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IRISH MELODIES. |
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THE IRISH PEASANT TO HIS MISTRESS.*
Through grief and through danger thy smile hath cheer'd
my way, Till hope seem'd to bud from each thorn that round me lay; The darker our fortune, the brighter our pure love burn'd, Till shame into glory, till fear into zeal was turn'd ; Yes, slave as I was, in thy arms my spirit felt free, And bless'd even the sorrows that made me more dear to
thee.
Thy rival was honour'd, while thou wert wrong'd and
scorn'd, Thy crown was of briers, while gold her brows adorn'd; She woo'd me to temples, while thou lay'st hid in caves, Her friends were all masters, while thine, alas! were
slaves; Yet cold in the earth, at thy feet, I would rather be, Than wed what I love not, or turn one thought from thee.
They slander thee sorely, who say thy vows are frail — Hadst thou been a false one, thy cheek had look'd less pale! They say too, so long thou hast worn those lingering
chains; That deep in thy heart they have printed their servile
stains — Oh! foul is theslander—no chain could that soul subdue— Where shineth tliy spirit, there liberty shineth too!f
* Meaning, allegorically, the ancient Church of Ireland, t " Where the Spirit of the Lord is, there is liberty."—St. Paul, 2 Cor. iii. 17. |
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