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Written beneath a Portrait
Of Mr. G. F. Mandley, of Manchester,
Taken during his representation of the character of Julian
On the Anniversary of the Prince of Wales's Birthday,
So stands he whilst depicting scenes gone by,—
But vain the pencil's mimic power to trace
But cannot the mind's varied workings show.
As vain its efforts to display the force
Of that wild tale, whose thrilling interest draws From the 'wrapt crowd, like thunder in its course, The long, loud, deep, encouraging applause.
Well might the wise discriminating few,
That hero was-nay there he is!-St. Pierre. "
Written in an Ancient Churchyard,
(ASSELYNN, NEAR BOYLE,)
Days were, when beings now in dust,
With fairer prospects blest than ever we.
Here, with a grave her narrow bed,
And with life's bright streams bought Her liberty-long tarnished, sullied prize.
All-powerful death! relentless king!
That sweeps off all-the beggar, lord,Distinctions thou aside dost fling,
Nor to the monarch wilt afford
One moment, heedless of his gold,
He is thy own, thy own,
And as the peasant's heart, his heart is cold.
Time was we were in childhood's bloom, And life's young day-beam was all bright; Time is 'tis overspread with gloom,
And like a meteor of the night
Joy shines; but time will come, and where Our after-home shall be
Through all Eternity,
Time is must tell if we'll be happy there.
Song of a Sea-born Sailor.
List, ye landsmen, unto me.-Old Song.
Loudly roar, thou dark-blue Ocean!
Not on earth
Had I my birth,
But on the wide Atlantic's breast;
On thee to rove,
Nought on earth affords me rest?
Dark-blue Ocean, what shall bound thee,
First-create of Deity?
Below thee, what? Above, around thee?
Sky and sky's serenity.
The bright moon sleeps
Within thy deeps,
And the stars hide beneath thy billow;
In thy green waves,
And weary seeks in thee his pillow.
What extent dost thou not cover,
Round the earth from pole to line?
Oh, how sweet
The morn to greet
Within my ærial hammock sleeping,
Or thro' the bright
And moon-lit night
Upon the deck my watch-guard keeping.
Thrice I crossed the wide Equator,-
While mad waves dashed,
Upon the thundering Baltic's shore;
Viewed the stones
And snow-white bones
That in its unsearched womb it bore.