THE PEASANT'S CURSE.

INVEIGHED AGAINST A WEALTHY NEIGHBOUR, WHO HAD KILLED HIS GOATS.

From the Irish.

THOU Murderer of my goats! oh, may thy state
Through life be dreary, bleak, and desolate!

May human eye thy infant never see
Hushed to repose by nurse's lullaby!

Ne'er may thy cow upon a fertile land

Be heard to low beneath the milk-maid's hand!

May thy tired team at eve be never seen

Returning homeward o'er the upland green!

May orient morning's cheerful beam ne'er shew
Thy lamb disporting round its parent ewe!
May every wind of heaven upon thee light
Pregnant with poison, pestilence, and blight!
In thy last hour, uncheered by friendship's eyes,
May goats upbraid thee with vindictive sighs!
Then all thy wealth be scattered, random-cast,
Like spring-tide foam before the whirlwind's blast!

WITH A PEN TO A POET.

WHEN Music first began to touch the lyre,

And poured her breath mellifluous through the

flute,

When she inflamed the martial soul with fire,

And sweetly bade the mourner's sigh be mute; She soon perceived, that, when the strain was o'er, Her heavenly thought no lasting record found; That echo could not to a distant shore

Prolong, nor distant ages catch the sound.

And thus, when musing o'er her power sublime, And all the charms which to that power belong, To yield them to the fostering care of time

She made the Pen an instrument of song. Then, favoured minstrel! to the Muse you love This humble offering deign to consecrate, And may it long beneath your guidance move, If conscious, oh, how proud of its estate!—

FORGETFULNESS.

A CANZONET.

YES, if in every sigh

To breathe fond thoughts of thee;

To have thee ever nigh,

Though far apart we be;

If in my spirit's loneliness,
Long to regret thee,

Yes, if this be forgetfulness,
I may forget thee!