Heaven from all ages has reserved for you That happy clime, which venom never knew ; Or if it had been there, your eyes alone Have power to chase all poison but their own. Now in this interval, which fate has cast Betwixt your future glories, and your past; This pause of power, 'tis Ireland's hour to mourn; While England celebrates your safe return, By which you seem the seasons to command, And bring our summers back to their forsaken land. The vanquish'd isle our leisure must attend, Till the fair blessing we vouchsafe to send; [lend. Nor can we spare you long, though often we may The dove was twice employ'd abroad, before The world was dried; and she return'd no more. Nor dare we trust so soft a messenger, New from her sickness, to that northern air; Rest here a while your lustre to restore, That they may see you, as you shone before; For yet, the' eclipse not wholly past, you wade Through some remains and dimness of a shade.

A subject in his prince may claim a right, Nor suffer him with strength impair'd to fight; Till force returns, his ardour we restrain, And curb his warlike wish to cross the main. Now past the danger, let the learn'd begin The' inquiry, where disease could enter in ; How those malignant atoms forced their way; What in the faultless frame they found to make their Where every element was weigh'd so well, [prey? That Heaven alone, who mix'd the mass, could tell Which of the four ingredients could rebel; And where, imprison'd in so sweet a cage, A soul might well be pleased to pass an age.

And yet
the fine materials made it weak;
Porcelain, by being pure, is apt to break :
Even to your breast the sickness durst aspire;
And, forced from that fair temple to retire,
Profanely set the holy place on fire.

In vain your lord like young Vespasian mourn'd, When the fierce flames the sanctuary burn'd: And I prepared to pay in verses rude

A most detested act of gratitude:

Even this had been your elegy, which now
Is offer'd for your health, the table of my vow.
Your angel sure our Morley's' mind inspired,
To find the remedy your ill required;

As once the Macedon, by Jove's decree,
Was taught to dream an herb for Ptolemy:
Or Heaven, which had such over-cost bestow'd,
As scarce it could afford to flesh and blood,
So liked the frame, he would not work anew,
To save the charges of another you.
Or by his middle science did he steer,
And saw some great contingent good appear,
Well worth a miracle to keep you here:

And for that end, preserved the precious mould,
Which all the future Ormonds was to hold;
And meditated in his better mind

An heir from you, which may redeem the failing kind.

Bless'd be the power which has at once restored The hopes of lost succession to your lord, Joy to the first and last of each degree, Virtue to courts, and, what I long'd to see, To you the Graces, and the Muse to me.

1 Christopher Love Morley, M. D.

O daughter of the Rose, whose cheeks unite
The differing titles of the red and white2;
Who Heaven's alternate beauty well display,
The blush of morning, and the milky way;
Whose face is paradise, but fenced from sin :
For God in either eye has placed a cherubin.
All is your lord's alone; even absent, he
Employs the care of chaste Penelope.
For him you waste in tears your widow'd hours,
For him your curious needle paints the flowers ;
Such works of old imperial dames were taught ;
Such, for Ascanius, fair Elisa wrought.

The soft recesses of your hours improve
The three fair pledges of your happy love:
All other parts of pious duty done,
You owe your Ormond nothing but a son;
To fill in future times his father's place,
And wear the garter of his mother's race.

2 Alluding to her descent from the Plantagenets, as daughter of Henry, Duke of Beaufort.

PALAMON AND ARCITE;

OR,

THE KNIGHT'S TALE.

FROM CHAUCER.

BOOK I.

IN days of old there lived of mighty fame,
A valiant prince; and Theseus was his name:
A chief who more in feats of arms excell'd
The rising nor the setting sun beheld:

;

Of Athens he was lord; much land he won,
And added foreign countries to his crown;
In Scythia with the warrior-queen he strove;
Whom first by force he conquer'd, then by love
He brought in triumph back the beauteous dame,
With whom her sister, fair Emilia, came.
With honour to his home let Theseus ride,
With Love to friend, and Fortune for his guide,
And his victorious army at his side.

I pass their warlike pomp, their proud array,
Their shouts, their songs, their welcome on the way:
But were it not too long, I would recite
The feats of Amazons, the fatal fight
Betwixt the hardy queen and hero knight;
The town besieged, and how much blood it cost
The female army and the' Athenian host;
The spousals of Hippolita, the queen;
What tilts and tourneys at the feast were seen;
The storm, at their return, the ladies' fear:
But these, and other things, I must forbear.

The field is spacious I design to sow,
With oxen, far unfit to draw the plough:
The remnant of my tale is of a length

To tire your patience, and to waste my strength;
And trivial accidents shall be forborne,

That others may have time to take their turn;
As was at first enjoin'd us by mine host:
That he, whose tale is best and pleases most,
Should win his supper at our common cost.
And therefore, where I left I will pursue
This ancient story, whether false or true,
In hope it may be mended with a new.
The prince I mention'd, full of high renown,
In this array drew near the' Athenian town;
When in his pomp, and utmost of his pride,
Marching, he chanced to cast his eye aside,
And saw a choir of mourning dames, who lay
By two and two across the common way:
At his approach they raised a rueful cry,
And beat their breasts, and held their hands on high,
Creeping, and crying, till they seized at last
His courser's bridle, and his feet embraced.

'Tell me,' said Theseus, what and whence you And why this funeral pageant you prepare? [are, Is this the welcome of my worthy deeds, To meet my triumph in ill-omen'd weeds? Or envy you my praise, and would destroy With grief my pleasures, and pollute my joy? Or are you injured, and demand relief? Name your request, and I will ease your grief.' The most in years of all the mourning train Began, (but swooned first away for pain); Then, scarce recover'd, spoke: Nor envy we The great renown, nor grudge thy victory;