Short Poems

On pleasure bent, see how the pressing hordes
Flock to the play where Comedy is queen.
A shot! And Tragedy usurps the boards; ...
Lincoln alone, in an eternal scene.

At noon, the cruel blow fell on his heart.
By night the sleepless tear would sudden start
And make a hell of memory; he said:
" When the day glimmers they will find me dead. "
But, lo, a miracle! The sun uprose,
And gave him strength to meet whatever foes;
The morning magic swift around him drew
An amulet of ardor and of dew.

Well you Sincerity display,
A Virtue wond'rous rare!
Nor Value, tho' the World should say,
You're rude , so you're sincere .
To be sincere , then, give me leave,
And I will frankly own,
Since you but this one Virtue have,
'Twere better you had none .

Since Milo rallies sacred Writ,
To win the Title of a Wit ;
'Tis Pity but he should obtain it,
Who bravely pays his Soul to gain it.

This Present from a lovely Dame,
Fair and unsully'd, as her Fame,
Shall to Hibernia be convey'd,
Where once, rever'd, her Father sway'd;
And taught the drooping Arts to smile,
And with his Virtues bless'd our Isle.

Swift for the Antients has argu'd so well,
'Tis apparent from thence, that the Moderns excel.

'Tis said, for ev'ry common Grief
The Muses can afford Relief:
And, surely, on that heav'nly Train
A BOYLE can never call in vain.
Then strait invoke the sacred Nine ,
Nor impious slight their Gifts divine;
Dispel those Clouds, which damp your Fire;
Shew, Bath , like Tunbridge, can inspire.

ENVOY .

Few books are worth a copper spangle:
Come forth, and choose, my dusty friend,
The ranchman's rope, the nautch-girl's bangle —
Of making books there is no end.

Worlds beyond worlds of sunset pageantry —
Wild West: the spirit with a yearning deep
Springs forth to thee! Like ripples are thy long
Low lines of violet cloud: all dreams, all hopes
Seem possible within these earthly bounds
Which heaven enrings and thy bright marge of light —
Set in cerulean circle, jewel-wise.

On the drench'd sands and shallow, windless sea,
On that one boat which rocks, with one bare mast,
At anchor, on a hundred naked groynes,
And on the desolate and sinking house,
With crumbling turrets facing towards the tide,
There falls, like stillness on the close of Time —
In soft and mournful mist — the sad, grey night.