRON.
"Sweet Vale of Ovoca how calm could I rest,
In thy bosom of shade, with the friends I love best;
Where the Storms which we meet in this cold World, should cease,
And our hearts, like thy Waters, be mingled in Peace! "
MOORE.
Here 'mid Ovoca's peaceful Vale,
Loves chosen, calm retreat,
Here, where remembrance ne'er can fail,
To treasure Mem'ries sweet;
Where Nature ever wears a smile,
The suff'ring heart to sooth,-beguile;
Here, where the Waters meet;
Here, Maid belov'd, that Peace I've sought,
Which Time, nor change of scene has brought!
K 3


102
TRIFLES IN POETRY.
My Mary!-but alas! that name,
Affection must resign,
Since Hope, to Love admits no claim,
I dare not call thee mine.-
And yet, this breaking heart, still true
To Love, to anguish, and to You,
Would yield its Peace for thine,
And joy to see, how Heav'n should bless,
With fost'ring hand, thy gentleness !—
Yet dearest, that, oh! that thou art,
That term belongs to Thee;
Nor can, ev'n Love like mine impart,
The all that thou'rt to me!
Yes! thou'rt my fate, my life, my love,
My Heav'n on Earth, my Hope above,
Nor can my soul e'er see
In other Worlds, such perfect bliss,
As sharing thy young love in this!
Yet dearest, should remembrance bring,
--
Ev'n yet, one transient thought,
Of him, whose heart thro' Life shall cling,
To her, thro' Life it sought;
Oh! banish from thy gentle breast,
A thought so inauspicious, lest
With sadness it be fraught,
Nor let a cloud so dark, obscure
A life so blameless and so pure!


TRIFLES IN POETRY.
103
Forget how I have lov'd ;-forget
The love I bear thee now,
Think not of one so lost, nor let
The Winds repeat my Vow;
And I will learn to smile, and bear
Still uncomplaining, that Despair,
Which, chas'd from off my brow,
Love ne'er shall shew to thee, but keep
Within this bosom buried deep!
To look into thine eyes; to see
The Soul that beams from thence,
To catch one look of love from thee,
Bright with Intelligence;
To hold thee to the heart, to hear
Thy whisp'rings only meet the ear,
This, this were bliss intense ;—
But not for me,- -no! not for me,
Who best feels what that bliss must be !
Oh! had I lov'd thee less,-through all
The Sun-shine of past years,
Had Fate, but why Lifes dream recal?
-
Hopes rain-bow set in tears!
My heart was early taught the grief
Of loving, now its sole relief,
Thoughts which ev'n Love endears,
Nor would my heart one thought restrain,
Though retrospection brings but pain!


104
TRIFLES IN POETRY.
Mary! I leave the Vale, to take
My station once again,
(Bearing a heart that will not break,)
Amid my fellow Men.-
Farewell Ovoca's rural shade,
Farewell the hill, farewell the glade,
The Mountain, and the Glen!
Farewell each scene, to me how dear;
Oh! would my heart was buried here!
26th September, 1821.


TRIFLES IN POETRY.
105
ELEGIAC STANZA's.
Avaunt! ye idle terrors of the brain,
To me in vain ye say that Death's a foe;
Is he an Enemy who stills our pain,
And calmly bears us from a World of Woe?
From me, that dreaded King of Terrors, Death,
No cherish'd bliss, no social tie can rend,
And when he claims this worthless, fleeting breath,
He wears the aspect of a long sought friend!-
Bereft of her whose smiles would chace distress,
Alone must I the cold Worlds tempests brave,
Oh! surely then my grateful Soul must bless,
The hand that bears me to the peaceful grave.
66
For Death but stills the tumults of the breast,
He whispers to the Soul, 'tis sweet to die,"
And calmly bears us to that "house of rest,"
Where, slumb'ring in their shrouds, our Fathers' lie.
·000-


106
TRIFLES IN POETRY.
66
SONNET.
THE SANDAL."
As *Rhodope had wander'd towards the shore,
Bright Sol, so warm had shed his beams around,
And urged too by the solitude profound,
She sought to bathe;-the garments that she wore
Upon the beach she left, whilst hover'd o'er
Joves Bird, who seiz'd her Sandal as it lay,
And with the precious trifle flew away;
Nor Bird, nor Sandal, Rhodope saw more!-
Her lovely bosom, rising o'er the wave,
Seem'd to repel the am'rous tide, which shed
A brighter lustre ev'n than Nature gave;
She rose, like Venus from her crystal bed;
And when she miss'd the trifle, little thought
That with the Sandal, she a Kingdom bought!--
000
* Rhodope was a celebrated Courtezan of Greece, and was with
Æsop, at the Court of the King of Samos. She was carried to
Egypt by Xanthus, where her liberty was bought by Charaxes
of Mitylene, the brother of Sappho, who was enamoured of, and
married her. He soon squandered away all his possessions on her,
and reduced himself to poverty. She then sold her favors at Nau-
cratis, where she collected so much Money, that to render her name
Immortal, it is said, she erected one of the Pyramids of Egypt.
Ælian relates, that as Rhodope was one day bathing, an Eagle
carried away one of her Sandals, and dropped it near Psammetichus,
King of Egypt, at Memphis. The Monarch was struck with the
beauty of the Sandal, strict enquiry was made to find the owner,
and when Rhodope was at last discovered, Psammetichus married
her. Some Authors suppose there were two of the name.


TRIFLES IN POETRY.
107
Hermit's Binstrelsy,
NO. 12.
THE HUMOURS OF DONNYBROOK FAIR.
AIR" The Athlone Landlady."
Oh! 'twas Dermott O'Nowlan M'Figg,
That could properly handle a twig,
He went to the Fair,
And kick'd up a dust there,
In dancing the Donnybrook Jig,
With his twig,
Oh! my blessing to Dermott M'Figg!
When he came to the midst of the Fair,
He was, all in a puagh, for fresh air,
For the Fair very soon,
Was as full as the Moon,
Such mobs upon mobs as were there,
Oh! rare,
So more luck to sweet Donnybrook Fair.
The souls, they came crowding in fast,
To dance while the leather would last,
For the Thomas-street brogue,
Was there much in vogue,
And oft with a brogue the joke pass'd,
Quite fast,
While the Cash and the Whiskey did last !


108
TRIFLES IN POETRY.
But Dermott, his mind on love bent,
In search of his sweet-heart he went,
Peep'd in here and there,
As he walk'd thro' the Fair,
And took a small taste in each Tent,
As he went,
Och! on Whiskey and Love he was bent.
And who should he spy in a jig,
With a Meal-Man so tall and so big,
But his own darling Kate,
So gay and so neat,
Faith her partner he hit him a dig,
The Pig,
He beat the meal out of his wig!
Then Dermott, with conquest elate,
Drew a stool next his beautiful Kate,
"Arrah! Katty,” says he,
"My own Cushlamachree,"
"Sure the World for Beauty you beat,"
"Complete,"
"So we'll just take a dance while we wait!"
The Piper, to keep him in tune,
Struck
up a gay
lilt very soon,
Until an arch wag,
Cut a hole in his bag,
And at once put an end to the tune
Too soou,
Oh! the Music flew up to the Moon!


TRIFLES IN POETRY.
109
To the Fidler, says Dermott M'Fig,
"If you'll please to play "Sheela na Gig,”
"We'll shake a loose toe,"
"While you humour the bow,"
"To be sure you wont warm the wig"
"Of M'Fig,"
"While he's dancing a tight Irish jig!"
"But," say Katty, the darling, says she,
"If you'll only just listen to me,"
"Its myself that will shew,"
66
Billy can't be your foe,"
"Tho' he fought for his Couzin, that's me,"
Says she,
"For sure Billy's related to me!”
"For my own Couzin-German, Anne Wild,"
"Stood for Biddy Mulroony's first Child,"
"And Biddy's Step-son,"
"Sure he married Bess Dunn,"
"Who was gossip to Jenny, as mild"
“A child,”
"As ever at Mothers breast smil'd!"
"And
may be you dont know Jane Brown,"
"Who serv'd Goat's Whey in sweet Dundruin town,"
"Twas her Uncle's half brother,"
"That married my Mother,"
"And bought me this new yellow gown,"
"To go down,"
"Where the Marriage was held in Miltown!"
L


110
TRIFLES IN POETRY.
"By the Pow'rs then," says Dermott, "tis plain,"
"Like a Son of that rapscallion Cain,"
"My best friend I've kilt,"
"Tho' no blood there is spilt,"
"And the Devil a harm did I mean,"
"That's plain,"
"But by me he'll be ne'er kilt again!"
Then the Meal-Man forgave him the blow,
That laid him a sprawling so low ;
And being quite gay,
Ask'd them both to the Play,
But Katty, being bashful, said "No,"
"No!"-"No!"-
Yet he treated them all to the Show !


TRIFLES IN POETRY -
111
AN ADDRESS,
Written for the First Appearance of a Friend at the Theatre Royal.
Like a young Eagle, soaring to the Skies,
Who dares on Sol, to fix his dauntless eyes,
And, scarcely fledg'd, aspires his daring flight,
To brighter regions of celestial light;
So I, as yet unskill'd, would fain pierce thro'
The clouds, that would obscure my anxious view,
And while Hope's ardent thrill, each care beguiles,
Fly to the warm, bright Sunshine of your smiles!-
Here let me pause, whilst, (with no Birds-eye view,)
My heart shall treasure ev'ry smile from You;
From You, whose voice, the very breath of Fame,
Once shed a halo o'er a GARRICKS' name,
Whese plaudits, (while some Thespian Stars you've rear'd)
A COOKE, a KEMBLE, and a KEAN, have shar'd-
How then can I, a Novice in the Art,
To you appeal, nor own a beating heart?
Oh! think not that unmov'd, I wander here,
My bosom's throbs, betray my boding fear,
Your smiles alone can calm that bosoms swell,
Your favour only can those fears dispel :-
Say, may I hope, his hapless fate to shun,
Who seiz'd the_radiant Chariot of the Sun,
Whose mad ambition, taught him to aspire,
To guide yon glorious Orb of living fire,
Who dar'd, presumptous, seek the realms above,
'Till, check'd in his career by 'vengeful Jove,
L 2


112
TRIFLES IN POETRY.
He fell to Earth, while yet with pride elate,
Dash'd from the topmost pinnacle of Fate?—
Oh! let me not from this bright sphere be hurl'd,
Flung from your favour to some meaner world;
Judge not severely my advent'rous whim,
Nor let me, dreadful thought, be damn'd like him;
Yet he, poor, hapless Youth, had still the odds,
Who coped with one, whilst I fear many Gods:
But while the *Goddesses around me smile,
I "laugh to scorn," each petty fear the while,
"My bosom lord sits lightly on his throne,"
Chased by a cheering smile, each fear has flown;
Yes, yes, the Fair still leniently decide,
They, gentle Souls, still lean to Mercy's side,
Then hold your †censures, pause ere ye coudemn;
Yor ye, true Sons of Erin, lean to them!-
Oh! ye just Gods, look down propitious here,
Nor let your omens dire, invade mine ear,
Calm, calm those sounds, that here must cause such dread,
Hurl not your wrath at this devoted head,
Your Thunders cease, that here each bosom awes,
Unless, indeed, they're "Thunders of applause!"-
• Looking towards the Boxes.
† Addressing the Pit,
*
To the Upper Gallery...


TRIFLES IN POETRY,
113
SERENADE.
The tears of Night have long since wept,
Yet still, along the grove,
She comes not :-Can the Maid have slept,
Forgetful of her love?-
Unheard by her are Zephyr's sighs,
Unheard her lover's strain,
"Awake, dear Maid,-awake, arise,
For Love this hour doth reign.
To those who love, how dear the Night;
How dull the busy Day ;-
How sweet seems Cynthia's soften'd light,
That guides a lover's way:
And dear that Star in Moon-lit Skies,
To those who 'neath it rove !-
Then wake, dear Maid, awake, arise,
'Tis now the hour of love.—
LS


114
TRIFLES IN POETRY.
Hermits Minstrelsy.
NO. 13.
MR. AND MRS. PADDY MURPHY'S VISIT TO DUblin.
AIR," "What call have you to me, Ned
1
:
Madge Murphy and I, being bent on stravaging,
From Galway set out, with the young gossoon Teague, in
A monstracious hurry, to see this fine City,-oh!
Sure then they've made of sweet Dublin a pretty shew
But as Teague drove the Pig, and the pig he got fatagued,
We'dropp'd them with Madge's third cousin, one Pat O'Dood,
And barefooted trudg'd on, thro' all sorts of weather,
Yet to prove we had brogues, we talk'd Irish together,
And then we sung Fol de rol, lol de rol, &c.
2
Och! the ancient ould Trees, once the pride of St. Stephen,
That grew round the square call'd the Green, straight and
even,
Were mow'd by the scythe of some silly Projector,
Who stirr❜d their old stumps, because he knew no better:
And where once the Parliament House shew'd its head to us,
Though like other great Absentees, it has fled from us,
In College Green now, though it once was the pride of it,
There's nothing left but a big Bank at one side of it.
Oh! how can I sing Fol de rol, &c.


TRIFLES IN POETRY, ›
115
"
There Hair-dressers, styled, a la francaise, frizzeurs,
Barbarize all Blockheads;-no reflections on yours:-
But it prove that of brains, they'd no more than Teague's
Pig, or they,
Ne'er would announce their "superior Wiggery!"
Men will sail in the sky, there,-and walk upon twater,
Faith its Madge was astonish'd, and happy I brought her,
For old Scratch himself sure was ne'er such a place in,-
Why we saw a Man ride with his Gig in a || Basin ;
Oh! its then I sung Fol de rol, &c.
There Music the rage is, with justice all prize it,
So thrilling a science that ev'ry one tries it,
To shake on each note, little Miss will endeavour,
Flat or sharp 'tis quite natural, Miss is so clever ;
Yet the Audience were tired at the Theatre lately,
With "Bruce's Address," though they lauded it greatly,-
No need of a voice now to sing; oh! no, damn it, you're
Better without any, then you're an Amateur,
Fit to sing Fol de rol, &c.
* Messrs. Sadler and Livingston's Balloon's for instance.
Mr. Kent's Aquatic Velocipede..
T
Mr. Brady's Marine Chariot was Exhibited at the Basin at Bles-
sington-street.


116
TRIFLES IN POETRY.
And Tyrants were murder'd, I've instances ample,
Think of Richard the Third, who was made an example,
Though very few pitied him, not ev'n Madge, tho' she
Said she ne'er saw such a desperate Tragedy !-
We saw Dwarfs, and She-Giants, and Lions alive, O,
These last being (Irish Manufacture, they thrive O;
And Dancing Dogs there made a spell at their letters,
And Monkies were ev'ry night aping their betters,
And striving to sing Fol de rol, &c.
S Polito's Lioness whelped twice, whilst here; once in Dublin,
and once at her summer residence in Donnybrook.


TRIFLES IN POETRY.
117
AN ADDRESS.
Spoken by Mr FARRELL, at the Theatre Royal, on the Night
of his Benefit, Saturday, 28th of June, 1817.
But hence with *mimic Art,- -to Nature true,
I fain would pour my gratitude,-to You!-
My gen'rous Patrons, vain the task, to seek
The language of a throbbing heart to speak ;
Vain,-vain to think, by words alone, to shew
The boundless debt of Gratitude I owe;
To tell those feelings of the lab'ring breast,
That may be felt, but cannot be express'd;
No! no, th' attempt, as vain, I must resign,
But think, oh! think, those grateful feelings, mine!→
Oh! when I turn mine eyes, delighted, here,
To gaze on this too brilliant Hemisphere,
Set round with Stars, whose ever-varying light,
Shame the pale Planets of the colder Night,
My rapt Soul dwells with transport on the view,
And pays that homage here, so justly due!
Believe my thanks, my heartfelt thanks, sincere,
To those kind friends, who gen'rously appear,
To recognise the claims of Erin's Son,
-
With smiles, that seem to say, "Our favor's won.”
Oh! let me cherish still those smiles dear light,
That lured me first along a path so bright;
That caught my youthful Soul, as by a spell,
In fond remembrance, here they long shall dwell,
With the full feeling, I can ne'er impart,
Enshrin'd, and sacred, in this grateful heart!—
·000
* The Address was spoken immediately after IMITATIONS of dif
ferent Performers."


118
TRIFLES IN POETRY.
STANZA'S.
Her soul-inspiring Harp is mute,
Her sweetly-breathing Song is o'er,
The chords of her neglected Lute,
Are wak'd to Music's sound no more;
No more her smile shall shall beam, to cheer,
Anothers visionary woe,
No more from her, shall Pity's tear,
The Souls best, brightest dew-drop flow !—
But oh! her tears shall be repaid.
By those of Mem'ry, softly shed,
A grateful Off'ring to her shade,
Bedewing oft her "narrow bed;"
And yet her Harp, shall wake again,
The winds of Heav'n shall kiss each string,
It yet shall breathe an Ærial strain;
And Cherubims her Dirge shall sing!-


TRIFLES IN POETRY.
119
Hermit's instrelsy,
NO. 14,
"THE HERMIT'S MEDLEY."
Written for the HERMITS FAREWELL SUPPER for the
Season, (in consequence of Summer Pilgrimages being propo.
sed,) given on the Night of the 11th of May, 1816.
AIR- Farewell, but whenever you welcome the hour."
Farewell for a while to each soul-cheering Night,
That shed o'er the Hermits such beams of delight;
That lent joyous moments whilst Laymen have slept,
As thus we, true Hermits, our vigils have kept;
Those hours may
AIR," Round about the May-Pole."
Run away with Melancholy, blows'd and bluff,
Huff, gruff,
Gloomy enough;
Check the sighs of Sorrow at ev'ry puff,
Huff, gruff,
AIR," He that has the best Wife."
But let ev'ry Man,
Take off his Ptisan,
Clear a bumper to some joyous girl;
And while at Love's shrine,
Let Nectar divine,
Set Hermit's poor heads in a whirl,
Brave Boys;
Set Hermit's poor heads in a whirl!


120
TRIFLES IN POETRY.
‚—" My Lodging is on the cold Ground.”
AIR,-
For the Fowl's not yet born, nor the Pig's not well bred,
That shall take from our stomach's the whet;
But you'll find, if they live to be dea-a-a-ad,
They shall smoke on the Hermits board yet!
AIR," Planxty Connor."
(2nd Part.)
Oh! give me a Wig 'till I toss it,
Or steep it in Punch for a posset;
While Time yet allows,
We'll have a carouse,
And the Devil take him who would cross it!
AIR," Garry Owen."
Then hey for the Country, when City sport fails:
When we meet the sweet souls on the brow of a hill;
Then may be we wont dip our beaks in their pails,
While Mirth acts as guide to our Pilgrimage still.
AIR," Over the Hills and far away."
Hermits then from Matins free,
This only shall their Penance be,
To take their pick with QUIN at Bray,
O'er the Mountains far away.
(Chorus)-O'er the Mountains far away,
Full of frolic, full of play,
We'll help the girls to make the hay,
O'er the Mountains får
away.


TRIFLES IN POETRY.
1211
AIR, "Take me, Jenny."
Then rosy Misses,
Playful kisses,
Hermits will be tasting;
Hours unenjoy'd,
Or not employ'd
In Pleasure,-is Time wasting!
AIR" Since Laws were made for ev'ry degree."
And "waste not your Time," is a maxim that we,
As Hermits, should keep with solemnity;
So to make the most of't we'll be merry and free,
In our Cell;
Tho' Philophers argue that Wisdom gives birth
To Happiness-if it inhabits our earth,
Let them keep the Wisdom, and we'll keep the Mirth,
In our Cell!
AIR," The time I've lost in wooing."
For who from Mirth would run, Sir,
Or lose à bit of fun, Sir,
So here we'll stay,
'Till Morning's ray,
And serenade the Sun, Sir;
(Chorus)We'll have a bit of fun, Sir;
We'll Serenade the Sun, Sir;
So here we'll stay,
'Till Morning's ray,
And serenade the Sun, Sir.
M


122
TRIFLES IN POETRY.
AIR,-How happy could I be with_either."
For where is the use of repining?-
Should Hermits their pleasure control?-
While you glass then with Nectar is shining,
Take it off, and 'till shine thro' the soul!
AIR-"Rule Britannia."
When Bacchus first with Heavens choir,
Descended from his starry reign;
Apollo struck the sounding lyre,
And Bacchanalians sang this strain:
"Rule, ye Hermits,"
"Ye Hermits rule the Night,"
"For Hermit's ever wait Morn's light."
(Chorus)"Rule, ye Hermits, &c.
FINALE.
AIR," God Save the King."
God save our noble Chair,
God save our noble Chair,
God save our Chair;
Soberly may he sit
Whilst the bright rays of Wit,
Flash from each true Hermit,
To cheer our Chair!


TRIFLES IN POETRY.
123
Oh! Father Philip rise,
Scatter his enemies,
Philip the Bold;
Make ev'ry Hermit's foe,
At our Chair's foot, lie low;
And as we've Chair'd him, so
He shall be poled!
God save our Noble Chair,
Long live our Noble Chair,
God save our Chair;
To him fresh Jugs we'll bring,
Mirth o'er those hours to fling;
Whilst with one voice we sing,
God save our Chair.
(Chorus)-God save our Noble Chair, &c.
$
M 2


124
TRIFLES IN POETRY.
LINES.
Sent to a Friend on the Morning after a Party.
Accept the tributary Thanks we owe,
All in return that Hermits can bestow.
For hours, that lent to Life's dull round a charm,
On meeting kinder souls, with hearts so warm :-
'Tis Hospitality's pure spirit breathes,
A gen'rous impulse o'er the flow'rs she wreathes,
And borrows each warm gift the gods allow,
To place the Chaplet on her Erin's brow!—
Yes, Erin, yes, this Virtue is thine own,
And long as feeling hearts preserve their tone,
Long as thy Shamrocks wild shall kiss the air,
Long as thy Sons are brave, thy Daughters fair,
Long as thy Harp shall sigh some plaintive strain,
So long this Virtue shall with thee remain,
Shedding its genial influence around,
O'er each green sod that blooms on Irish ground.
Yet you must own that it was rather strange,
That Mirth and Music could make such a change,
That you, oh! wonderful, at once could shew,
Five HERMITS on "the light fantastic toe,"
Tripping along, sans care, to measures light,
Nor 'till the break of day, ere bade "good-night."
Nay, singing too,- not hymns, but such warm rhymes,
As Knights to Ladies sang in former times,
Nor supping from their Scrip, on bread so spare,
But something better, faith, than Hermit's fare.


TRIFLES IN POETRY..
125,
Sure
you must think that Hermits had no hearts,
Or else had power to repel the darts,
""
That flew from eyes of blue so "purely bright,'
As shed a lustre o'er those hours of Night,.
From Souls, with forms so fair, and hearts so light.
How many Hebe's there the eye might view,
With vermil lip, and cheek of rosy hue,
With bosoms fair, and eyes, whose soul-felt glance,
Might well, a Hermit's untaught heart entrance,
Whose waving locks in wild luxuriance flew,
As in the lively dance, their ringlets threw
A charm, that more enhanc'd the lovely view.
Sure 'tis no wonder Mahomet should bring,
Ev'n half the World, his praise alone to sing,
And Eastern Princes bend the stubborn knee
To him, who holds forth such felicity!
For me, if Houri's such as these should stand,
With brightly-beaming eye, and ready hand,
I'd own the Prophet must be all divine,
And bend a Hermit's knee at Mecca's Shrine !
Yet ev'n in this, my solitary Cell,
Where now, secluded from the World, I dwell,
Ev'n here, the mem'ry of some smiles may live,
And give to sorrow, all such smiles may give;
The mem'ry of those happy hours, shall shed,
A gentle peace around my lonely bed,
Like Seraphs flitting o'er my Couch, they'll roll,
And yield their soft enchantment to the Soul!


126
TRIFLES IN POETRY.
*
TO JULIA.
*
How swiftly flew the hours away,
When Night had giv'n thee to mine arms,
As oft I've turn'd the votive lay,
A tribute to thy youthful charms,
And held thee to a heart, all thine;-
Oh! in those hours I little thought,
A time would come, with anguish fraught,
When thy lov'd charms I could resign!
Those, Julia, those were hours of bliss,
When dwelling on thy rapturous kiss,
In playful mood, I oft would sip,
The Vows of truth from off thy lip,
Still prizing this, the bliss of blisses,
At once to take thy Vows and Kisses!
Go, faithless Girl, for from this hour
The dream of bliss is past;-'tis o'er:-
This heart disowns, disclaims thy pow'r,
And now we part, to meet no more;
Fly, perjur'd Maid, nor vainly seek,
My heart in thraldom still to keep,
For tho' 'twas once all, all thine own,
And throbb'd, vain Girl, for thee alone,
Yet still, 'twould sooner break, than be
Thus wounded in captivity.


TRIFLES IN POETRY:
127
1
I would forget thee!-but the Mind,
Omnipotent, will still recur,
To hours and scenes gone by; and find
Some spell to lead the heart to her,
Who first awoke its pulse; thus through
The lapse of years, Thought turns to You!-
Thy likeness, Julia, still beguiles
My heart at times of half its care;
The Artist truly pencil'd there
Thy features, but a look of thought,
O'erclouds them,-Oh! in vain he sought
To trace, and it is well,-thy smiles;
I would not have thee smiling now,
As if in mockery,-no! that brow
Of care, my heart can better brook,
Yet once, 'twere weakness,-yet I took
The bauble once, and meant to break
The trifle into pieces then,
And would, but that I look'd again,
And saw thy young and blooming cheek,
(And miss'd the smile you used to wear,)
And then the tress of that dark hair,
Through which my fingers oft have stray'd,-
I should not look on those, they stay'd
My hand, perchance my heart was weak,
That could not then such vengeance take.
Oh! Julia, too, too well you knew,
How my young heart was fix'd on You,


128
TRIFLES IN POETRY.
My ev'ry look this truth had shewn,
And yet, to shew thy sov'reign pow'r,
O'er triflers vain, for many an hour,
You'd slight that heart, all, all thine own!-
That heart whose pulse was Constancy,
That ev'n thy folly scarce could sever
Its hopes of bliss, of bliss in thee,
Yet now those hopes it must forsake,
And own, though owning it should break,
Julia, 'tis lost to thee, for ever!
FINIS.











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JUL 2
1953