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Is there a father, husband, lover, here,

Holds female charms, and female honour dear?
Is there a patriot, fir'd with sacred flame
For Albion's weal, and Freedom's holy name?
Firm in the front of battle let him stand,
The awful sword of Justice in his hand;
Hurl bolts of vengeance on Oppression's head,
While living honour'd, and rever'd when dead.

AN ADDRESS*

For the Anniversary of the Literary Fund, at Freemasons' Hall, April 18, 1807.

Written and recited by WILLIAM-THOMAS FITZ-GERALD, ESQ.

T

O ease the pangs of penury and pain,
The cause of slighted merit to maintain;

To save the letter'd victim from despair,

Was first your motive, and is still your care.
Time, which destroys, matures your virtuous plan,
That while it succours ne'er degrades the man;
Exposes not the object of relief,

But spares his feelings, while it ends his grief!
"Tis yours that soothing comfort to impart,
That winnows sorrow from the bursting heart;
Bids pining talents hope for better days-
Cheer'd by your bounty, foster'd by your praise!
As mould'ring ashes dull the brightest fire,
So cold neglect leaves genius to expire-
But let the breath of praise begin to blow,
The sparks re-kindle, and the embers glow;
The renovated flame attracts the sight,
And all is splendour, which before was night!

Look through the world, and, to the thinking mind,
How few deserve the envy of mankind!

Some toil for wealth, which, gain'd, they can't enjoy,
For fears of poverty their peace destroy;
No gen'rous warmth their sordid breasts can fire,
Their idol gold-their passion to acquire!
While some of riches vain, of fashion prond,
Can only live when flatter'd by the crowd:
To shine meteor in the vulgar's eyes,
The gaze of fools, and pity of the wise!
In glitt'ring pomp to dazzle and betray,
The painted insects of a summer's day!

Their

Being the eleventh anniversary poem written by Mr. Fitz-Gerald for the Literary

Fund.

Their lives not fated to a second morn,
But doom'd to perish almost soon as born!
And can such gaudy butterflies be priz'd,
While modest genius famishes and dies?
While many an Otway meets an Otway's fate,
Admir'd in vain-assisted when too late!

While Barry's pencil scarcely yielded bread,
Though science mourns the British Raphael dead!
The sorrowing arts their favourite's hearse attend-
Yet Barry, living, found the world no friend!

Let not the sons of vanity, and pride,
The starving author's poverty deride;
In life, perhaps, neglected he may roam,
Without a friend, a comfort, or a home!
Though dull obscurity his days o'ercast,
Yet time does justice to his fame at last;
And many a bard, a moralist, a sage,
Survive the memory of their thankless age!
For when corroding time in dust shall mould
The Muse's votary, and the slave of gold;
The wretched miser to the grave descends,
And with his wealth his worthless story ends:
Not so the man, who rich alone in mind,
Bequeaths his all--his talents, to mankind!
When genius dies, oblivion does not tread -
With heavy footsteps on the poet's head;
Some spark will rise immortal from his urn,
To light the lamp which shall for ever burn!
Some portion of that pure æthereal flame,.
Aspiring mounts to heav'n from whence it came!
While grosser matter seeks its native earth,
Alike unnotic'd in its death, or birth.

What made Columbus unknown seas explore,
Where never vent'rous man had sail'd before?
Where death appear'd in ev'ry form most dire,
In famine, whirlwinds, elemental fire!
"Twas fame!--that star, by which all heroes steer,
Embodied hope, and banish'd ev'ry fear!
What makes the British flag triumphant ride,
From Flata's river to Byzantium's tide?

Where the proud Hellespont oppos'd in vain †

That Power, which awes the land, and rules the main!
What made great Nelson ev'ry danger brave,

To fix Britannia's empire on the wave?

3Q 2

The storming Monte Video in the river Plata.

↑ The forcing the Dardanelles, and over-awing Constantinople.

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What made him,-rich in honours, still pursue,
And keep bright Glory ever in his view?
What cheer'd the dying Hero's latest breath?
But shouts of vict'ry in the hour of death!
But love of Fame!-that gen'rous, patriot fire,
That noble minds to noblest deeds inspire;
The ruling passions of the truly great,
Which makes amends for all the ills of fate!
And where's the false philosopher would try
To chase this splendid vision from the eye?
To sink in apathy the ardent mind,

And banish patriot feelings from mankind!

When love of Country ceases to inspire,
And unregarded burns the hallow'd fire;
That nation soon will hasten to decay,
The traitor's plunder, or th' invader's prey!
When selfish principles its place supply,
Nip'd in the bud the gen'rous virtues die;
No glory lures the hero to the wave,
No laurel blooms upon the soldier's grave!
And the firm champion of the public cause
Neglected lives, and dies without applause.
May Britons still that fatal error shun,
By which deluded nations were undone!
Let all who hold the pen, or wield the spear,
At England's call, in England's cause appear!
The sacred summons none will dare refuse,
And foremost should be found each British muse!
When, crush'd beneath the Tyrant's galling chain,
Afflicted millions dar'd not to complain,

■ And, while reduc'd to that degraded state,

Were forc'd to praise the object of their hate;
This Country, in his vain and prosperous hour,
Defied his malice, and curtail'd his power;
Taught Europe first to make the sword her shield,
And brave the hated upstart in the field.
Though kingdoms sunk beneath the despot's stroke,
His sword was shiver'd by the British Oak!
With undiminish'd strength, and matchless form,
Its head shall rise superior to the storm;
'Gainst which in vain the tyrant's rage is hurl'd-
The mighty bulwark of a suff'ring world!
Th' Imperial Alexander, great as wise!
From realms remote to Europe's succour flies;
Before his face, where sun-bright honour shines,
The pallid star of guilty France declines!
His gallant troops, by Russian Nelson led,

Pour dreadful vengeance on the Spoiler's head,

Who,

Who, lower'd in pride, and baffled by defeat,
From plunder'd Poland makes a base retreat!-
Then let the pen enforce this sacred truth,
And write it early on the heart of youth;
A theme all worldly lessons far above,
That their first duty is their Country's love!
Teach them that freeborn empires sink or rise,
As men this duty honour, or despise-

Teach them with loyal zeal to guard the Throne,
Convinc'd their Monarch's interests are their own.
Parties, by turns, may triumph, or may fall,
But England's welfare is above them all!
Whoever rules, no change the patriot knows—
He loves his Country, and detests her foes!

THE HOROLOGE OF THE FIELDS.

Addressed to a Young Lady, on seeing at the House of an Acquaintance a magnificent French Time-piece.

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But conscious of the earliest beam,
She rises from her humid rest,
And sees reflected in the stream
The virgin whiteness of her breast.

Till the bright day-star to, the west
Declines in ocean's surge to lave,
Then folded in her modest vest,

She slumbers on the rocking wave.

See Hieracium's various tribe,

Of plumy seed and radiate flowers, The course of Time their blooms describe, And wake or sleep appointed hours.

Broad o'er its imbricated cup

The Goatsbeard spreads its golden rays, But shuts its cautious petals up, Retreating from the noon-tide blaze:

Pale as a pensive cloister'd nun

The Bethlem-star her face unveils, When o'er the mountain peers the sun, But shades it from the vesper gales.

Among the loose and arid sands

The humble Arenaria creeps; Slowly the purple star expands, But soon within its calyx sleeps.

And those small bells so lightly ray'd
With young Aurora's rosy hue;
Are to the noon-tide sun display'd,

But shut their plaits against the dew.

On upland slopes the shepherds mark
The hour, when, as the dial true,
Cichorium to the towe ing lark,

Lifts her soft eyes, serenely blue.

And thou," Wee crimson tipped flower,"
Gatherest thy fringed mantle round

Thy bosom, at the closing hour,

When night-drops bathe the turfy ground.

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