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IRISH MELODIES. |
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But oh ! the poet's love
Can boast a brighter sphere ; Its native home's above,
Tho' woman keeps it here. Then drink to her who long
Hath wak'd the poet's sigh, The girl who gave to song
What gold could never buy. |
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OH! BLAME NOT THE BARD.*
Oh ! blame not the bard, if he fly to the bowers
Where Pleasure lies, carelessly smiling at Fame ; He was born for much more, and in happier hours
His soul mij-ht have burn'd with a holier flame. The string, that now languishes loose o'er the lyre,
Might have bent a proud bow to the warrior's dart ;f And the lip, which now breathes but the song of desire,
Might have pour'd the full tide of a patriot's heart.
* We may suppose this apology to have been uttered by one of those wandering bards, whom Spenser so severely, and perhaps truly, describes in his " State of Ireland," ■ and whose poems, he tells us, " were sprinkled with some pretty flowers of their natural device, which have good grace and comeliness unto them, the which it is great pity to see abused to the gracing of wickedness and vice, which, with good usage, would serve to adorn and beautify virtue."
f It is conjectured, by Wormius, that the name of Ireland is derived from Pr, the Runic for a bow, in the use of which weapon the Irish were once very expert. This derivation is certainly more creditable to us than the following: " So that Ireland (called the land of Ire, from the constant broils therein for 400 years) was now become the land of concord."—Lloyd's State Worthies, art. The Lord Crandison. |
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