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HIBERNIAN SONGSTER. 57
Why then delay, with such sounds in our ears,
And the flower of Beauty's own garden before us— While stars overhead ieave the song of their Bpheres,
And, iist'ning to ours, hang wondering o'er us? Again, that strain!—to hear it thus sounding Might set even Death's cold pulses bounding—
Again! again! Oh, what delight when the youthful and gay,
Each with eye like a sunbeam and foot lilte a feather, Thus dance, like the Hours, to the music of May,
And mingle sweet song and sunshine together!
THE SONG OF WAR.
The song of war shall echo through our mountains.
Till not one hateful link remains
Of slavery's ling'ring chains—
Till not one tyrant treads our plains, Nor traitor ilp pollutes our fountains!
No, never till that glorious day, ,
Shall Lusitanla's sons be gay.
Or hear, O Peace, thy welcome lay Resounding through her sunny mountains! The song of war shall echo through our mountains.
Till Victory's self shall smiling say,
"Your cloud of foes hath passed away,
And Freedom comes, with new-born ray. To gild your vines and light your fountains!"
Oh, never till that glorious day,
Shall Lusitania's sons be gay, ' Or hear, O Peace, thy welcome lay Resounding through her sunny mountains! |
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THE HARP OF TARA.
The harp that once through Tara's halls
The soul of music shed, Now hangs as mute on Tara's walls
As if that soul were fled. So sleeps the pride of former day3.
So glory's thrlli is o'er. And hearts that once beat high for praise.
Now feel that pulse no more. No more to chiefs and ladles bright
The harp of Tara swells: The chord alone, that breaks at night, .
Its tale of ruin tells. Thus Freedom now so seldom wakes—
The only throb she gives Is when some heart, indignant, breaks,
To show that stili she lives. |
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THE MINSTREL BOY.
The Minstrel Boy to the war is gone.
In the ranks of death you'll find him; His father's sword he has girded on,
And his wild harp slung behind him. "Land of song!" said the warrior bard,
"Though all the world betrays thee. One sword, at least, thy rights shall guard,
One faithful harp shall praise thee!"
The Minstrel fell!—but the foeman's chain
Couid not bring his proud soul under; The harp he loved ne'er spoke again,
For he tore its chords asunder, And said, "No chains shall sully thee,
Thou soul of love and bravery! Thy songs were made for the pure and free,
They shall never sound In slavery!" |
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