THE CATALOGUE

"COME, tell me," says Rosa, as kissing and kist, One day she reclin'd on my breast; "Come, tell me the number, repeat me the list "Of the nymphs you have lov'd and carest.”Oh Rosa! 'twas only my fancy that roved, My heart at the moment was free;

But I'll tell thee, my girl, how many I've loved, And the number shall finish with thee.

My tutor was Kitty; in infancy wild

She taught me the way to be blest;

She taught me to love her, I lov'd like a child,
But Kitty could fancy the rest.

This lesson of dear and enrapturing lore
I have never forgot, I allow :

I have had it by rote very often before,
But never by heart until now.

Pretty Martha was next, and my soul was all flame,

But my head was so full of romance
That I fancied her into some chivalry dame,
And I was her knight of the lance.
But Martha was not of this fanciful school,
And she laugh'd at her poor little knight;
While I thought her a goddess, she thought me a fool,
And I'll swear she was most in the right.

My soul was now calm, till, by Cloris's looks,
Again I was tempted to rove;

But Cloris, I found, was so learned in books
That she gave me more logic than love.
So I left this young Sappho, and hasten'd to fly
To those sweeter logicians in bliss,
Who argue the point with a soul-telling eye,
And convince us at once with a kiss.

Oh! Susan was then all the world unto me,
But Susan was piously given;

And the worst of it was, we could never agree
On the road that was shortest to Heaven.
"Oh, Susan!" I've said, in the moments of mirth,
"What's devotion to thee or to me?
"I devoutly believe there's a heaven on earth,
"And believe that that heaven's in thee!"

What hours, Catullus, once were thine,
How fairly seem'd thy day to shine,
When lightly thou didst fly to meet
The girl whose smile was then so sweet-
The girl thou lov'dst with fonder pain
Than e'er thy heart can feel again.

Ye met-your souls seem'd all in one, Like tapers that commingling shone; Thy heart was warm enough for both, And hers, in truth, was nothing loath.

Such were the hours that once were thine; But, ah! those hours no longer shine. For now the nymph delights no more In what she lov'd so much before; And all Catullus now can do, Is to be proud and frigid too; Nor follow where the wanton flies, Nor sue the bliss that she denies. False maid! he bids farewell to thee, To love, and all love's misery; The heyday of his heart is o'er, Nor will he court one favour more.

Fly, perjur'd girl!-but whither fly? Who now will praise thy cheek and eye? Who now will drink the syren tone, Which tells him thou art all his own? Oh, none :- and he who lov'd before Can never, never love thee more.

"Neither do I condemn thee; go, and sin no more!" St. Joux, chap. viii.

OH woman, if through sinful wile Thy soul hath stray'd from honour's track, 'Tis mercy only can beguile,

By gentle ways, the wand'rer back.

The stain that on thy virtue lies,
Wash'd by those tears, not long will stay;
As clouds that sully morning skies
May all be wept in show'rs away.

Go, go, be innocent,- and live;

The tongues of men may wound thee sore; But Heav'n in pity can forgive, And bid thee "go, and sin no more!"

IMITATION OF CATULLUS.

TO HIMSELF.

Miser Catulle, desinas ineptire, &c.

CEASE the sighing fool to play;
Cease to trifle life away;

Nor vainly think those joys thine own,
Which all, alas! have falsely flown.

NONSENSE.

GOOD reader! if you e'er have seen, When Phoebus hastens to his pillow,

SONG.

ON THE BIRTHDAY OF MRS.

WRITTEN IN IRELAND. 1799.

Or all my happiest hours of joy,
And even I have had my measure,
When hearts were full, and ev'ry eye
Hath kindled with the light of pleasure,
An hour like this I ne'er was given,

So full of friendship's purest blisses;
Young Love himself looks down from heaven,
To smile on such a day as this is.

Then come, my friends, this hour improve,
Let's feel as if we ne'er could sever;
And may the birth of her we love

Be thus with joy remember'd ever!

But now I mourn that e'er I knew A girl so fair and so deceiving. Fare thee well.

Few have ever lov'd like me,

Yes, I have lov'd thee too sincerely! And few have e'er deceiv'd like thee,Alas! deceiv'd me too severely.

Fare thee well!-yet think awhile

On one whose bosom bleeds to doubt thee, Who now would rather trust that smile,

And die with thee than live without thee.

Fare thee well! I'll think of thee,

Thou leav'st me many a bitter token; For see, distracting woman, see,

My peace is gone, my heart is broken!— Fare thee well!

MORALITY.

A FAMILIAR EPISTLE.

ADDRESSED TO

J. AT-NS-N, ESQ. M. R. I. A.

THOUGH long at school and college dosing,
O'er books of verse and books of prosing,
And copying from their moral pages
Fine recipes for making sages;

Though long with those divines at school,
Who think to make us good by rule;
Who, in methodic forms advancing,
Teaching morality like dancing,
Tell us, for Heaven or money's sake,
What steps we are through life to take:
Though, thus, my friend, so long employ'd,
With so much midnight oil destroy'd,
I must confess, my searches past,
I've only learn'd to doubt at last.

I find the doctors and the sages
Have differ'd in all climes and ages,
And two in fifty scarce agree
On what is pure morality.
"Tis like the rainbow's shifting zone,
And every vision makes its own.

The doctors of the Porch advise,
As modes of being great and wise,
That we should cease to own or know
The luxuries that from feeling flow:-
"Reason alone must claim direction,
"And Apathy's the soul's perfection.
"Like a dull lake the heart must lie;

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Nor passion's gale nor pleasure's sigh, "Though Heav'n the breeze, the breath, supplied, "Must curl the wave or swell the tide!"

But thus it is, all sects we see
Have watchwords of morality:
Some cry out Venus, others Jove;
Here 'tis Religion, there 'tis Love.
But while they thus so widely wander,

While mystics dream, and doctors ponder;
And some, in dialectics firm,
Seek virtue in a middle term;

While thus they strive, in Heaven's defiance,
To chain morality with science;
The plain good man, whose actions teach
More virtue than a sect can preach,
Pursues his course, unsagely blest,
His tutor whisp'ring in his breast;
Nor could he act a purer part,
Though he had Tully all by heart.
And when he drops the tear on woe,
He little knows or cares to know
That Epictetus blam'd that tear,
By Heaven approv'd, to virtue dear!

Oh! when I've seen the morning beam
Floating within the dimpled stream;
While Nature, wak'ning from the night,
Has just put on her robes of light,
Have I, with cold optician's gaze,
Explor'd the doctrine of those rays?

1 Aristippus.

No, pedants, I have left to you
Nicely to sep'rate hue from hue.
Go, give that moment up to art,
When Heaven and nature claim the heart;
And, dull to all their best attraction,
Go measure angles of refraction.
While I, in feeling's sweet romance,
Look on each daybeam as a glance
From the great eye of Him above,
Wak'ning his world with looks of love!

THE

TELL-TALE LYRE.

I've heard, there was in ancient days A Lyre of most melodious spell; 'Twas heav'n to hear its fairy lays, If half be true that legends tell. 'Twas play'd on by the gentlest sighs, And to their breath it breath'd again In such entrancing melodies

As ear had never drunk till then!

Not harmony's serenest touch

So stilly could the notes prolong;
They were not heavenly song so much
As they were dreams of heavenly song!

If sad the heart, whose murm'ring air
Along the chords in languor stole,
The numbers it awaken'd there
Were eloquence from pity's soul.

Or if the sigh, serene and light,
Was but the breath of fancied woes,
The string, that felt its airy flight,

Soon whisper'd it to kind repose.

And when young lovers talk'd alone,
If, 'mid their bliss that Lyre was near,
It made their accents all its own,

And sent forth notes that Heaven might hear

There was a nymph, who long had lov'd,

But dar'd not tell the world how well:
The shades, where she at evening rov'd,
Alone could know, alone could tell.

'Twas there, at twilight time, she stole,
When the first star announc'd the night,-
With him who claim'd her inmost soul,
To wander by that soothing light.

It chanc'd that, in the fairy bower
Where blest they woo'd each other's smile,
This Lyre, of strange and magic power,
Hung whisp'ring o'er their heads the while.

And as, with eyes commingling fire,
They listen'd to each other's vow,
The youth full oft would make the Lyre
A pillow for the maiden's brow:

And, while the melting words she breath'd Were by its echoes wafted round,

Her locks had with the chords so wreath'd, One knew not which gave forth the sound.

Alas, their hearts but little thought,

While thus they talk'd the hours away, That every sound the Lyre was taught Would linger long, and long betray.

So mingled with its tuneful soul

Were all their tender murmurs grown, That other sighs unanswer'd stole,

Nor words it breath'd but theirs alone.

Unhappy nymph! thy name was sung
To every breeze that wander'd by;
The secrets of thy gentle tongue
Were breath'd in song to earth and sky.

The fatal Lyre, by Envy's hand

Hung high amid the whisp'ring groves, To every gale by which 'twas fann'd,

Proclaim'd the myst'ry of your loves.

Nor long thus rudely was thy name
To earth's derisive echoes given;
Some pitying spirit downward came,
And took the Lyre and thee to heaven.

There, freed from earth's unholy wrongs,
Both happy in Love's home shall be;
Thou, uttering nought but seraph songs,
And that sweet Lyre still echoing thee!

PEACE AND GLORY.

WRITTEN ON THE APPROACH OF WAR.

WHERE is now the smile, that lighten'd
Every hero's couch of rest?
Where is now the hope, that brighten'd
Honour's eye and Pity's breast?
Have we lost the wreath we braided
For our weary warrior men?
Is the faithless olive faded?

Must the bay be pluck'd again?

Passing hour of sunny weather
Lovely, in your light awhile,

Peace and Glory, wed together,

Wander'd through our blessed isle. And the eyes of Peace would glisten, Dewy as a morning sun,

When the timid maid would listen To the deeds her chief had done.

Is their hour of dalliance over?

Must the maiden's trembling feet Waft her from her warlike lover

To the desert's still retreat? Fare you well! with sighs we banish Nymph so fair and guests so bright; Yet the smile, with which you vanish,

Leaves behind a soothing light;

Soothing light, that long shall sparkle
O'er your warrior's sanguin'd way,
Through the field where horrors darkle,
Shedding hope's consoling ray.
Long the smile his heart will cherish,
To its absent idol true;

While around him myriads perish,
Glory still will sigh for you!

SONG.

TAKE back the sigh, thy lips of art

In passion's moment breath'd to me; Yet, no-it must not, will not part, 'Tis now the life-breath of my heart,

And has become too pure for thee. Take back the kiss, that faithless sigh

With all the warmth of truth imprest; Yet, no- the fatal kiss may lie, Upon thy lip its sweets would die,

Or bloom to make a rival blest.

Take back the vows that, night and day,

My heart receiv'd, I thought, from thine; Yet, no-allow them still to stay, They might some other heart betray, As sweetly as they've ruin'd mine.

LOVE AND REASON.

"Quand l'homme commence à raisonner, il cesse de sentir." J. J. ROUSSEAU.1

"TWAS in the summer time so sweet,
When hearts and flowers are both in season,
That who, of all the world, should meet,
One early dawn, but Love and Reason!

1 Quoted somewhere in St. Pierre's Études de la Nature.