If thou hast deign’d, by Pity mov’d,
  This fev’rish phantom to prolong,
I’ve touch’d my lute, for ever lov’d,
  And bless’d thee with its earliest song!

And oh! if in thy gentle ear
  Its simple notes have sounded sweet,
May the soft breeze, to thee so dear,
  Now bear them to thy rose-wreath’d seat!

For thou hast dried the dew of grief,
  And Friendship feels new ecstacy: 
To Pollio thou hast stretch’d relief,
  And, raising him, hast cherish’d me.

So, whilst some treasur’d plant receives
  Th’ admiring florist’s partial show’r,
The drops that tremble from its leaves
  Oft feed some near uncultur’d flow’r.

For late connubial Fondness hung
  Mute o’er the couch where Pollio lay;
Love, Hope, and Sorrow, fixed her tongue,
  Thro’ sable night till morning grey.

There, too, by drooping Pollio’s side,
  Stood Modesty, a mourner meek,
Whilst Genius, mov’d by grief and pride,
  Increas’d the blush which grac’d her cheek;

For much the maiden he reprov’d
  For having spread her veil of snow
Upon the mind he form’d and lov’d,
  Till she was seen to mourn it too.

O Health! when thou art fled, how vain
  The witchery of earth and skies,
Love’s look, or music’s sweetest strain,
  Or Ocean’s softest lullabies!

Oh! ever hover near his bow’r,
  There let thy fav’rite sylphs repair;
Fence it with ev’ry sweet-lipp’d flow’r,
  That Sickness find no entrance there.

So shall his lyre, untouch’d so long,
  The tone with which it charm’d regain;
Sweet spirit! thou shall teach his song,
  With mine, to breathe the grateful strain.

AN IRISH SONG

Poor Molly O’Flannagan (Lord rest her soul!)
Drank so deeply of whiskey, ’twas thought she would die;
Her fond lover, Pat, from her nate cabin stole,
And stepp’d into Dublin to buy her a pie. 
                    Oh! poor Molly O’Flannagan!

Tho’ chin-deep in sorrow, yet fun he lov’d well;
A pie-man pass’d near, crying “Pies” at his aise;
“Here are pies of all sorts.”—­“Oh! if all sorts you sell,
Then a twopenny magpie for me, if you plaise!”
                    Oh! poor Molly O’Flannagan!

THE SONG OF GRIEF

By the walk of the willows I pour’d out my theme,
The breath of the evening scarce dimpled the stream;
By the waters I stood, like an image of Woe,
And my tears, like the tide, seem’d to tremble and flow.

Ye green scatter’d reeds, that half lean to the wave,
In your plaintive, your musical, sighs, could ye save
But one note of my charmer, to soften my doom,
I would stay till these willows should arch me a tomb!

For ye know, when I pour’d out my soul on the lute,
How she hung down her head, so expressively mute! 
From my hand she would take it, still breathing my pain;
She would touch it—­return it—­and smile at the strain.