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So in each ship's stupendous womb,
Now gently floating on the deep,
Peaceful, as in the silent tomb,

The Demons of Destruction sleep;
But waked by War's terrific roar,
Prompt o'er each desolated shore

Their hell-directed flight to urge,
And, leading Slaughter's horrid train,
With hecatombs of warriors slain,
To load th' empurpled surge!

What tho' at haughty Gallia's chiefs

The spear of Vengeance Britain aims, Shall she not mourn a people's griefs,

Their dying sons, their weeping dames?
Nor shall she even with tearless eye
Yon gallant navy e'er descry

Returning o'er the western flood;
For ah! the laurel's greenest bough,
That ever crown'd Victoria's brow,
Is surely tinged with blood!

Tho' blaze the splendid fires around,

Tho' arcs of triumph proudly rise, Tho' Fame her loudest pæan sound,

And notes of conquest rend the skies,

Alas! in some sequester'd cell
Her slaughter'd lover's funeral knell

In every shout the virgin hears!

And as the strain of victory flows,
More swell the widow'd matron's woes,
And faster fall her tears!

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Tho' from this cliff while Fancy views
Yon squadrons darken half the main,
She dress in Glory's brightest bues;

The pride of Albion's naval reign,
Yet, as Reflection's mirror shows
Th' attendant scene of death and woes,
Th' exulting hopes of conquest cease,
She turns from War's delusive form,
To deprecate th' impending storm,

And breathe her vows for Peace.

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An! wherefore on thy natal day
Com'st thou so pensive, lovely May!

Like a sad mourner, bath'd in tears:
Thon, who wast wont with garlands sweet,
And festive dance the sun to meet,

And wake with rural minstrelsy
The drowsy morning's ears?

Is it to deck the warlike tomb

Of some brate youth, in battle slain,

With emblems of his early doom,

That thon dos caï the rufkan storm, Spring's Bowa▾ landscape to deform, And strom the whitethorn's silvery bloom Untimely on the pri

Or rather streams thy gentle eye,
To view the ghastly wounds of War;
Who, in the Belgian fields afar,

Still sees his dreary banners fly,
And stain'd with slaughter of the brave,
Still drowns the widow's eye in tears,
And bows the father's hoary hairs

With sorrow to the grave?

Yet, though on Conquest's crested head
The beams of glory shine,

To every tear by nature shed

shall join,

The Muse her prayer
That wasting War's relentless hand
May, ere it desolate the land,

Its visitation cease;

And thou resume, O lovely May!
Thy festive dance, thy matin lay,
And twine a wreath of flowerets gay,
To bind the brows of Peace.

RHADEGUNDA.

EPIGRAM

To a Person very fond of singing.

OH! prithee cease thy ear-annoying strain,
And rid, at least, thy friends of persecution:
Such notes were stolen from hell 'tis very plain;
Repent-and make the devil restitution.

J. BRENNAN, ESQ.

THE WIFE.

Ir e'er I quit the single life,
Be this the model of my Wife!
A Beauty without art complete,
Who, from her toilet simply neat,
The golden tissue can despise,
And wears no brilliants—but her eyes!
Soft blended in those eyes should meet
Deserving Love, and sparkling Wit!
And, in her dimpled smiles be seen
A modest, with a cheerful mien!
As pauses find in music place,
Her speech let proper silence grace!
Her conversation ever free
From censure, as from levity!
An undissembled innocence,

Not apt to give, nor take offence!
Not fond of compliments! nor rude!
Not a coquette, nor yet a prude!
Averse to wanton serenades!

Nor pleased with midnight masquerades !
The virtues that her sex adoru

By Honor guarded, not by Scorn;
Nor superstitious, nor profane,
But in religion greatly plain!
To such a Virgin, such a Wife,
I'd give my love-I'd give my life!

J. W.

EPITAPH.

THE wretched victim of a quick decay,
Relieved from life; on humble bed of clay,
The last and only refuge for my woes;
A lost love-ruin'd female, I repose.
From the sad hour I listen'd to his charms,
And fell, half-forced, in the deceiver's arms,
To that-whose awful veil hides every fault,
Sheltering my sufferings in this welcome vault;
When pamper'd, starv'd, abandon'd, and in drink,
My thoughts were rack'd in striving not to think,
Nor could rejected conscience claim the power
T'impose the respite of one serious hour.-
I durst not think of what I was before,

My soul shrunk back, and wish'd to be no more!
Of eye undaunted, and of touch impure,

Old, ere of age; worn out when scarce mature; Daily debased to stifle my disgust

Of forced enjoyment in affected lust;

Cover'd with guilt, infection, debt and want,
My home a brothel, and the streets my haunt;
Full seven long years of infamy I pin'd,

And fondled, loathed, and preyed upon mankind,
Till the full course of sin and vice gone through,
My shatter'd fabrick failed at Twenty-two!
Then Death, with every horror in his train,
Here closed the scene of riot, guilt, and pain.

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