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HIBERNIAN SONGSTER. 175 |
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LAY HIS SWOKD BY HIS SIDE.
Lay his sword by his side,—it hath serv'd him too well not to rest near
his pillow below; To the last moment true, from his hand ere it fell, its point still was
turn'd to a flying foe. Fellow lab'rers In life, let them slumber in death side by side, as becomes
the reposing brave; The sword which he loved, still unbroke in his sheath, and himself
unsubdued In his grave.
Yet pause, for in fancy a still voice I hear, as if breath'd from his^brave
heart's remains; Faint echo of that which in Slavery's ear, once sounded the war-word,
, "Burst your chains." And It cries, from the grave where the hero lies, "Tho' the day of your
chieftain for ever hath set, Oh! leave not his sword thus inglorious to sleep, it hath victory's life in
it-yet!"
"Should some alien unworthy such weapon to wield, dare to touch thee,
my own gallant sword, Then rest in thy sheath, like a talisman seal'd, or return'd to the grave
of thy chainless lord. But if grasp'd by a hand that, hath known the bright use of a falchion
like thee, on the battle plain,— Then, at Liberty's summons, like lightning let loose, leap forth from thy
dark sheath again." |
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MY COUNTRYMEN, AWAKE!
My countrymen awake! arise! our work begins anew; Your mingled voices rend the skies, your hearts are firm and true, You've bravely marched, and nobly met, our little green isle through; But, oh! my friends, there's something yet for Irishmen to do!
As long as Erin hears the chink of base ignoble chains,— As long as one detested link of foreign rule remains,— As long as of our rightful debt one smallest fraction's due, So long, my friends, there's something yet for Irishmen to do!
Too long we've borne the servile yoke,—too long the slavish chain,— ' Too long In feeble accents spoke, and ever spoke in vain;—
Our wealth has filled the spoiler's net, and gorg'd the Saxon crew; But oh! my friends, we'll teach them yet what Irishmen can do!
There's not a man of all our land our country now can spare;
The strong man with his sinewy hand, the weak man with his pray'r!
No whining tone of mere regret, young Irish bards, for you;
But let your songs teach Ireland yet what Irishmen should do! |
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FAIRY HAUNTS.
My home's on the mountain, my dance by the fountain.
The music I dote on is sung by the rill. The gambols I squander are by the well yonder.
Where leans the grey oak at the foot of the hill. Of the flow'rs of the willow I weave my light pillow.
My slumbers are winged, and fleeting, and blest. And sunlight adorning the bow'rs of young morning,
I wing my way back to the hills I love best.
I love to rove only at midnight when lonely,
And play with the moon in the old Abbey wall, The olden days seeming, methinks, .the harp's dreaming,
Its long faded dirges in bowr' and in hall. Where youth's grave lies wrinkled, with snow garland sprinkled,
I love to still linger till twilight appears, Wherever woe weepeth, or fair virtue sleepelh,
They belong not to night, they're my own dewy tears. |
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