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68 HYLAND'S MAMMOTH
THE VALLEY LAY SMILING BEFORE ME.
The valley lay smiling before me,
Where lately I left her behind; Yet I trembled, and something hung o'er ma
That saddened the Joy of my mind. I looked for the lamp which, she told me.
Should shine, when her pilgrim returned; But, though darkness began to Infold me,
No lamp from the battlements burned. I flew to her chamber—'twas lonely,
As If the loved tenant lay dead;— Ah, would it were death, and death only!
But no, the young false one had fled. And there hung the lute that could soften -
My very worst pains into bliss; While the hand that bad waked It so often
Now throbbed to a proud rival's kiss. There was a time, falsest of women?
When Breffnl's good sword would have sought That man, through a million of foemen,
Who dared but to wrong thee In thought! While now—oh, degenerate daughter
Of Erin, how fallen is thy fame! And through ages of bondage and slaughter.
Our country shall bleed for thy shame. Already the curse Is upon her,
And strangers her valleys profane; They come to divide—to dishonor.
And tyrants they long will remain. But onward! the green banner rearing,
Go, flesh every sword to the hilt; On our side is Virtue and Erin,
On theirs the Saxon and Guilt! |
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THE YOUNG MAY MOON.
The young Hay moon Is beaming, love; The glowworm's lamp Is gleaming, love;
How sweet to rove through Morna's grove, When the drowsy world Is dreaming, love! Then awake!—the heavens look bright, my dear; 'Tls never too late for delight, my dear:
And the best of all ways to lengthen our days, t Is to steal a few hours from the night, xay dear! Now all the world Is sleeping, love, But the Sage, his star-watch keeping, love,
And I, whose star, more glorious far, Is the eye from that casement peeping, love. Then awake!—till rise of sun, my dear, The Sage's glass we'll shun, my dear;
Or, in watching the flight of bodies of light, He might happen to take thee for one, my dear! |
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THOUGH THE LAST GLIMPSE OF ERIN.
Though the last glimpse of Erin with sorrow I see. Yet wherever thou art shall seem Erin to me; In exile thy bosom shall still be my home. And thine eyes make my climate wherever we roam. To the gloom of some desert or cold rocky shore, Where the eye of the stranger can haunt us no more, I will fly with my Coulln, and think the rough wind Less rude than the foes we leave frowning behind. And I'll gaze on thy gold hair, as graceful it wreathes, And hang o'er thy soft harp, as wildly It breathes; Nor dread that the cold-hearted Saxon will tear One chord from that harp, or one lock from that hair. |
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