Short Poems

Into your hands, a dumb dead likeness take,
Whose form you quicken'd , and whose soul you make .
Mine was a painted fire — your piercing rays
Lent light'ning ; and effulg'd it into blaze .
Now, on a shelf, some silent nook impart
To him, you've loudly lodg'd on ev'ry heart .

Better to live in Eirinn than in any other land.
Her hearts are leal and generous, her winds are soft and bland;
Faith, Hope and Love by every hearth like guardian angels stand —
Better to live in Eirinn than in any other land;
Better to die in Eirinn than in any other land —
A peaceful death or in the midst of some brave warrior band;
To sail upon a sea of prayer to God's eternal strand —
Better to die in Eirinn than in any other land!

I have kept your Intelligence , Madam, so long,
That I hardly dare hope, you will pardon the wrong .
Had you been but a man , no excuse I had writ,
For we're seldom severe to the faults, we commit;
But intelligence kept , the kind ladies must gall ,
Who no sooner receive it, than part with it all.

Happy the man, who does Celinda view,
More happy he who sees, and loves her too;
Most happy , sure! of all mankind is he ,
Who, loving her, belov'd by her shall be.

Despis'd, and worthless, tho' I seem to be,
Yon new-top'd flames owe their best light to me .
Tho' scorn'd — you see, I can do service still!
Some good lies hid, in every seeming ill .
And hence , let fortune's fav'rites learn to know ,
That virtue's virtue , tho' in rags it go.

Revenge, you see, is sure , though sometimes slow!
Take this — 'tis all the pain I'd have you know!
There's odds enough, yet left, betwixt our smart,
I sting your fingers , and you sting my heart .

Go, Thought's lost child , born dark, beneath wit's pole ,
Seek the ray'd track , to taste's departed soul:
Awfully conscious, dare the depths invade,
Where silent S T . John suns his pensive shade:
There, if he smiles — 'tis whole mankind's assent;
Scorn the short world, thou leav'st, and die, content .

God send us wit to banish far
The incense and the reeking breath,
The lances and the fame of war,
And all the devilments of death.
Let there be wisdom and increase,
The harvest reconcilement brings,
So shall we see the eyes of Peace,
And feel the wafting of Her wings.

Voice in the night — crying —
Down in the old sleeping Spanish city,
Darkened under her white stars;
What says the voice — its clear lingering anguish?
Just the watchman telling his dateless tale of safety?
Just a roadman flinging to the moon his song?
No! 'Tis one deprived — a lover's prayer for pity,
Just his cry: " How long! "

Monmouth the wittiest!
Lauderdale the prettiest!
And Frazor the brave phisitian!
But above all the rest
The Duke for a jest!
And the King for a great polititian!