For know, (whoe'er thou art that read'ft his Fate,
And think'ft, perhaps, his Suff'rings were too great,)
Blefs'd as he was, at HER imperial Call,

Wife, Children, Parents, he refign'd them all;
Each fond Affection then forfook his Soul,
And AMOR PATRIA Occupied the Whole;
In that great Cause he joy'd to meet his Doom,
Bless'd the keen Axe, and triumph'd o'er the Tomb.

The Hour draws near---But what are Hours to me? Hours, Days, and Years hence undiftinguish'd flee! Time, and his Glass unheeded pass away, Abforb'd, and loft in one vaft Flood of Day! On Freedom's Wings my Soul is borne on high, And foars exulting to it's native Sky!

FINI S.

WEST BRITON,

BEING

A COLLECTION OF

POEM S,

ON

VARIOUS SUBJECTS.

Thomas Grady

Unhappy wit like most mistaken things,

Atones not for that envy which it brings,
Whose fame with pains we gain but lose with ease,

Sure fome to vex, but never all to please,

'Tis what the vicious fear, the virtuous fhun,

By fools 'tis hated, and by knaves undone.

POPE.

Dublin 3

Printed by Graisberry and Campbell,

FOR BERNARD DORNIN, 108, GRAFTON-STREET.

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