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IRISH MELODIES. |
29 |
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But alas for his country ! — her pride is gone by,
And that spirit is broken, which never would bend; O'er the ruin her children in secret must sigh,
For 'tis treason to love her, and death to defend. Unpriz'd are her sons, till they 've learn'd to betray ;
Undistinguish'd they live, if they shame not their sires ; And the torch, that would light them thro' dignity's way,
Must be caught from the pile where their country expires.
Then blame not the bard, if in pleasure's soft dream
He should try to forget what he never can heal: Oh ! give but a hope — let a vista but gleam
Through the gloom of his country, and mark how he'll feel! That instant, his heart at her shrine would lay down
Every passion it nurs'd, every bliss it ador'd, While the myrtle, now idly entwin'd with his crown,
Like the wreath of Harmodius, should cover his sword.*
But tho' glory be gone, and tho' hope fade away,
Thy name, loved Erin, shall live in his songs, Not ev'n in the hour, when his heart is most gay,
Will he lose the remembrance of thee and thy wrongs. The stranger shall hear thy lament on his plains ;
The sigh of thy harp shall be sent o'er the deep, Till thy masters themselves, as they rivet thy chains,
Shall pause at the song of their captive, and weep !
* See the Hymn, attributed to Alcseus, Ej> fivprov k\b5i to |i0or ipopTitra—" I will carry my sword, hidden in myrtles, like Harmodius and Aristogiton," &e. |
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