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IRISH MELODIES. |
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There, there, far from thee, Deceitful world, my home should be; Where, come what might of gloom and pain, False hope should ne'er deceive again.
The lifeless sky, the mournful sound
Of unseen waters falling round;
The dry leaves, quiv'ring o'er my head,
Like man, unquiet ev'n when dead ;
These, ay, these shall wean
My soul from life's deluding scene,
And turn each thought, o'ercharg'd with gloom,
Like willows, downward tow'rds the tomb.
As they, who to their couch at night Would win repose, first quench the light, So must the hopes that keep this breast Awake be quench'd, ere it can rest. Cold, cold, this heart must grow, Unmov'd by either joy or woe, Like freezing founts, where all that's thrown Within their current turns to stone.
resort of penitents and pilgrims from almost every country in Europe."
" It was," as the same writer tells us, " one of the most dismal and dreary spots in the North, almost inaccessible, through deep glens and rugged mountains, frightful with impending rocks, and the hollow murmurs of the western winds in dark caverns, peopled only with such fantastic beings as the mind, however gay, is, from strange association, wont to appropriate to such gloomy scenes." — Stricture! on the Ecclesiastical and Literary History of Ireland. |
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