Then, Lord! let THY name

Fill yon Heathens with shame,

For in THEE is our refuge, our hope, and our trust!

VI.

Sons of Erin, march on-grasp your swords, shields, and lances

Whirl around the swift sling, draw the death-shafted bow

And spur the bold steed, that impatiently prances
To trample in slaughter the bands of the foe-
For see! o'er your lines,

How gloriously shines

The "SUN-BURST," resplendently blazing on high!
And a thousand harps sound

Their loud notes around,

That call on the valiant to conquer or die!

January 10th, 1829.

FAREWELL TO MY BOOK.

Here goes for a swim on the stream of old Time,
On those buoyant supporters, the bladders of rhyme!
If our weight breaks them down, and we sink in the flood,
We are smother'd, at least, in respectable mud.—BYrɔn.

My dear little volume, it seems you are grown
Old enough, as they say, for a will of your own;
And, no longer content to be kept for the pleasure
Of myself, or a friend, in our moments of leisure,
You wish, though the danger of print I've foretold,
To aim at a suit of morocco and gold.

Well, take your own way, since no effort can stop
Your rage to be seen in the bookseller's shop.

But, as soon as yourself and your parent are slandered,
In the Mail, and the Packet, the Times, and the
Standard;

Magazines and reviews all unite to decry you,
And others, to still meaner uses, apply you';
You'll think on the silly career you have run,
And, comparing yourself with the prodigal son,
Lament that you cannot, like him, to your cost,
By repentance regain what by folly you lost.
Yet why thus debate? since my warning you mock,
Like your brother in rashness the obstinate cock,

1 From dusty shops neglected authors come
Martyrs of pies, &c.-DRYDEN.

Who, laughing at all his good parent could tell,
Disobeyed her advice, and was drowned in the well.
Then go but when Edinburgh's critic appears,
Beneath ev'ry slice of whose merciless shears
The "membra disjecta poetæ" are lopped,
As Melanthius of old by Ulysses was cropped,*
Like Hassan, the Persian, when cursing the day
That led him from Shiraz through deserts to stray,3
With feelings of deep but unpitied regret,
You'll wish you remained in my custody yet.

January, 1839.

2 See the Odyssey, book xxii. v. 510, &c. by Pope, whose modest paraphrase of the original Greek is preferable to the more literal indelicacy of Cowper's version.

3 Sad was the hour, and luckless was the day,
When first from Shiraz' walls I bent my way!

COLLINS'S Hassan, or the Camel-Driver.

POSTSCRIPTS.