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HIBERNIAN SONGSTER. |
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Her thunder sleeps—'tis Mercy's breath
That wafts her o'er the sea; She goes not forth to deal out death,
But bears new life to thee! Thy wasted hand can scarcely strike
The chords of grateful praise; Thy plaintive tone is now unlike
The voice of former days; Yet, even In sorrow, tuneful still,
Let Erin's voice proclaim In bardic praise, on every hill,
Columbia's glorious name!
OH, BLAME NOT THE BARD!
Oh, blame not the bard, If he fly to the bowers
Where pleasure lies, carelessly smiling at fame; He was born for much more, and In happier hours
His soul might have burned with a holier-flame: The string that now languishes loose o'er the lyre,
Might have bent a proud bow to the warrior's dart; And the lip, which now breathes but the song of desire,
Might have poured the full tide of a patriot's heart.
But alas for his country!—her pride has gone by,
And that spirit is broken, which never would bend; O'er the ruin her children In secret must sigh,
For 'tis treason to love her, and death to defend. Unprized are her sons, till they've learned to betray;
Undistinguished they live, if they shame not their sires, And the torch that would light them through dignity's way
Must be caught from the pile where their country expires.
Then blame not the bard, if in pleasure's soft dream
He should try to forget what he never can heal: Oh, give but a hope—let a vista but gleam
Through the gloom of his country, and mark how he'll feel Every passion It nursed, every bliss it adored,
That instant his heart at her shrine would lay down;
While the myrtle, now Idly entwined with his crown, Like the wreath of Harmodius, should cover his sword.
But though glory be gone, and though hope fade away.
Thy name, loved Erin, shall live in his songs; Not oven in the hour when his heart is most gay
Will he lose the remembrance of thee and thy wrongs. The stranger shall hear thy lament on his plains;
The sigh of thy harp shall be sent o'er the deep, Tin thy masters themselves, as they rivet thy chains,
Shall pause at the song of their captive, and weep! |
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OH, BANCWET NOT.
Oh, banquet not In those shining bowers
Where Youth resorts, but come to me; ' For mine's a garden of faded flowers,
More fit for sorrow, for age, and thee. And there we shall have our feasts of tears,
And many a cup In silence pour; Our guests, the shades of former years—
Our toasts, to lips that bloom no more!
There, while the myrtle's withering boughs
Their lifeless leaves around us shed, We'll brim the bowl to broken vows,
To friends long lost, the changed, the dead. Or, while some blighted laurel waves
Its branches o'er the dreary spot, We'll drink to those neglected graves
Where Valor sleeps, unnamed, forgot! |
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