My gentle harp, once more I wakenThe sweetness of thy slumbering strain;In tears our last farewell was taken,And now in tears we meet again.No light of joy hath o'er thee broken,But, like those Harps whose heavenly skillOf slavery, dark as thine, hath spoken,Thou hang'st upon the willows still.
And yet, since last thy chord resounded,An hour of peace and triumph came,And many an ardent bosom boundedWith hopes—that now art turned to shame.Yet even then, while Peace was singingHer halcyon song o'er land and sea,Tho' joy and hope to others bringing,She only brought new tears to thee.
Then, who can ask for notes of pleasure,My drooping Harp, from chords like thine?Alas, the lark's gay morning measureAs ill would suit the swan's decline!Or how shall I, who love, who bless thee,Invoke thy breath for Freedom's strains,When even the wreaths in which I dress thee,Are sadly mixt—half flowers, half chains?
But come—if yet thy frame can borrowOne breath of joy, oh, breathe for me,And show the world, in chains and sorrow,How sweet thy music still can be;How gaily, even mid gloom surrounding,Thou yet canst wake at pleasure's thrill—Like Memnon's broken image sounding,Mid desolation tuneful still!
In the morning of life, when its cares are unknown,And its pleasures in all their new lustre begin,When we live in a bright-beaming world of our own,And the light that surrounds us is all from within;Oh 'tis not, believe me, in that happy timeWe can love, as in hours of less transport we may;—Of our smiles, of our hopes, 'tis the gay sunny prime,But affection is truest when these fade away.
When we see the first glory of youth pass us by,Like a leaf on the stream that will never return;When our cup, which had sparkled with pleasure so high,First tastes of theother, the dark-flowing urn;Then, then is the time when affection holds swayWith a depth and a tenderness joy never knew;Love, nursed among pleasures, is faithless as they,But the love born of Sorrow, like Sorrow, is true.
In climes full of sunshine, tho' splendid the flowers,Their sighs have no freshness, their odor no worth;'Tis the cloud and the mist of our own Isle of showers,That call the rich spirit of fragrancy forth.So it is not mid splendor, prosperity, mirth,That the depth of Love's generous spirit appears;To the sunshine of smiles it may first owe its birth,But the soul of its sweetness is drawn out by tears.
As slow our ship her foamy trackAgainst the wind was cleaving,Her trembling pennant still looked backTo that dear isle 'twas leaving.So loathe we part from all we love.From all the links that bind us;So turn our hearts as on we rove,To those we've left behind us.
When, round the bowl, of vanished yearsWe talk, with joyous seeming,—With smiles that might as well be tears,So faint, so sad their beaming;While memory brings us back againEach early tie that twined us,Oh, sweet's the cup that circles thenTo those we've left behind us.
And when, in other climes, we meetSome isle, or vale enchanting,Where all looks flowery, wild, and sweet,And naught but love is wanting;We think how great had been our bliss,If heaven had but assigned usTo live and die in scenes like this,With some we've left behind us!
As travellers oft look back at eve,When eastward darkly going,To gaze upon that light they leaveStill faint behind them glowing,—So, when the close of pleasure's dayTo gloom hath near consigned us,We turn to catch one fading rayOf joy that's left behind us.
When cold in the earth lies the friend thou hast loved,Be his faults and his follies forgot by thee then;Or, if from their slumber the veil be removed,Weep o'er them in silence, and close it again.And oh! if 'tis pain to remember how farFrom the pathways of light he was tempted to roam,Be it bliss to remember that thou wert the starThat arose on his darkness and guided him home.
From thee and thy innocent beauty first cameThe revealings, that taught him true love to adore,To feel the bright presence, and turn him with shameFrom the idols he blindly had knelt to before.O'er the waves of a life, long benighted and wild,Thou camest, like a soft golden calm o'er the sea;And if happiness purely and glowingly smiledOn his evening horizon, the light was from thee.
And tho', sometimes, the shades of past folly might rise,And tho' falsehood again would allure him to stray,He but turned to the glory that dwelt in those eyes,And the folly, the falsehood, soon vanished away.As the Priests of the Sun, when their altar grew dim,At the day-beam alone could its lustre repair,So, if virtue a moment grew languid in him,He but flew to that smile and rekindled it there.
Remember thee? yes, while there's life in this heart,It shall never forget thee, all lorn as thou art;More dear in thy sorrow, thy gloom, and thy showers,Than the rest of the world in their sunniest hours.
Wert thou all that I wish thee, great, glorious, and free,First flower of the earth, and first gem of the sea,I might hail thee with prouder, with happier brow,But oh! could I love thee more deeply than now?
No, thy chains as they rankle, thy blood as it runs,But make thee more painfully dear to thy sons—Whose hearts, like the young of the desert-bird's nest,Drink love in each life-drop that flows from thy breast.
Wreath the bowlWith flowers of soul,The brightest wit can find us;We'll take a flightTowards heaven to-night,And leave dull earth behind us.Should Love amidThe wreaths be hid,That joy, the enchanter, brings us,No danger fear,While wine is near,We'll drown him if he stings us,Then, wreath the bowlWith flowers of soul,The brightest wit can find us;We'll take a flightTowards heaven to-night,And leave dull earth behind us.
'Twas nectar fedOf old, 'tis said,Their Junos, Joves, Apollos;And man may brewHis nectar too,The rich receipt's as follows:Take wine like this,Let looks of blissAround it well be blended,Then bring wit's beamTo warm the stream,And there's your nectar, splendid!So wreath the bowlWith flowers of soul,The brightest wit can find us;We'll take a flightTowards heaven to-night,And leave dull earth behind us.
Say, why did TimeHis glass sublimeFill up with sands unsightly,When wine, he knew,Runs brisker through,And sparkles far more brightly?Oh, lend it us,And, smiling thus,The glass in two we'll sever,Make pleasure glideIn double tide,And fill both ends for ever!Then wreath the bowlWith flowers of soulThe brightest wit can find us;We'll take a flightTowards heaven to-night,And leave dull earth behind us.
Whene'er I see those smiling eyes,So full of hope, and joy, and light,As if no cloud could ever rise,To dim a heaven so purely bright—I sigh to think how soon that browIn grief may lose its every ray,And that light heart, so joyous now,Almost forget it once was gay.
For time will come with all its blights,The ruined hope, the friend unkind,And love, that leaves, where'er it lights,A chilled or burning heart behind:—While youth, that now like snow appears,Ere sullied by the darkening rain,When once 'tis touched by sorrow's tearsCan ever shine so bright again.
If thou'lt be mine, the treasures of air,Of earth, and sea, shall lie at thy feet;Whatever in Fancy's eye looks fair,Or in Hope's sweet music soundsmostsweet,Shall be ours—if thou wilt be mine, love!
Bright flowers shall bloom wherever we rove,A voice divine shall talk in each stream;The stars shall look like worlds of love,And this earth be all one beautiful dreamIn our eyes—if thou wilt be mine, love!
And thoughts, whose source is hidden and high,Like streams, that come from heavenward hills,Shall keep our hearts, like meads, that lieTo be bathed by those eternal rills,Ever green, if thou wilt be mine, love!
All this and more the Spirit of LoveCan breathe o'er them, who feel his spells;That heaven, which forms his home above,He can make on earth, wherever he dwells,As thou'lt own.—if thou wilt be mine, love!
To Ladies' eyes around, boy,We can't refuse, we can't refuse,Tho' bright eyes so abound, boy,'Tis hard to choose, 'tis hard to choose.For thick as stars that lightenYon airy bowers, yon airy bowers,The countless eyes that brightenThis earth of ours, this earth of ours.But fill the cup—where'er, boy,Our choice may fall, our choice may fall,We're sure to find Love there, boy,So drink them all! so drink them all!
Some looks there are so holy,They seem but given, they seem but given,As shining beacons, solely,To light to heaven, to light to heaven.While some—oh! ne'er believe them—With tempting ray, with tempting ray,Would lead us (God forgive them!)The other way, the other way.But fill the cup—where'er, boy,Our choice may fall, our choice may fall,We're sure to find Love there, boy,So drink them all! so drink them all!
In some, as in a mirror,Love seems portrayed, Love seems portrayed,But shun the flattering error,'Tis but his shade, 'tis but his shade.Himself has fixt his dwellingIn eyes we know, in eyes we know,And lips—but this is telling—So here they go! so here they go!Fill up, fill up—where'er, boy,Our choice may fall, our choice may fall,We're sure to find Love there, boy,So drink them all! so drink them all!
Forget not the field where they perished,The truest, the last of the brave,All gone—and the bright hope we cherishedGone with them, and quenched in their grave!
Oh! could we from death but recoverThose hearts as they bounded before,In the face of high heaven to fight overThat combat for freedom once more;—
Could the chain for an instant be rivenWhich Tyranny flung round us then,No, 'tis not in Man, nor in Heaven,To let Tyranny bind it again!
But 'tis past—and, tho' blazoned in storyThe name of our Victor may be,Accurst is the march of that gloryWhich treads o'er the hearts of the free.
Far dearer the grave or the prison,Illumed by one patriot name,Than the trophies of all, who have risenOn Liberty's ruins to fame.
They may rail at this life—from the hour I began it,I found it a life full of kindness and bliss;And, until they can show me some happier planet,More social and bright, I'll content me with this.As long as the world has such lips and such eyes,As before me this moment enraptured I see,They may say what they will of their orbs in the skies,But this earth is the planet for you, love, and me.
In Mercury's star, where each moment can bring themNew sunshine and wit from the fountain on high,Tho' the nymphs may have livelier poets to sing them,They've none, even there, more enamored than I.And as long as this harp can be wakened to love,And that eye its divine inspiration shall be,They may talk as they will of their Edens above,But this earth is the planet for you, love, and me.
In that star of the west, by whose shadowy splendor,At twilight so often we've roamed thro' the dew,There are maidens, perhaps, who have bosoms as tender,And look, in their twilights, as lovely as you.But tho' they were even more bright than the queenOf that isle they inhabit in heaven's blue sea,As I never those fair young celestials have seen,Why—this earth is the planet for you, love, and me.
As for those chilly orbs on the verge of creation,Where sunshine and smiles must be equally rare,Did they want a supply of cold hearts for that station,Heaven knows we have plenty on earth we could spare,Oh! think what a world we should have of it here,If the haters of peace, of affection and glee,Were to fly up to Saturn's comfortless sphere,And leave earth to such spirits as you, love, and me.
Oh for the swords of former time!Oh for the men who bore them,When armed for Right, they stood sublime,And tyrants crouched before them:When free yet, ere courts beganWith honors to enslave him,The best honors worn by ManWere those which Virtue gave him.Oh for the swords, etc.
Oh for the kings who flourished then!Oh for the pomp that crowned them,When hearts and hands of freeborn menWere all the ramparts round them.When, safe built on bosoms true,The throne was but the centre,Round which Love a circle drew,That Treason durst not enter.Oh for the kings who flourished then!Oh for the pomp that crowned them,When hearts and hands of freeborn menWere all the ramparts round them!
"Oh! haste and leave this sacred isle,Unholy bark, ere morning smile;For on thy deck, though dark it be,A female form I see;And I have sworn this sainted sodShall ne'er by woman's feet be trod."
"Oh! Father, send not hence my bark,Thro' wintry winds and billows dark:I come with humble heart to shareThy morn and evening prayer;Nor mine the feet, oh! holy Saint,The brightness of thy sod to taint."
The Lady's prayer Senanus spurned;The winds blew fresh, the bark returned;But legends hint, that had the maidTill morning's light delayed,And given the saint one rosy smile,She ne'er had left his lonely isle.
[1] In a metrical life of St. Senanus, which is taken from an old Kilkenny MS., and may be found among the "Acta Sanctorum Hiberniae," we are told of his flight to the island of Scattery, and his resolution not to admit any woman of the party; he refused to receive even a sister saint, St. Cannera, whom an angel had taken to the island for the express purpose of introducing her to him.
Ne'er ask the hour—what is it to usHow Time deals out his treasures?The golden moments lent us thus,Are nothiscoin, but Pleasure's.If counting them o'er could add to their blisses,I'd number each glorious second:But moments of joy are, like Lesbia's kisses,Too quick and sweet to be reckoned.Then fill the cup—what is it to usHow time his circle measures?The fairy hours we call up thus,Obey no wand but Pleasure's.
Young Joy ne'er thought of counting hours,Till Care, one summer's morning,Set up, among his smiling flowers,A dial, by way of warning.But Joy loved better to gaze on the sun,As long as its light was glowing,Than to watch with old Care how the shadows stole on,And how fast that light was going.So fill the cup—what is it to usHow Time his circle measures?The fairy hours we call up thus,Obey no wand but Pleasure's.
Sail on, sail on, thou fearless bark—Wherever blows the welcome wind,It cannot lead to scenes more dark,More sad than those we leave behind.Each wave that passes seems to say,"Tho' death beneath our smile may be,Less cold we are, less false than they,Whose smiling wrecked thy hopes and thee."Sail on, sail on,—thro' endless space—Thro' calm—thro' tempest—stop no more:The stormiest sea's a resting placeTo him who leaves such hearts on shore.Or—if some desert land we meet,Where never yet false-hearted menProfaned a world, that else were sweet,—Then rest thee, bark, but not till then.
Yes, sad one of Sion,[1] if closely resembling,In shame and in sorrow, thy withered-up heart—If drinking deep, deep, of the same "cup of trembling"Could make us thy children, our parent thou art,
Like thee doth our nation lie conquered and broken,And fallen from her head is the once royal crown;In her streets, in her halls, Desolation hath spoken,And "while it is day yet, her sun hath gone down."[2]
Like thine doth her exile, mid dreams of returning,Die far from the home it were life to behold;Like thine do her sons, in the day of their mourning,Remember the bright things that blest them of old.
Ah, well may we call her, like thee "the Forsaken,"[3]Her boldest are vanquished, her proudest are slaves;And the harps of her minstrels, when gayest they waken,Have tones mid their mirth like the wind over graves!
Yet hadst thou thy vengeance—yet came there the morrow,That shines out, at last, on the longest dark night,When the sceptre, that smote thee with slavery and sorrow,Was shivered at once, like a reed, in thy sight.
When that cup, which for others the proud Golden City[4]Had brimmed full of bitterness, drenched her own lips;And the world she had trampled on heard, without pity,The howl in her halls, and the cry from her ships.
When the curse Heaven keeps for the haughty came overHer merchants rapacious, her rulers unjust,And, a ruin, at last, for the earthworm to cover,[5]The Lady of Kingdoms[6] lay low in the dust.
[1] These verses were written after the perusal of a treatise by Mr. Hamilton, professing to prove that the Irish were originally Jews.
[2] 1 "Her sun is gone down while it was yet day."—Jer. xv. 9.
[3] "Thou shalt no more be termed Forsaken."—Isaiah, lxii. 4.
[4] "How hath the oppressor ceased! the golden city ceased!"—Isaiah, xiv. 4.
[5] "Thy pomp is brought down to the grave . . . and the worms cover thee."—Isaiah, xiv. 11.
[6] "Thou shalt no more be called the Lady of Kingdoms."—Isaiah, xlvil. 5.
Drink of this cup;—you'll find there's a spell inIts every drop 'gainst the ills of mortality;Talk of the cordial that sparkled for Helen!Her cup was a fiction, but this is reality.Would you forget the dark world we are in,Just taste of the bubble that gleams on the top of it;But would you rise above earth, till akinTo Immortals themselves, you must drain every drop of it;Send round the cup—for oh there's a spell inIts every drop 'gainst the ills of mortality;Talk of the cordial that sparkled for Helen!Her cup was a fiction, but this is reality.
Never was philter formed with such powerTo charm and bewilder as this we are quaffing;Its magic began when, in Autumn's rich hour,A harvest of gold in the fields it stood laughing.There having, by Nature's enchantment, been filledWith the balm and the bloom of her kindliest weather,This wonderful juice from its core was distilledTo enliven such hearts as are here brought together.Then drink of the cup—you'll find there's a spell inIts every drop 'gainst the ills of mortality;Talk of the cordial that sparkled for Helen!Her cup was a fiction, but this is reality.
And tho' perhaps—but breathe it to no one—Like liquor the witch brews at midnight so awful,This philter in secret was first taught to flow on,Yet 'tisn't less potent for being unlawful.And, even tho' it taste of the smoke of that flame,Which in silence extracted its virtue forbidden—Fill up—there's a fire in some hearts I could name,Which may work too its charm, tho' as lawless and hidden.So drink of the cup—for oh there's a spell inIts every drop 'gainst the ills of mortality;Talk of the cordial that sparkled for Helen!Her cup was a fiction, but this is reality.
Down in the valley come meet me to-night,And I'll tell you your fortune trulyAs ever 'twas told, by the new-moon's light,To a young maiden, shining as newly.
But, for the world, let no one be nigh,Lest haply the stars should deceive me;Such secrets between you and me and the skyShould never go farther, believe me.
If at that hour the heavens be not dim,My science shall call up before youA male apparition,—the image of himWhose destiny 'tis to adore you.
And if to that phantom you'll be kind,So fondly around you he'll hover,You'll hardly, my dear, any difference find'Twixt him and a true living lover.
Down at your feet, in the pale moonlight,He'll kneel, with a warmth of devotion—An ardor, of which such an innocent spriteYou'd scarcely believe had a notion.
What other thoughts and events may arise,As in destiny's book I've not seen them,Must only be left to the stars and your eyesTo settle, ere morning, between them.
Oh, ye Dead! oh, ye Dead![1] whom we know by the light you giveFrom your cold gleaming eyes, tho' you move like men who live,Why leave you thus your graves,In far off fields and waves,Where the worm and the sea-bird only know your bed,To haunt this spot where allThose eyes that wept your fall,And the hearts that wailed you, like your own, lie dead?
It is true, it is true, we are shadows cold and wan;And the fair and the brave whom we loved on earth are gone;But still thus even in death,So sweet the living breathOf the fields and the flowers in our youth we wander'd o'er,That ere, condemned, we goTo freeze mid Hecla's snow,We would taste it awhile, and think we live once more!
[1] Paul Zealand mentions that there is a mountain in some part of Ireland, where the ghosts of persons who have died in foreign lands walk about and converse with those they meet, like living people. If asked why they do not return to their homes, they say they are obliged to go to Mount Hecla, and disappear immediately.
Of all the fair months, that round the sunIn light-linked dance their circles run,Sweet May, shine thou for me;For still, when thy earliest beams arise,That youth, who beneath the blue lake lies,Sweet May, returns to me.
Of all the bright haunts, where daylight leavesIts lingering smile on golden eyes,Fair Lake, thou'rt dearest to me;For when the last April sun grows dim,Thy Naïads prepare his steed[1] for himWho dwells, bright Lake, in thee.
Of all the proud steeds, that ever boreYoung plumed Chiefs on sea or shore,White Steed, most joy to thee;Who still, with the first young glance of spring,From under that glorious lake dost bringMy love, my chief, to me.
While, white as the sail some bark unfurls,When newly launched, thy long mane[2] curls,Fair Steed, as white and free;And spirits, from all the lake's deep bowers,Glide o'er the blue wave scattering flowers,Around my love and thee.
Of all the sweet deaths that maidens die,Whose lovers beneath the cold wave lie,Most sweet that death will be,Which, under the next May evening's light,When thou and thy steed are lost to sight,Dear love, I'll die for thee.
[1] The particulars of the tradition respecting Donohue and his White Horse, may be found in Mr. Weld's Account of Killarney, or more fully detailed in Derrick's Letters. For many years after his death, the spirit of this hero is supposed to have been seen on the morning of Mayday, gliding over the lake on his favorite white horse to the sound of sweet unearthly music, and preceded by groups of youths and maidens, who flung wreaths of delicate spring flowers in his path.
[2] The boatmen at Killarney call those waves which come on a windy day, crested with foam, "O'Donohue's White Horses."
How sweet the answer Echo makesTo music at night,When, roused by lute or horn, she wakes,And far away, o'er lawns and lakes,Goes answering light.
Yet Love hath echoes truer far,And far more sweet,Than e'er beneath the moonlight star,Of horn or lute, or soft guitar,The songs repeat.
'Tis when the sigh, in youth sincere,And only then,—The sigh that's breath'd for one to hear,Is by that one, that only dear,Breathed back again!
Oh banquet not in those shining bowers,Where Youth resorts, but come to me:For mine's a garden of faded flowers,More fit for sorrow, for age, and thee.And there we shall have our feast of tears,And many a cup in silence pour;Our guests, the shades of former years,Our toasts to lips that bloom no more.
There, while the myrtle's withering boughsTheir lifeless leaves around us shed,We'll brim the bowl to broken vows,To friends long lost, the changed, the dead.Or, while some blighted laurel wavesIts branches o'er the dreary spot,We'll drink to those neglected graves,Where valor sleeps, unnamed, forgot.
The dawning of morn, the daylight's sinking,The night's long hours still find me thinkingOf thee, thee, only thee.When friends are met, and goblets crowned,And smiles are near, that once enchanted,Unreached by all that sunshine round,My soul, like some dark spot, is hauntedBy thee, thee, only thee.
Whatever in fame's high path could wakenMy spirit once, is now forsakenFor thee, thee, only thee.Like shores, by which some headlong barkTo the ocean hurries, resting never,Life's scenes go by me, bright or dark,I know not, heed not, hastening everTo thee, thee, only thee.
I have not a joy but of thy bringing,And pain itself seems sweet when springingFrom thee, thee, only thee.Like spells, that naught on earth can break,Till lips, that know the charm, have spoken,This heart, howe'er the world may wakeIts grief, its scorn, can but be brokenBy thee, thee, only thee.
Shall the Harp then be silent, when he who first gaveTo our country a name, is withdrawn from all eyes?Shall a Minstrel of Erin stand mute by the grave,Where the first—where the last of her Patriots lies?
No—faint tho' the death-song may fall from his lips,Tho' his Harp, like his soul, may with shadows be crost,Yet, yet shall it sound, mid a nation's eclipse,And proclaim to the world what a star hath been lost;—[1]
What a union of all the affections and powersBy which life is exalted, embellished, refined,Was embraced in that spirit—whose centre was ours,While its mighty circumference circled mankind.
Oh, who that loves Erin, or who that can see,Thro' the waste of her annals, that epoch sublime—Like a pyramid raised in the desert—where heAnd his glory stand out to the eyes of all time;
Thatonelucid interval, snatched from the gloomAnd the madness of ages, when filled with his soul,A Nation o'erleaped the dark bounds of her doom,And foronesacred instant, touched Liberty's goal?
Who, that ever hath heard him—hath drank at the sourceOf that wonderful eloquence, all Erin's own,In whose high-thoughted daring, the fire, and the force,And the yet untamed spring of her spirit are shown?
An eloquence rich, wheresoever its waveWandered free and triumphant, with thoughts that shone thro',As clear as the brook's "stone of lustre," and gave,With the flash of the gem, its solidity too.
Who, that ever approached him, when free from the crowd,In a home full of love, he delighted to tread'Mong the trees which a nation had given, and which bowed,As if each brought a new civic crown for his head—
Is there one, who hath thus, thro' his orbit of lifeBut at distance observed him—thro' glory, thro' blame,In the calm of retreat, in the grandeur of strife,Whether shining or clouded, still high and the same,—
Oh no, not a heart, that e'er knew him, but mournsDeep, deep o'er the grave, where such glory is shrined—O'er a monument Fame will preserve, 'mong the urnsOf the wisest, the bravest, the best of mankind!
[1] These lines were written on the death of our great patriot, Grattan, in the year 1820. It is only the two first verses that are either intended or fitted to be sung.
Oh, the sight entrancing,When morning's beam is glancing,O'er files arrayedWith helm and blade,And plumes, in the gay wind dancing!When hearts are all high beating,And the trumpet's voice repeatingThat song, whose breathMay lead to death,But never to retreating.Oh the sight entrancing,When morning's beam is glancingO'er files arrayedWith helm and blade,And plumes, in the gay wind dancing.
Yet, 'tis not helm or feather—For ask yon despot, whetherHis plumed bandsCould bring such handsAnd hearts as ours together.Leave pomps to those who need 'em—Give man but heart and freedom,And proud he bravesThe gaudiest slavesThat crawl where monarchs lead 'em.The sword may pierce the beaver,Stone walls in time may sever,'Tis mind alone,Worth steel and stone,That keeps men free for ever.Oh that sight entrancing,When the morning's beam is glancing,O'er files arrayedWith helm and blade,And in Freedom's cause advancing!
Sweet Innisfallen, fare thee well,May calm and sunshine long be thine!How fair thou art let others tell,—Tofeelhow fair shall long be mine.
Sweet Innisfallen, long shall dwellIn memory's dream that sunny smile,Which o'er thee on that evening fell,When first I saw thy fairy isle.
'Twas light, indeed, too blest for one,Who had to turn to paths of care—Through crowded haunts again to run,And leave thee bright and silent there;
No more unto thy shores to come,But, on the world's rude ocean tost,Dream of thee sometimes, as a homeOf sunshine he had seen and lost.
Far better in thy weeping hoursTo part from thee, as I do now,When mist is o'er thy blooming bowers,Like sorrow's veil on beauty's brow.
For, though unrivalled still thy grace,Thou dost not look, as then,tooblest,But thus in shadow, seem'st a placeWhere erring man might hope to rest—
Might hope to rest, and find in theeA gloom like Eden's on the dayHe left its shade, when every tree,Like thine, hung weeping o'er his way.
Weeping or smiling, lovely isle!And all the lovelier for thy tears—For tho' but rare thy sunny smile,'Tis heaven's own glance when it appears.
Like feeling hearts, whose joys are few,But, whenindeedthey come divine—The brightest light the sun e'er threwIs lifeless to one gleam of thine!
'Twas one of those dreams, that by music are brought,Like a bright summer haze, o'er the poet's warm thought—When, lost in the future, his soul wanders on,And all of this life, but its sweetness, is gone.
The wild notes he heard o'er the water were thoseHe had taught to sing Erin's dark bondage and woes,And the breath of the bugle now wafted them o'erFrom Dinis' green isle, to Glenà's wooded shore.
He listened—while, high o'er the eagle's rude nest,The lingering sounds on their way loved to rest;And the echoes sung back from their full mountain choir,As if loath to let song so enchanting expire.
It seemed as if every sweet note, that died here,Was again brought to life in some airier sphere,Some heaven in those hills, where the soul of the strainThey had ceased upon earth was awaking again!
Oh forgive, if, while listening to music, whose breathSeemed to circle his name with a charm against death,He should feel a proud Spirit within him proclaim,"Even so shalt thou live in the echoes of Fame:
"Even so, tho' thy memory should now die away,'Twill be caught up again in some happier day,And the hearts and the voices of Erin prolong,Through the answering Future, thy name and thy song."
[1] Written during a visit to Lord Kenmare, at Killarney.
Fairest! put on awhileThese pinions of light I bring thee,And o'er thy own green isleIn fancy let me wing thee.Never did Ariel's plume,At golden sunset hoverO'er scenes so full of bloom,As I shall waft thee over.
Fields, where the Spring delaysAnd fearlessly meets the ardorOf the warm Summer's gaze,With only her tears to guard her.Rocks, thro' myrtle boughsIn grace majestic frowning;Like some bold warrior's browsThat Love hath just been crowning.
Islets, so freshly fair,That never hath bird come nigh them,But from his course thro' airHe hath been won down by them;—[1]Types, sweet maid, of thee,Whose look, whose blush inviting,Never did Love yet seeFrom Heaven, without alighting.
Lakes, where the pearl lies hid,[2]And caves, where the gem is sleeping,Bright as the tears thy lidLets fall in lonely weeping.Glens,[3] where Ocean comes,To 'scape the wild wind's rancor,And harbors, worthiest homesWhere Freedom's fleet can anchor.
Then, if, while scenes so grand,So beautiful, shine before thee,Pride for thy own dear landShould haply be stealing o'er thee,Oh, let grief come first,O'er pride itself victorious—Thinking how man hath curstWhat Heaven had made so glorious!
[1] In describing the Skeligs (islands of the Barony of Forth), Dr. Keating says, "There is a certain attractive virtue in the soil which draws down all the birds that attempt to fly over it, and obliges them to light upon the rock."
[2] "Nennius, a British writer of the ninth century, mentions the abundance of pearls in Ireland. Their princes, he says, hung them behind their ears: and this we find confirmed by a present made A.C. 1094, by Gilbert, Bishop of Limerick, to Anselm, Archbishop of Canterbury, of a considerable quantity of Irish pearls."—O'Halloran.
[3] Glengariff.
Quick! we have but a second,Fill round the cup, while you may;For Time, the churl, hath beckoned,And we must away, away!Grasp the pleasure that's flying,For oh, not Orpheus' strainCould keep sweet hours from dying,Or charm them to life again.Then, quick! we have but a second,Fill round the cup while you may;For Time, the churl, hath beckoned,And we must away, away!
See the glass, how it flushes.Like some young Hebe's lip,And half meets thine, and blushesThat thou shouldst delay to sip.Shame, oh shame unto thee,If ever thou see'st that day,When a cup or lip shall woo thee,And turn untouched away!Then, quick! we have but a second,Fill round, fill round, while you may;For Time, the churl, hath beckoned,And we must away, away!
And doth not a meeting like this make amends,For all the long years I've been wandering away—To see thus around me my youth's early friends,As smiling and kind as in that happy day?Tho' haply o'er some of your brows, as o'er mine,The snow-fall of time may be stealing—what then?Like Alps in the sunset, thus lighted by wine,We'll wear the gay tinge of youth's roses again.
What softened remembrances come o'er the heart,In gazing on those we've been lost to so long!The sorrows, the joys, of which once they were part,Still round them, like visions of yesterday, throng,As letters some hand hath invisibly traced,When held to the flame will steal out on the sight,So many a feeling, that long seemed effaced,The warmth of a moment like this brings to light.
And thus, as in memory's bark we shall glide,To visit the scenes of our boyhood anew,Tho' oft we may see, looking down on the tide,The wreck of full many a hope shining thro';Yet still, as in fancy we point to the flowers,That once made a garden of all the gay shore,Deceived for a moment, we'll think them still ours,And breathe the fresh air of life's morning once more.
So brief our existence, a glimpse, at the most,Is all we can have of the few we hold dear;And oft even joy is unheeded and lost,For want of some heart, that could echo it, near.Ah, well may we hope, when this short life is gone,To meet in some world of more permanent bliss,For a smile, or a grasp of the hand, hastening on,Is all we enjoy of each other in this.
But, come, the more rare such delights to the heart,The more we should welcome and bless them the more;They're ours, when we meet,—they are lost when we part,Like birds that bring summer, and fly when 'tis o'er.Thus circling the cup, hand in hand, ere we drink,Let Sympathy pledge us, thro' pleasure, thro' pain,That, fast as a feeling but touches one link,Her magic shall send it direct thro' the chain.