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IRISH MELODIES. |
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MY GENTLE HARP.
My gentle Harp, once more I waken
The sweetness of thy slumbering strain ; In tears our last farewell was taken,
And now in tears we meet again. . No light of joy hath o'er thee broken,
But, like those Harps whose heav'nly skill Of slavery, dark as thine, hath spoken,
Thou hang'st upon the willows still.
And yet, since last thy chord resounded,
An hour of peace and triumph came, And many an ardent bosom bounded
With hopes—that now are turn'd to shame. Yet even then, while peace was singing
Her halcyon song o'er land and sea, Tho'joy and hope to others bringing,
She only brought new tears to thee.
Then, who can ask for notes of pleasure,
My drooping Harp, from chords like thine ? Alas, the lark's gay morning measure
As ill would suit the swan's decline! Or how shall I, who love, who bless thee,
Invoke thy breath for Freedom's strains, When ev'n the wreaths in which I dress thee
Are sadly mix'd—half flow'rs, half chains ? |
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