This dreadful truth her mirror told,
"You once were young, you now are old."-
Time stole her bloom, and, in despair,
She saw him thin her changing hair;
Grown fretful, pale, and discontented,
She bitterly the past repented,
And, having cool'd her squeamish pride,
TO FOOTMAN JOHN became a Bride!

Oh think, ye Fair, when youth is past
What poor old Maids endure at last;
Neglect not then, in beauty's prime,
To chuse a proper Switch in time.

TO AN ORANGE TREE.

FROM THE FRENCH OF THE CHEVALIER DE PARNY.

ORANGE tree! whose foliage dark
Serv'd our transports to conceal;
Let me on thy tender bark
This grand truth, to them reveal,

Who, in soft luxurious leisure,
May beside thy stem be laid,
That if man could die of pleasure,
I had died beneath thy shade.

G.

STANZAS TO MARY.

Ο MARY! whilst the beams of joy
Within thy fickle bosom shine,
Thou little heed'st, thou little know'st,
The bitter pangs that torture mine.
Whilst Fancy paints the world serene,
And Hope with wanton song beguiles;
I sigh amidst the crowded scene,
And think on thy deluding smiles.

When Rapture to her hall invites,

Or bids thee through her mazes fly,
The night-star guides my wand'ring feet,
The chill gale bears my wasting sigh.
Each mournful night my footstep calls
To ruin'd scenes and tott'ring aisles;
Where, far from Rapture's revel halls,
I think on thy deluding smiles.

O Mary! when the bands of sleep

With sweet compulsion seal thine eyes, Think'st thou the dream that crowns thy rest, E'er to my couch of sorrow flies ? The only bliss my soul can know, The only vision that beguiles, Is just to steal awhile from woe, And dream of thy deluding smiles.

When to the voice of Pride I turn,

And clothe my sorrow in disdain;
When darkness shrouds my sinking form,
And silence lures me to complain:
Alike in dreary scenes forlorn,

Or 'midst the world's betraying wiles,
Fond Mem'ry checks the rising scorn,
And dwells on thy deluding smiles.

P. M. JANUS.

FREE TRANSLATION

OF SOME

LATIN LINES BY FORTIN.

Ан! wou'd the Fates, who tore thee from my arms,
In all the plentitude of youthful charms,
Grant my fond pray'r, beyond the verge of day
My disencumber'd soul shou'd wing its way.
If in those realms of bliss we may review
Those kindred spirits who on earth were true;
If once again to breathe our mutual vows,
And love for endless ages heaven allows,
To rise triumphant from the darkling tomb,
Approving seraphs shou'd my course illume;
Thro' pathless tracks untrodden and unknown,
I'd seek my bride, and claim her as my own.

THE MANIAC.

As I stray'd o'er a common on Cork's rugged border, While the dew-drops of morn the sweet primrose array'd,

I saw a poor female, whose mental disorder

Her quick-glancing eye and wild aspect betray'd; On the sward she reclin'd, by the green fern surrounded, At her side speckled daisies and crow-flowers abounded; To its inmost recess her poor heart had been wounded, Her sighs were unceasing, 'twas Mary le More.

Her charms by the keen blasts of sorrow were faded; Yet the soft tinge of beauty still play'd on her cheek; Her tresses a wreath of pale primroses braided,

And strings of fresh daisies hung loose on her neck; While with pity I gaz'd, she exclaim'd "Oh! my

mother!

" See the blood on that lash, 'tis the blood of my brother;

"They have torn his poor flesh, and they now strip another;

""Tis Connor, the friend of poor Mary le More!"

"Tho' his locks are as white as the foam of the ocean, "Those soldiers shall find that my father is brave; My father!" she cry'd with the wildest emotion, "Ah! no, my poor father now sleeps in the grave:

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"They have toll'd his death-bell, they've laid the turf o'er him;

"His white locks were bloody, no aid can restore him; " He is gone! He is gone! and the Good will deplore him,

"When the blue wave of Erin hides Mary le More."

A lark, from the gold-blossom'd furze that grew near her, Now rose, and with energy caroll'd his lay; "Hush! hush!" she continued, "the trumpet sounds clearer;

"The horsemen approach; Erin's daughters, away!" Ah! Britons, 'twas foul, while the cabin was burning, And o'er her pale father a wretch had been mourning! Go hide with the sea-mew, ye maids, and take warning, Those ruffians have ruin'd poor Mary le More.

" Away! bring the ointment! Oh! God! see those gashes!

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" Alas! my poor brother, come dry the big tear; "Anon we'll have vengeance for those dreadful lashes, Already the screech-owls and ravens appear; By day the green grave, that lies under the willow, "With wild flowers I'll strew, and by night make my

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pillow,

"Till the ooze and dark sea-weed, beneath the curl'd

billow,

"Shall furnish a death-bed for Mary le More."

Thus rav'd the poor Maniac in tones more heart

rending

Than Sanity's voice ever pour'd on my ear, When, lo! on the waste, and their march to'ards her

bending,

A troop of fierce cavalry chanc'd to appear.