Care.

So, if Pomona's golden fruit descend,
Shook by some breeze, into the lake below,
Quick will the dimple, which it forms, extend,
Till all around the joyous circles flow.

Bless'd be the liberal mind, th' undaunted zeal,
That bade loud Folly from the Stage retire;
That teach us how to think, and how to feel,
And once again our godlike Bard admire!

Thus aided, see his rescued genius spring;
Again he pours the phrenzy of his song;
With EV'RY FEATHER[B] in his eagle wing,
Once more in majesty he soars along.

Oft, deck'd with smiles, his spirit shall explore,
Erin! thy beauteous vales and classic ground;
And ev'ry ripple of thy winding Nore
To him shall sweetly as his Avon's sound.

_22d Oct. 1805_.

[Footnote A: The theatricals of Kilkenny are supported by gentlemen of
rank and fashion in Ireland, and the profits are applied to charitable
purposes.]

[Footnote B: Alluding to several fine passages of Shakspeare, which
have been long omitted in representation, but restored at the
theatricals of Kilkenny.]

EPIGRAM,

UPON SEEING THE DILAPIDATED STATE OF

_BETHLEM HOSPITAL_.

Well with the _purpose_ does the _place_ agree;
For e'en the very house is _crack'd_, you see.

EPIGRAM

ON THE GRAVE OF ROBESPIERRE.

_ORIGINAL_.

Passant, ne pleure point son sort;
Car, s'il vivait, tu serais mort.

_TRANSLATION_.

Nay, passenger, don't mourn his lot;
If he had liv'd, why you had not.

AN INDIAN MASSACRE-SONG.

See, the waves clasp the Sun, as he sinks from our sight,
And Despair sullen rides on the wings of the night;
Lo! he comes, and reproaches our arms with delay,--
Then arise, let us go where Revenge points the way!

In the deed should we fall, (since who'll e'er breathe a slave?)
Our free souls shall repose in the realms of the brave;
In the song we shall live, and fresh heroes inspire,
While the son shall exult in the fate of his sire.

Then know, ye white race! ye too long shake the rod;
By this arm ye shall soon be dismiss'd to your God!
Then demand, if he bade ye torment, why he gave
All the soul of a man to the breast of a slave?

Then prepare; know our hatchets atone for our wrong,
And our hearts, like our hatchets, are stubborn and strong:
Sleep your last! ye no more shall the morning survey,
Nor shall sorrow arise with the break of the day.

Yes, remember the lashes that pierc'd thro' our flesh!
See the wounds of our fathers; they ope