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IRISH MELODIES. 113 |
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Fields, where the Spring delays,
And fearlessly meets the ardour Of the warm Summer's gaze,
With only her tears to guard her. Rocks, through myrtle boughs
In grace majestic frowning ; Like some bold warrior's brows
That Love hath just been crowning.
Islets, so freshly fair,
That never hath bird come nigh them, But from his course thro' air
He hath been won down by them. — * Types, sweet maid, of thee,
Whose look, whose blush inviting, Never did Love yet see
From heav'n, without alighting.
Lakes, where the pearl lies hid, f
And caves, where the gem is sleeping,
Bright as the tears thy lid Lets fall in lonely weeping.
* In describing the Skeligs (islands of the Barony of Forth), Dr. Keating says, " There is a certain attractive virtue in the soil which draws down all the birds that attempt to fly over it, and obliges them to light upon the rock."
f " Nennius, a British writer of the ninth century, mentions the abundance of pearls in Ireland. Their princes, he says, hung them behind their ears ; and this we find confirmed by a present made a. c. 1094, by Gilbert, bishop of Limerick, to Anselm, archbishop of Canterbury, of a considerable quantity of Irish pearls." — O'Halloran.
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