YOUNG JESSICA.

YOUNG Jessica sat all the day,

In love-dreams languishingly pining, Her needle bright neglected lay,

Like truant genius idly shining. Jessy, 't is in idle hearts

That love and mischief are most nimble;
The safest shield against the darts
Of Cupid, is Minerva's thimble.

A child who with a magnet play'd,
And knew its winning ways so wily,
The magnet near the needle laid,

And laughing said, We 'll steal it slily..

The needle, having nought to do,

Was pleased to let the magnet wheedle, Till closer still the tempter drew, And off, at length, eloped the needle,

Now, had this needle turn'd its eye

To some gay Ridicule's construction, It ne'er had stray'd from duty's tie, Nor felt a magnet's sly seduction. Girls, would you keep tranquil hearts, Your snowy fingers must be nimble; The safest shield against the darts

Of Cupid, is Minerva's thimble.

THE RABBINICAL ORIGIN OF WOMEN. THEY tell us that Woman was made of a rib

Just pick'd from a corner so snug in the side; But the Rabbins swear to you this is a fib, And 't was not so at all that the sex was supplied. Derry down, down, down derry down.

For old Adam was fashion'd, the first of his kind,
With a tail like a monkey, full yard and a span,
And when Nature cut off this appendage behind,
Why-then woman was made of the tail of the Man
Derry down, down, down derry down.

If such is the tie between women and men,
The ninny who weds is a pitiful elf;
For he takes to his tail, like an idiot, again,
And makes a most damnable ape of himself!
Derry down, down, down derry down.

Yet, if we may judge as the fashions prevail,
Every husband remembers the original plan,
And, knowing his wife is no more than his tail,
Why he leaves her behind him as much as he can.
Derry down, down, down derry down.

FAREWELL, BESSY!

SWEETEST love! I'll not forget thee, Time shall only teach my heart Fonder, warmer, to regret thee, Lovely, gentle as thou art! Farewell, Bessy!

We may meet again.

Yes, oh yes! again we meet, love! And repose our hearts at last; Oh, sure't will then be sweet, love! Calm to think on sorrows past. Farewell, Bessy!

We may meet again.

Yet I feel my heart is breaking

When I think I stray from thee, Round the world that quiet seeking Which I fear is not for me. Farewell, Bessy!

We may meet again.

Calm to peace thy lover's bosom

Can it, dearest! must it be?

Thou within an hour shalt lose him, Hle for ever loses thee!

Farewell, Bessy!

Yet oh! not for ever.

TO-DAY, DEAREST! IS OURS.

TO-DAY, dearest ! is ours;

Why should Love carelessly lose it? This life shines or lowers

Just as we, weak mortals, use it. 'Tis time enough, when its flowers decay, To think of the thorns of Sorrow;

And Joy, if left on the stem to-day,
May wither before to-morrow.

Then why, dearest! so long

Let the sweet moments fly over? Though now, blooming and young,

Thou hast me devoutly thy lover. Yet time from both, in his silent lapse, Some treasure may steal or borrow; Thy charms may be less in bloom, perhaps, Or I less in love to-morrow.

WHEN ON THE LIP THE SIGH DELAYS. WHEN on the lip the sigh delays,

As if 't would linger there for ever; When eyes would give the world to gaze, Yet still look down, and venture never; When, though with fairest nymphs we rove, There's one we dream of more than anyIf all this is not real love,

'T is something wondrous like it, Fanny! To think and ponder, when apart,

On all we've got to say at meeting; And yet when near, with heart to heart, Sit mute, and listen to their beating: To see but one bright object move,

The only moon, where stars are manyIf all this is not downright love,

I prithee say what is, my Fanny!

When Hope foretels the brightest, best,
Though Reason on the darkest reckons;
When Passion drives us to the west,

Though Prudence to the eastward beckons; When all turns round, below, above,

And our own heads the most of any

If this is not stark, staring love,
Then you and I are sages, Fanny.

HERE, TAKE MY HEART.

HERE, take my heart, 't will be safe in thy keeping,
While I go wandering o'er land and o'er sea;
Smiling or sorrowing, waking or sleeping,
What need I care, so my heart is with thee?

If, in the race we are destined to run, love,

They who have light hearts the happiest beHappier still must be they who have none, love, And that will be my case when mine is with thee!

No matter where I may now be a rover,

No matter how many bright eyes I see; Should Venus' self come and ask me to love her, I'd tell her I could not-my heart is with thee! There let it lie, growing fonder and fonder—

And should Dame Fortune turn truant to me, Why, let her go-I've a treasure beyond her, As long as my heart 's out at interest with thee!

OH! CALL IT BY SOME BETTER NAME.
On! call it by some better name,
For Friendship is too cold,
And Love is now a worldly flame,
Whose shrine must be of gold;
And passion, like the sun at noon,
That burns o'er all he sees,
Awhile as warm, will set as soon,—
Oh! call it none of these.

Imagine something purer far,

More free from stain of clay, Than Friendship, Love, or Passion are, Yet human still as they:

PALE BROKEN FLOWER!

PALE broken flower! what art can now recover thee? Torn from the stem that fed thy rosy breath

In vain the sun-beams seek

To warm that faded cheek!

The dews of heaven, that once like balm fell over thee,
Now are but tears, to weep thy early death!

So droops the maid whose lover hath forsaken her;
Thrown from his arms, as lone and lost as thou;
In vain the smiles of all

Like sun-beams round her fall

The only smile that could from death awaken her,
That smile, alas! is gone to others now.

BEING

THE PRETTY ROSE-TREE.

weary of love, I flew to the grove, And chose me a tree of the fairest ;

Saying, Pretty Rose-tree, thou my mistress shalt be,
I'll worship each bud that thou bearest.

For the hearts of this world are hollow,
And fickle the smiles we follow;

And 't is sweet, when all their witcheries pall,
To have a pure love to fly to:

So, my pretty Rose-tree, thou my mistress shalt be,
And the only one now I shall sigh to."

When the beautiful hue of thy cheek through the dew
Of morning is bashfully peeping,

Sweet tears, I shall say (as I brush them away),
At least there's no art in this weeping."
Although thou shouldst die to-morrow,

"T will not be from pain or sorrow,

And the thorns of thy stem are not like them
With which hearts wound each other:

So, my pretty Rose-tree, thou my mistress shalt be,
And I'll ne'er again sigh to another.

THE EAST INDIAN.

COME May, with all thy flowers,
Thy sweetly-scented thorn,
Thy cooling evening showers,
Thy fragrant breath at morn:
When May-flies haunt the willow,
When May-buds tempt the bee,
Then o'er the shining billow
My love will come to me.

From Eastern Isles she 's winging Through wat'ry wilds her way, And on her check is bringing

The bright sun's orient ray: Oh! come and court her hither, Ye breezes mild and warmOne winter's gale would wither So soft, so pure a form.

The fields where she was straying Are blest with endless light, With zephyrs always playing

Through gardens always bright. Then now, oh May! be sweeter

Than e'er thou 'st been before; Let sighs from roses meet her

When she comes near our shore.

SHINE OUT, STARS!

SHINE out, Stars! let Heaven assemble
Round us every festal ray,
Lights that move not, lights that tremble,
All to grace this eve of May.
Let the flower-beds all lie waking,
And the odours shut up there,
From their downy prisons breaking,
Fly abroad through sea and air.

And would Love too bring his sweetness,
With our other joys to weave,
Oh, what glory, what completeness,

Then would crown this bright May eve! Shine out, Stars! let night assemble

Round us every festal ray, Lights that move not, lights that tremble, To adorn this eve of May.

THE YOUNG MULETEERS OF GRENADA.
On the joys of our evening posada,
When, resting at close of the day,
We, young Muleteers of Grenada,

Sit and sing the last sunshine away!
So blithe, that even the slumbers
Which hung around us seem gone,
Till the lute's soft drowsy numbers
Again beguile them on.

A MELOLOGUE

UPON NATIONAL MUSIC.

THESE verses were written for a Benefit at the Dublin Theatre, and were spoken by Miss Smith, with a degree of success, which they owed solely to her admirable manner of reciting them. I wrote them in haste; and it very rarely happens that poetry, which has cost but little labour to the writer, is productive of any great pleasure to the reader. Under this impression, I should not have published them if they had not found their way into some of the newspapers, with such an addition of errors to their own original stock, that I thought it but fair to limit their responsibility to those faults alone which really belong to them.

But

With respect to the title which I have invented for this Poem, I feel even more than the scruples of the Emperor Tiberius, when he humbly asked pardon of the Roman senate for using the outlandish term monopoly. the truth is, having written the Poem with the sole view of serving a Benefit, I thought that an unintelligible word of this kind would not be without its attraction for the multitude, with whom, « if 't is not sense, af least 't is Greek.» To some of my readers, however, it may not be superfluous to say, that, by « Melologue, I mean that mixture of recitation and music, which is frequently adopted in the performance of Collins's Ode on the Passions, and of which the most striking example I can remember is the prophetic speech of Joad in the Athalie of Racine.

T. M.