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IRISH MELODIES. |
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.THE WANDERING BARD.
What life like that of the bard can be, The wandering bard, who roams as free As the mountain lark that o'er him sings, And, like that lark, a music brings Within him, where'er he comes or goes, — A fount that for ever flows ! — The world's to him like some play-ground, Where fairies dance their moonlight round; If dimm'd the turf where late they trod, The elves but seek some greener sod: So, when less bright his scene of glee, To another away flies he.
Oh, what would have been young Beauty's doom,
Without a bard to fix her bloom?
They tell us, in the moon's bright round,
Things lost in this dark world are found;
So charms, on earth long pass'd and gone,
In the poet's lay live on. —
Would ye have smiles that ne'er grow dim ?
You 've only to give them all to him,
Who, with but a touch of Fancy's wand,
Can lend them life, this life beyond,
And fix them high, in Poesy's sky,—
Young stars that never die.
Then, welcome the bard where'er he comes, For, though he hath countless airy homes,
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