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IRISH MELODIES. .73
On her who, in thy fortune's fall,
With smiles had still receiv'd thee, And gladly died to prove thee all Her fancy first believ'd thee.
Go — go — 'tis vain to curse,
'Tis weakness to upbraid thee; Hate cannot wish thee worse
Than guilt and shame have made thee. |
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WHILE HISTORY'S MUSE.
While History's Muse the memorial was keeping
Of all that the dark hand of Destiny weaves, Beside her the Genius of Erin stood weeping,
For hers was the story that blotted the leaves. But oh! how the tear in her eyelids grew bright, When, after whole pages of sorrow and shame, She saw History write, With a pencil of light That illum'd the whole volume, her Wellington's name!
" Hail, Star of my Isle!" said the Spirit, all sparkling
With beams such as break from her own dewy skies — " Thro' ages of sorrow, deserted and darkling,
" I've watch'd for some glory like thine to arise. " For, tho' Heroes I 've number'd, unblest was their lot, " And unhallow'd they sleep in the cross-ways of Fame ; — " But oh! there is not " One dishonouring blot " On the wreath that encircles my Wellington's name! |
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