WRITTEN AT KILKENNY,

ON THE THEATRICALS OF THAT CITY.


Amid the ruins of monastic gloom,
Where Nore's meand'ring waters wind along,
Genius and Wealth have rais'd the tasteful dome,
Yet not alone for Fashion's brilliant throng;--

In Virtue's cause they take a noble aim;
'Tis theirs in sweetest harmony to blend
Wit with Compassion, Sympathy with Fame,
Pleasure the means, Beneficence the end[A].

There, if on Beauty's cheek the tear appears
(Form'd by the mournful Muse's mimic sigh),
Fast as it falls, a kindred drop it bears,
More sadly shed from genuine Misery.

Nor, if the laughter-loving Nymph delight,
Does the reviving transport perish there;
Still, still, with Pity's radiance doubly bright,
Its smiles shed sunshine on the cheek of Care.

So, if Pomona's golden fruit descend,
Shook by some breeze, into the lake below,
Quick will the dimple, which it forms, extend,
Till all around the joyous circles flow.