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IRISH MELODIES, |
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Yet at our feasts, thy spirit long,
Awak'd by music's spell, shall rise; For name so link'd with deathless song
Patrakes its charm and never dies: And ev'n within the holy fane,
When music wafts the soul to heaven, One thought to him, whose earliest strain
Was echo'd there, shall long be given.
But, where is now the cheerful day,
The social night, when, by thy side, He who now weaves this parting lay
His skilless voice with thine allied; And sung those songs whose every tone,
When bard and minstrel long have .past, Shall still, in sweetness all their own,
Embalm'd by fame, undying last.
Yes, Erin, thine alone the fame,—
Or, if thy bard have shar'd the crown, From thee the borrow'd glory came,
And at thy feet is now laid down. Enough, if Freedom still inspire
His latest song, and still there be, As evening closes round his lyre,
One ray upon its chords from thee. |
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