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“OE.L.” (1790)
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312 “Œ.L.” (1790) This poem is another example of the provincial poetry – in this case from Belfast – carried in Irish monthly magazines in the late eighteenth century. This piece appeared in the Universal Magazine and Review or Repository of Literature containing the Literature, History, Manners, Arts and Amusements of the Age for March 1790. Like several other anonymous authors, this poet expresses outrage at human cruelty to animals. The Lamentation of Cara Pluma,1 a Female Pheasant, for the Loss of her Husband and Children. Dedicated to Mr. Robert McCormick, the celebrated Irish Gun-Maker2 Retir’d amidst the fading grove, The muse the widow’d mourner heard, And, mov’d with grief for injur’d love, The tale imparted to the bard. ‘Shall tyrant man alone complain, To lose the partner of his heart? And must I still my grief restrain, And not my keenest woes impart? Ah no! my murder’d partner, no! While love shall warm thy once-lov’d bride, 10 I’ll curse with constant cries the foe That snatch’d thee from my faithful side. And still at sober ev’ning’s dawn, (Of cruel guns no more afraid), I’ll court the copse and walk the lawn, And love the spots where once we’ve stray’d. Probably intended to be translated as ‘beautiful feather’. 1 Advertisements in the Belfast Newsletter indicate that Robert McCormick was carrying 2 on business as a gun-maker in Castle Street, Belfast from 1784 onwards. He left Belfast for Dublin in 1794 and continued his business in Abbey Street. 313 “Œ.L.” How oft have I, beneath the shade, When summer deck’d the Sylvan scene, Thy shining plumage all survey’d, And mark’d the look that call’d me queen. 20 When bless’d with home and children dead, No mortals felt supremer joys.— But joys like these no more shall cheer My heart,—for death the charm destroys. Remembrance brings thee still to view, And still I see thee fond and fair, Some flatt’ring phantom bids pursue, ’Till faint, I sink beneath despair. Now scatter’d wide our children roam, To ’scape the bloody spaniel’s way; 30 The bush-clad bank we call’d our home, The sportsman plunders for his prey. Oh! savage man thy sports restrain, But hark—a shot!—my heart’s alarm’d; Perhaps the son and sire are slain, That son so like his father form’d. ’Tis he!—my husband’s image!—he, My fav’rite son, I hear his cries, The shouting murderers too I see, They seize my child!—Alas! He dies! 40 No more can life afford me joy, My husband and my children slain! If man was form’d thus to destroy, Alas!—why is he call’d humane.’ ...