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156 THE GOLDEN TREASURY OF |
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I know not, I ask not, if guilt's in that heart, But I know that I love thee, whatever thou art.
Thou hast called me thy Angel in moments of bliss, And thy Angel I'll be, mid the horrors of this, Through the furnace, unshrinking, thy steps to pursue, And shield thee, and save thee—or perish there too ! |
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DEAR HARP OF MY COUNTRY
Air.—New Langolee.
DEAR Harp of my Country ! in darkness I found thee, The cold chain of silence had hung o'er thee long, When proudly, my own Island Harp ! I unbound thee, And gave all thy chords to light, freedom, and song! The warm lay of love and the light note of gladness
Have wakened thy fondest, thy loveliest thrill; But so oft hast thou echoed the deep sigh of sadness, That even in thy mirth it will steal from thee still.
Dear Harp of my Country ! farewell to thy numbers,
This sweet wreath of song is the last we shall twine ! Go, sleep, with the sunshine of Fame on thy slumbers,
Till touched by some hand less unworthy than mine. If the pulse of the patriot, soldier, or lover
Have throbbed at our lay, 'tis thy glory alone; 'T was but as the wind passing heedlessly over,
And all the wild sweetness I waked was thine own. |
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