O deign once more t' exert thy power!

Haply some herb or tree,

Sovereign as juice of western flower,
Conceals a balm for me.

I ask no kind return of love,

No tempting charm to please;
Far from the heart those gifts remove,
That sighs for peace and ease:

Nor peace, nor ease, the heart can know,
That, like the needle true,
Turns at the touch of joy or woe,
But turning, trembles too.

Far as distress the soul can wound,

'Tis pain in each degree:

"Tis bliss but to a certain bound,

Beyond, is agony.

Then take this treacherous sense of mine,

Which dooms me still to smart;

Which pleasure can to pain refine,
To pain new pangs impart.

O haste to shed the sovereign balm,
My shatter'd nerves new string;

And for my guest serenely calm,
The nymph Indifference bring!

At her approach, see Hope, see Fear,
See Expectation fly!

And Disappointment in the rear,
That blasts the promis'd joy!

The tear which Pity taught to flow,
The eye shall then disown;
The heart that melts for others' woe,
Shall then scarce feel its own ;

The wounds which now each moment bleed,
Each moment then shall close;
And tranquil days shall still succeed
To nights of calm repose.

O Fairy Elf! but grant me this,

This one kind comfort send,

And so may never-fading bliss
Thy flowery paths attend!

So may the glow-worm's glimmering light

Thy tiny footsteps lead

To some new region of delight,

Unknown to mortal tread!

And be thy acorn goblet fill'd

With heaven's ambrosial dew,

From sweetest, freshest flowers distill'd,
That shed fresh sweets for you!

And what of life remains for me,
I'll pass in sober ease;
Half-pleas'd, contented will I be,
Content but half to please.*

The Fairy's Answer to Mrs. Greville, sometimes printed with the above beautiful poem, was written by Isabella, Countess of Carlisle; who died in 1795.

HENRIETTA, LADY ONEIL,

Born 1758, died 1793,

The only daughter of Charles, Viscount Dungarvon, and wife of John Oneil, Esq. of Slanes Castle, in the county of Antrim, who was afterwards created an Irish peer.* The two following beautiful compositions have been preserved in the works of her friend Charlotte Smith.

Ode to the Poppy.

(First printed in Smith's Desmond.)

NoT for the promise of the labour'd field,
Not for the good the yellow harvests yield,
I bend at Ceres' shrine;

For dull to humid eyes appear

The golden glories of the year;

Alas! a melancholy worship's mine:

I hail the goddess for her scarlet flower!

Thou brilliant weed,

That dost so far exceed

Not, however, till about two months after the death of his wife.

The richest gifts gay Flora can bestow, Heedless I pass'd thee in life's morning hour, Thou comforter of woe,

Till sorrow taught me to confess thy power.

In early days, when Fancy cheats,
A varied wreath I wove,

Of laughing Spring's luxuriant sweets,
To deck ungrateful Love:

The rose, or thorn, my labours crown'd,
As Venus smil'd, or Venus frown'd,

But Love and Joy and all their train are flown;
E'en languid Hope no more is mine,

And I will sing of thee alone;

Unless perchance the attributes of Grief,
The cypress bud and willow leaf,

Their pale funereal foliage blend with thine.

Hail, lovely blossom! thou canst ease

The wretched victims of Disease;
Canst close those weary eyes in gentle sleep,

Which never open but to weep;

For oh! thy potent charm

Can agonizing Pain disarm;

Expel imperious Memory from her seat,

And bid the throbbing heart forget to beat.