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98 IRISH MELODIES. |
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Ah, well may we call her like thee, " the Forsaken," *
Her boldest are vanquish'd, her proudest are slaves ; ■
And the harps of her minstrels, when gayest they waken,
Have tones mid their mirth like the wind over graves !
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Yet hadst thou thy vengeance — yet came there the morrow That shines out, at last, on the longest dark night, "When the sceptre, that smote thee with slavery and sorrow, Was shiver'd at once, like a reed, in thy sight.
When that cup, which for others the proud Golden City f Had brimm'd full of bitterness, drench'd her own lips ;
And the world she had trampled on heard, without pity, The howl in her halls, and the cry from her ships.
When the curse Heayen keeps for the haughty came over
Her merchants rapacious, her rulers unjust, And, a ruin, at last, for the earth-worm to cover, J
The Lady of Kingdoms § lay low in the dust.
* " Thou shalt no more be termed Forsaken." — Isaiah, liii. 4.
f " How hath the oppressor ceased! the golden city ceased !" — Isaiah, xiv. 4.
$ " Thy pomp is brought down to the grave.....and the
worms cover thee." — Isaiah, xiv. 11.
§ "Thou shalt no more be called the Lady of Kingdoms." — Isaiah, xlvii 5. |
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