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Transform not seasons, turn not night tọ day

Yet here the faithful chronicler can boast A fame superior to her pomp or cost;

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MAIDIN BATTANAC SLEARI DUFF GINO BUIDH.

Hearts, where with strange coincidence So sweet is the lip of the maid that I love,

conspires

Scotia's calm prudence with Ierne's fires; A town, where patient industry presides, Where virtue to the fane of honour guides; Where pity opes the willing hand of wealth, Dispensing balm to care, to sickness health; Where poverty is banished from the door, And vagrant idleness dares prowl no more. Thy merit shall have praise-where'er this band,

The children of thy bounty, thro' the

land

Repeat the tones that once our fathers loved, The raptured audience, with strange passion moved,

Will ask, what blessed hand restored those strains,

So nearly lost, to vibrate thro' our plains?
Then will the swell of gratitude arise
In joyous tides to fill their sightless eyes,
While memory, to the voice of nature true,
Exclaim with rapturous sympathy-to you!

The lines marked thus (") were omitted at the representation, through fear of rendering the recitation tedious.

UAL MO CHROIDHE.

THOU dear seducer of my heart, Fond cause of every struggling sigh No more can I conceal love's smart,

No more restrain the ardent eye. What tho' this tongue did never more To tell thee all its master's pain,

Let us meet at the bower beneath the

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There stood a tenament antique,
Lord Hopper-Gollops country-house.
Here silence reign'd, with lips of glue,

And undisturb'd maintains her law, Save when the owl cry'd, whoo, whoo, whoo,

Or the hoarse crow croak'd, caw, caw, caw.

Neglected mansion, for 'tis said, comes feathering

Whene'er the snow down, Four barbed steeds, from the bulls head,

Carry'd thy master up to town;

Weak Hopper Gollop! Lords may moan,
Who stake in London their estate,
On two small rattling bits of bone,

On little figure or on great.
Swift whirl the wheels...he's gone....a Rose
Remains behind whose virgin look,
Unseen, must blush in wintry snows,
Sweet beauteous blossom.. ..'twas the
Cook.

A bolder far, than my weak note,
Maid of the Moor, thy charms demand,
Eels might be proud to lose their coat,
If skian'd by Molly Dumpling's hand.
Long had the fair-one sat alone,

Had none remain'd but only she,
She by herself had been, if one

Had not been left for company.

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Oft would he say...Delve, Delve the hole, And prune the tree, and trim the root, And stick the wig upon the pole

To scare the sparrows from the fruit. A small mute favourite by day,

Follow'd his steps, where'er he wheels,
His barrow round the garden gay,
A bob-tail cur is at his heels.

Ah man! the brute creation see
Thy constancy oft need to spur,

While lessons of fidelity

Are found in every bob-tail cur. Hard toil'd the youth, so fresh and strong, While bob-tail in his face would look, And mark'd his master troll the song, Sweet Molly Dumpling...O thou cook! For thus he sung, while Cupid smil'd,

Pleas'd that the gardener owned bis dart,

Which prun'd his passions, running wild, And grafted true love in his heart.

Maid of the Moor, his love return,

True love ne'er tints the cheek with
shame;

When gard'ners hearts like hot-beds burn,
A cook may surely fan the flame. -
Ah! not averse from love was she,
Tho' pure as heaven's snowy flake,
Both lov'd, and though a gard❜ner he,

He knew not what it was to rakę.
Cold blows the blast...the night's obscure,

The mansion's crazy windows crack, The sun had sunk, and all the moor,

Like ev'ry other moor was black. Alone, pale, trembling, near the fire,

The lovely Molly Dumpling sat, Much did she fear, and much admire,

What Thomas Gardner would be at. List'ning, her hand supports her chin,

But ah no foot is heard to stir;

He comes not from the garden in,

Nor he, nor little bob-tail cur.

They cannot come sweet maid to thee,
Flesh both of cur, and man is grass;
And what's impossible, can't be,

And never, never comes to pass.
She passes thro' the hall antique,

To call her Thomas from his toil;
Opes the huge door : the hinges creak,
Because the hinges wanted oil.

Thrice, on the threshold of the hall,
She...Thomas...cry'd, with many a sob,
And thrice on bob-tail did she call,

Exclaiming sweetly...bob...bob...bob...
Vain maid...a gard'ner's corps 'tis said,
In answers can but ill succeed,
And dogs that hear, when they are dead,
Are very cunning dogs indeed.

Back thro' the hall she bent her way,
And all was solitude around;

The candle shed a feeble ray,

Tho' a large mould of four to the pound.

Full closely to the fire she drew,

Adown her cheek a salt tear stole, When low a coffin out there flew,

And in her apron burnt a hole.

Spiders their busy death-watch tick'd
A certain sign that fate will frown;
The clumsy kitchen clock too click'd,
A certain sign, it was not down.

More strong and strong her terrors rose,
Her shadow did the maid appal,
She trembled at her lovely nose,
It look'd so long against the wall.

Up to her chamber, damp and cold,
She climb'd Lord Hopper-Gollops stair,
Three stories high, long, dull, and old,
As great Lords stories often are.

All nature now appeared to pause,
And o'er the one half world seem'd dead,
No curtain'd sleep had she, because,

She had no curtains to her bed.

Listening she lay...with iron din,

The clock struck twelve...the door flew wide,

When Thomas grimly glided in,

With little bob-tail by his side.

Tall, like the poplar, was his size,
Green, green his waistcoat was as leeks,
Red, red as beet root, were his eyes,

And pale as turnips were his cheeks.

Soon as the spectre she espy'd,

The fear-struck damsel, faintly, said,
What would my Thomas? he reply'd,
O Molly Dumpling, I am dead.

All in the flower of youth, I fell,
Cut off with healthful blossom crown'd,
I was not ill, but in a well,

I tumbled backward...and was drown'd.

Four fathom deep thy love doth lie, His faithful dog his fate did share; We're Fiends...this is not he and I,

We are not here, for we are there.

Yes...two foul water-fiends are we

Maid of the moor, attend us now, Thy hour's at hand...we come for thee... The little fiend cur said...bow...wow.

To wind her in her cold, cold grave,
A Holland sheet a maiden likes,
A sheet of Water thou shalt have,

Such sheets there are in Holland dykes.

The Fiends approach...the maid did shrink, Swift thro' the night's foul air they spin, They took her to the green well's brink,

And with a souse they plunged her in.

So true the fair...so true the youth,

Maids to this day their story tell, And hence the proverb rose, that truth Lies in the bottom of a well.

THE AFFECTIONATE HEART.
BY JOSEPH COTTLE.

LET the great man, his treasures possessing,

Pomp and splendour for ever attend : I prize not the shadowy blessing, I ask...the affectionate friend. 'Tho' foibles may sometimes o'ertake him, His footsteps from wisdom départ; Yet, my spirit shall never forsake him, If he own the affectionate heart. Affection! thou soother of care,

Without thee unfriended we rove; Thou canst make e'en the desert look fair, And thy voice is the voice of the dove. 'Mid the anguish that preys on the breast, And the storms of mortality's state; What shall lull the afflicted to rest,

But the joys that on sympathy wait? What is fame, bidding envy defiance,

The idol and banè of mankind; What is wit, what is learning, or science, To the heart that is stedfast and kind?

E en genius may weary the sight,

By too fierce and too constant à blaze; But affection, mild planet of night!

Grows lov'lier the longer we gaze.
It shall thrive when the flattering forms,
That encircle creation, decay;

It shall live 'mid the wide-wasting storms,
That beat all undistinguish'd away.

When time, at the end of his race,

Shall expire with expiring mankind;
It shall stand on its permanent base;
It shall last till the wreck of the mind.

A POET AND A RATRON.
TO CARDINAL RICHLIEU, FROM THE FRENCH
OF MONS. MAYNARD.

Sick of a life, possess'd in vain,
I soon shall wait upon the ghost
Of our late Monarch, in whose reign,
None who had merit miss'd a post.

Then will I charm him with your name,

And all your glorious wonders done, The pow'r of France...the Spaniards shame, The rising honours of his son:

Grateful the royal shade will smile,

And dwell, delighted, on your name, Sweetly appeas'd, his griefs beguile, And drown old losses in new fame.

But when he asks me, in what post,

I did your wish'd commands obey, And how I shar'd your favour most, ...What would you please to have me say?

Richlieu reading the last line answered ries--nothing.

THE ROBIN RED-BREAST AND THE CAT.

ONE morn, when snows bestrew'd the ground,

And frøst each pool in fetters bound,
A Robin pinch'd, thro' hungers power,
Made free t'approach a farmer's door,
Nor bolts, nor bars his entrance stop'd;
The door was open...in he hop'd...
He star'd around with vast surprise,
The scene was new to Robin's eyes.
He duck'd his head as who should say,
God bless folks! this frosty day;
Now bolder grown, he hopp'd around,
And pick'd the crumbs from off the ground,
His little crop soon fill'd with meat
Kind Jenny crumbled as he eat.

you,

"Blest chance to lead me (Robin said) To where I'm warm'd, to where I'm fed, May ne'er mischance this house molest, And may that kind be doubly blest, May pains, and sickness cease t'intrude,"

Then chirp'd a song of gratitude.

Grimalkin heard the tempting air, And sly crept from beneath a chair; He lick'd his whiskers, fixed his eyes, And sprung upon his flutt'ring prize.

Ah me...ah me, what woes betide, Spare...spare my life, poor Robin cry'd, Shew mercy as thou'dst mercy find, I ne'er harm'd Cat or Kitten kind. Let man's example be thy guide.

Fool, so it is...the cat reply'd,

Look round, and thou shalt view each day,
Man making man his eager prey.
The helpless, harmless, rest assur'd,
Ne'er fail, like thee, to be devour'd.

Thus spoke the Cat, with visage grim, Then tore the trembler limb from limb. EWAN CLARK

UNION OF E. AND I. THUS to the orient fun'ral pyre, Perfum'd, and deck'd in gay attire, The victim fair is urg'd along, Amidst the plaudits of the throng, By custom doom'd, she yields her charms, To her dead husband's putrid arms, Aspiring flames invote the pair, And Ganges flashes with the glare, Shrill cymbals clang...loud shouts arise, And she, in seeming triumph, dies.

FOREIGN LITERATURE.

REPORT OF THE PROCEEDINGS OF THE CLASS OF HISTORY AND ANCIENT LITERATURE OF THE FRENCH INSTITUTE, DELIVERED AT THE PUBLIC MEETING, ON THE 5TH OF JULY, 1810, BY MONS. GINGUENE.

from the era of Nabonassar, or 747 before Christ: but how far back must. we place the first? The Babylonians, according to Cicero, pretended they possessed some 470000 years old the Chaldeans, according to

WE have to commence our report Diodorus Siculus, had some 473000

with an extensive and elaborate work by Mons. Larcher, the father of the class, and one of the oldest cultivators of Grecian literature in Europe, on the astronomical observations said to be sent from Babylon to Aris. totle, by Callisthenes. Mons. L. avows, that astronomical observations are of great antiquity; and that there some, which incontestably date

are

BELFAST MAG. NO. XXIV.

years before the expedition of Alexander; and Jamblichus carries back those of the Babylonians to 720000 years. But Cicero calls the Babylonians vain, ignorant, and liars; Diodorus gives no credit to the Chaldeans, whom he quotes; and in Jamblichus himself we have little faith. Simplicius says, that Callisthenes, a pupil of Aristotle, who accompanied Alex

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ander in his expedition against the Persians, sent to Greece, at his master's request, some astronomical observations, which were said to be preserved at Babylon imprinted on bricks. Porphyry, who quotes Simplicius, dates these observations from the year 1903 before the death of Alexander, or 2227 before our era, 101 after the flood, and 120 before the foundation of the kingdom of Assyria, according to Ctesias. But all these assertions are contrary to probability, and Mons. L. brings forward very weighty arguments to prove -1st. That the fact of Calisthenes having sent any astronomical observations to Aristotle is very questionable; but if he did, they could not be older than the era of Nabonassar.-2dly. That the Greek astronomers prior to Ptolemy were so far from knowing any observations prior to that era, that they were even unacquainted with that era itself.-3dly. That Ptolemy is the first writer who mentions this era, and that he knew none older In a digression, Mons. L. defends his opi. nion respecting the era of Nabonassar; and he finds some opportunities of correcting Cassini, Lalande, and Pingrè.

Another grand work relative to ancient literature, is an Inquiry into the Topography of the Plain of Argos, by Mons. Barbie du Boccage. In this the author has entered into an elaborate examination of what has been said by ancient writers, and compared it with the accounts of modern travellers, which has enabled him to correct some mistakes of Danville and others.

Mons. Gail has endeavoured to correct some erroneous notions respecting Alcibiades, Nicias, Pericles, and Socrates. Mons. G. has particularly examined the Banquet of Xenophon, which, he says, has been misunderstood both by ancients and moderns.

According to him it is ironical, and in fact a comedy, in which there are many passages not unworthy of Moliere, containing a delicate satire on the sophists, and even on Plato himself

In another paper, Mons. G. gives a description of the Pirxus, as it was according to Thucydides under the dominion of the 400; and then endeavours to shew, that the stoa of these 400 was different from the long stoa, of which Pausanias, Demosthenes and others speak.

In some observations on the expedition of the Athenians against Sicily, and on the naval engagement between the Athenians and Lacedæmonians in the Hellespont, Mons. G. discusses certain points in ancient geography. Danville appears to have assigned a wrong position to Idaeus; and cape Cynossema, where was the tomb of Hecuba, must have been be tween it and Arrhiana, the name of a town, not of a nation.

The last paper, by Mons. G. offers conjectures on the chariot-race, in which Sophocles supposes Orestes to have been killed. This subject had been treated by Mons. Choiseul-Gouffier, who maintains that only five chariots started at once; and he quotes the text of Sophocles in support of this opinion. Sophocles however names ten competitors, and Mons. Gail endeavours to prove from the same text, that they all started at once. Mons. G. also gives a new translation of the epithet Esgos applied to one of the horses. It had been commonly understood as distinguishing a horse drawing by traces only from one in shafts; but Monɛ. G. considers it as intended merely to imply the looseness of the traces of the near horse in turning the goal. while those of the off-horse were on the stretch.

Mons. Dupont de Nemours has

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