THE COMPLAINT OF NINATHOMA. How long will ye round me be swelling, Nor beneath the cold blast of the tree. Through the high-sounding halls of Cathlóma And they blessed the white-bosomed Maid! A Ghost! by my cavern it darted! When they visit the dreams of my rest! But disturbed by the tempest's commotion To howl through my cavern by night. TO A YOUNG ASS. ITS MOTHER BEING TETHERED NEAR IT. POOR little Foal of an oppressed Race! Meek Child of Misery! thy future fate? To see thy wretched Mother's shortened Chain ? Chained to a Log within a narrow spot, Where the close-eaten Grass is scarcely seen, How askingly its footsteps hither bend, It seems to say, " And have I then one Friend ?" And fain would take thee with me, in the Dell Where Toil shall call the charmer Health his bride, December 1794. TO AN INFANT. АH! cease thy tears and sobs, my little Life! To anger rapid and as soon appeased, O thou that rearest with celestial aim Still let me stretch my arms and cling to thee, IMITATED FROM THE WELSH IF, while my passion I impart, Ah no! reject the thoughtless claim That thrilling touch would aid the flame, DOMESTIC PEACE. TELL me, on what holy ground 1794. LINES WRITTEN AT THE KING'S ARMS, ROSS, FORMERLY THE HOUSE OF THE "MAN OF ROSS." RICHER than Miser o'er his countless hoards, With generous joy he viewed his modest wealth; |