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IRISH MELODIES. |
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Then, come,—if a board so untempting hath power To win thee from grandeur, its best shall be thine ;
And there's one, long the light of the bard's happy bower, Who, smiling, will blend her bright welcome with mine. |
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SING, SWEET HARP.
Sing, sweet Harp, oh sing to me
Some song of ancient days, Whose sounds, in this sad memory,
Long buried dreams shall raise; — Some lay that tells of vanish'd fame,
Whose light once round us shone : Of noble pride now turn'd to shame,
And hopes for ever gone. — Sing, sad Harp, thus sing to me ;
Alike our doom is cast, Both lost to all but memory,
We live but in the past.
How mournfully the midnight air
Among thy chords doth sigh, As if it sought some echo there
Of voices long gone by ; — Of chieftains, now forgot, who seem'd
The foremost then in fame; Of bards who, once immortal deem'd,
Now sleep without a name! — |
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