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IRISH MELODIES. 95 |
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When free yet, ere courts began With honours to enslave him,
The best honours worn by Man Were those which Virtue gave him.
Oh for the swords, &c. &c.
Oh for the Kings who flourish'd then!
Oh for the pomp that crown'd them, When hearts and hands of freeborn men
Were all the ramparts round them! When, safe built on bosoms true,
The throne was but the centre, Round which Love a circle drew,
That Treason durst not enter. Oh for the Kings who flourish'd then!
Oh for the pomp that crown'd them, When hearts and hands of freeborn men
Were all the ramparts round them ! |
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NE'ER ASK THE HOUR.
Ne'er ask the hour — what is it to us
How Time deals out his treasures ? The golden moments lent us thus
Are not his coin, but Pleasure's. If counting them o'er could add to their blisses,
I'd number each glorious second: But moments of joy are, like Lesbia's kisses,
Too quick and sweet to be reckon'd. |
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