CANZONET,

Lady! when, with glad surprise,
I meet thy soft and shaded eyes,
Or, lost in dreams of love, behold
Thy waving locks of darken'd gold,
Or press thy lip, whose dew discloses
Sweets, that seem the breath of roses;
Lady! I sigh-and, with a tear,
Swear earth is heaven--if thou art near!

But when the hour of transport o'er)
My soul's delight is seen no more,
Rememb’ring all thy host of charms,
I tremble then with wild alarms;
And, taught by jealous doubt, discover
In every gazing youth, a lover ;
Confessing, with a silent tear,
That heaven and hell are woud'rous ncar!

Lord Strangford.

ON A PURSE,

PRESENTED BY A YOUNG LADY.

O tell me how, and where, and when

Can I return the obligation ; Alas! will my poetic pen

Do justice to my inclination ?

'Tis surely much the shortest way,

And to the car, I think, as pleasant, In simple prose at once to say,

“Dear girl, I thank you for your présent."

But as the ladies now-a-days,

Expect poetical addresses ; Without more trifling or delays,

My pen with pleasure acquiesces.

O condescend, ye muses ! pray,

( First you must know my theine a purse is ) Q kindly teacli me what to say,

To make acceptable my verses.

Delightful theme! O beauteous purse!

To give the praises you require, Exceeds

my

weak unskilful verse, Exceeds my faint poctic fire.

Shall my untutor'd pen profane

The many virtues you inherit ?
Can I your properties explain,

Or give you half the praise you merit?

Ah no! I yield the task of praise

To those who better can explain it;
A single wish my bossm sways,

A single stanza shall contain it.

So neat, so charming a design,

Was ne'er with such success attempted';
And since 'tis destin'd to be mine,
0! may I never see it emptied !

The Meteors.

HYMN FOR THE SONS OF THE CLERGY.

How blest those olive plants that grow

Beneath the altar's sacred shade,
Where streams of fresh instruction flow,

And comfort's humble board is spread.

'Twas thus the swallow rear'd her young,

Secure within the house of God,
Of whom the royal prophet sung,

When banish'd from the blest abode.

When, like the swallow's tender brood,

They leave the kind paternal dome, On weary wing to seek their food,

Or find in other climes a home;

Where'er they roam, where'er they rest,

Thro' all the varied scenes of life, Whether with tranquil plenty blest,

Or doom'd to share the deadly strife:

Still may the streams of grace divine

Glide softly near their devious way; And faith's fair light serenely shine,

To change their darkness into day.

Still may they, with paternal love,

Each other's shield and aid become; And wbile thro' distant realms they rove,

Remember still their childhood's home;

The simple life, the frugal fare,

The kind paternal counsels giv'n, The tender love, the pious care,

That early wing’d their hopes to heav'n.

And when the ev’ning shades decline,

And when life's toilsome task is o'er, May they each earthly wish resign,

And holier, happier climes explore.

And when the faithful shepherds view

Each ransom'd flock around them spread, How will they bless the plants that grew Beneath the altar's sacred shade!

Mrs. Grant.

CANZONET.

Since in this dreary vale of tears
No certainty but death appears,
Why should we waste our vernal years

In hoarding useless treasure?
No-let the young and ardent mind
Become the friend of human kind,
And, in the gen'rous service find

A source of purer pleasure.

Better to live despis’d and poor,
Than guilt's eternal stings endure;
The future smiles of God shall cure

The wound of earthly woes.
Vain world ! did we but rightly feel
What ills thy treach'rous charms conceal,
How would we long from thee to steal
To death and sweet repose.

Lord Strangford