SONG OF THE MUSES.

I.

"Minstrels of Erin, seize the Lyre,

And we to pay you for your pains,

Shall inspire your dulcet strains.
Strike then, strike with more than wonted fire,
Sweep the chords with animation,
Tell your gay delighted nation!

That bright Fames'-Purest Names,
Are join'd-are united in HowTH and De BURGH.
II.

Bards of Erin! sound in air

While the wand'ring frenzied eye

Is rolling over Beauty's sky

Name the brightest Jewel there,

And then proclaim amongst the Brave Whose plume should, highest, proudest, wave Hark! around,-"Tis Fame's sound! Announcing the names of HowтH and DE BURGH! III.

Happy, favour'd sons of song!

While your keen, prophetic eyes,
Read the secret of the skies;

Sweep with steady hand along,
Note what lovely Girls and Boys
Doating parents, dearest joys,

Play before, The Castle door,

Of munificent HoWTH, and beauteous De Burgh

IV

Who, however, shall we choose
To pour the fervid lay,
On this Auspicious Day?

"O'KELLY" said Connafia's Muse

Yes, yes, to him the Honor be,

Let him pour the Ministrelsy:

Let him recite,-While we indite,

The Epithalamium of HoWTH and DE BURGH!

EPITHALAMIUM.

ADDRESSED TO THE MOST NOBLE THE MARQUIS OF CLANRICKARDE.

Harp of my Country! long unstrung,
Let me brush the dust away,

That years of suffering o'er thee flung,

That damped the sound of thy melodious lay. Muse of my Country! soft and sweet, Were thy notes in days of yore; But low and plaintive have they beat

Since the fell STRANGER trod our shore. Yet to madness-fury-driven,

They were sometimes wild and shrill, As the thund'ring voice of Heaven, Rolling o'er CROUGH-PATRICK hill : Harp of my Country !-many a tear, Has dropped on thy neglected strings, But methinks this fateful year,

Happier days to Erin brings.

Let me strike-ah dull and faint,

Are the sounds that once could call ;. Patriot Bard! and patriot Saint!

Patriot Warrior to the Hall!

Try again the sacred fire,

Darts from yonder sable cloud; (Attracted by the trembling wire)

That wraps Parnassus in a shroud. Hark! they are the same bold strains, That fir'd the BRAVE in days of yore: To heap with Danish dead the plains, To dye with Danish blood the shore!

Muse of my country! prune thy wing,
Gaily sweep thy tow'ring way:

Teach thy votary now to sing,
Long unused, the joyful lay.

THE SONG.

Sons of the Isle ! where Beauty's smile,
Beams brightest on fair woman's face:
Sons of the Isle !-where insects vile,

Behind them leave no poisonous trace.
Come, hear my lays-Prepare the bays,

For the young LORD's brows,-For his lovely Spouse, For CLANRICKARDE the noble and CANNING the FAIR! Sons of the land, where the outstretched hand,

Of the native invites to his humble home:

Sons of the land, where stranger band,
Drove the native often in exile to roam,

Let the salt tear cease,-For the branch of

peace,

The blest olive bough,-Waves over us now,

In the hands of CLANRICKARDE and CANNING the FAIR!

Sons of the plains! where the Poet's strains,
Add speed to the flight of Cupid's dart:
Sons of the plains where virtue reigns,
Supreme in the sensitive female heart:

The Bard had lent us,-The statesman sent us,
Two Hostages as dear,-As HOPE's pearly tear,
In the noble CLANRICKARDE and CANNING the FAIR.
Land! where the waves of Ocean's caves,

Play'd gay round the shore as Freedom's smile! But for ages past, where the rough rude blast, Of Tyranny, blew o'er our much-lov'd Isle. Oh! cease to grieve,- For the crown I weave! Shall shine like the steady beacon's light, On Alga's (hitherto) hopeless night,

Round the brows of CLANRICARDE and CANNING the FAIR!

CASTLE-KELLY.

Written in the year 1792, on the absence of that honorable Family.

HUMBLY ADDRESSED TO THE REV. ARMSTRONG KELLY.

And is it thus that mansions great and good,
The seat of ev'ry VIRTUE must expire?
Is there no saving-freedom-guarding mode,
To fix the Patriot or to string the Lyre!
To win THEB back, fam'd Kelly, to that DOME,
Where genial life found ev'ry rich abode :
Can aught on earth detain THEE from thine home,
The gen'ral weal-thy Country or thy God!
Ah! what foud thousands here thy loss deplore!
Whose loss of losses ne'er shall feel decay,
Return! with blessings to depart no more,
To sew triumphant Virtue-and her sway,
For THEE the Olive shall expand her bloom,
The Groves shall sing and shouts await thy call,
Each poet's strain from strong conviction's loom,
Shall sing your Hospitality's fam'd HALL.
Now tho' deserted-that frequented scene,
Where ev'ry boon of social virtue dwelt!
Shall still behold PASTORA-long-lov'd Queen!
Whose breast each joy and misery has felt,
Her soothing voice shall bid their sorrows cease,
Her eye shall look benignity around:

Her breast shall have her God-head's cloudless peace
And strew with joy fam'd CASTLE-KELLY'S GROUND.
Sweet were thy Flowers-lov'd Castle-Kelly's fame!
Fond are thy SONS of Liberty's best lore,
Wert thou not born fair freedom's fane to frame ?
Transfix its rights and ev'ry worth restore!
Yes-truly good thy country long shall name,
Blest fav'rite Villa all thy virtues o'er !

Tell what sage PATRIOTS, from tby lineage came;
And greatly just for CASTLE-KELLY SOAR.

ELEGY

ON THE DEATH OF

JOHN THOMAS WALLER, ESQ.

Inscribed to his high-minded and ever-to-be remembered Father,

JOHN WALLER, of Castle-town-Waller, Esq.

Quis desiderio sit pudor, aut moduş,

Tam Cari Capitis?

HOR.

When, freed from Earth, a WALLER'S spirit flies,
Say, shall his Manes, his celestial shade,
Retire,-to mingle with its native skies,

And like all vulgar themes ignobly fade?
Shall HE, whose glowing sense could ever view,
The bloom of wit break forth, with raptur'd eye,
Shall HE whose breast (to each fine feeling true,)
Thrill'd at the tender poet's heaving sigh;
'Mid tasteless pride's ungifted offspring, sleep,
'Mid mould'ring vanity's low-minded throng,
Say, shall not sorrowing science ever weep ;-
Raise to her noble FRIEND the tragic song.
He's gone! who lov'd the muse! his fost'ring hand,
Cherish'd her labours with parental care,

He strove to prop the Bard of Erin's strand,
And hop'd to see him brave the rig'rous air.
Long shall his mem'ry draw the pitying sigh,
Long shall remember'd bounties start the tear,
Long shall his munificence death defy,

And blossom o'er the Song-escutcheon'd bier.

K