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HYLAND'S MAMMOTH |
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He loves the Green Isle, and his love is recorded
In hearts which have suffer'd too much to forget; And hope shall be crown'd and attachment rewarded.
And Erin's gay Jubilee shine out yet. The gem may be broke by many a stroke,
But nothing can cloud lta native array, Each fragment will cast a light to the last!— And thus Erin, my country, tho' broken thou art,
TherB's a lustre within thee that ne'er will decay, A spirit which beams thro' each suffering part,
And now smiles at all pain on the Prince's Day. |
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THERE ARE SOUNDS OF MIRTH.
There are sounds of mirth In the night air ringing,
And lamps from ev'ry casement shown, While voices blithe within are singing,
That seem to say "Come!" in ev'ry strain. Ah! once how light in life's young season
My heart had bounded at that sweet lay; Nor paused to ask of grey-beard Reason
If I should the siren call obey. /
And see the lamps still livelier glitter;
The siren lips more fondly sound; No, seek, ye nymphs, some victim fitter
To sink In your rosy bondage bound. Shall a bard whom not the world in arms
Could bend to tyrany's rude control. Thus quail at sight of woman's charms.
And yield to a smile his free-born soul?
Thus sung the sage while Blyly stealing
The nymphs their fetters around him cast. And their laughing eyes the while concealing,
Led Freedom's bard their slave at last. For the poet's heart, still prone to loving,
Was like that rock of the Druid's race, Which the gentlest touch at once set moving,
But all earth's pow'r couldn't cast from its base. |
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THIS ROCK THAT OVERHANGS THE FOAM.
This rock that overhangs the foam
Which billowy boils below, My childhood blest this barren home
Ere tears had learn'd to now. Ob! tearless 1 dwell on this wild steep,
O'er looking that vast sea, And think the tears of all who weep
Can bring no tears for me.
Then blest is the sleep, the happy sleep
For those whose pangs are o'er, Whose streaming eyes no more may weep.
Where tyrants scourge no more. My fathers sleep, their sorrows past,
While I alone remain, Like the last cold link that breaks at last
Of Sorrow's Iron chain.
The wild wolf hath a mountain home,
For me alas! remains No smile beyond the dreary foam,
And here but tears and chains. Like the rosy wreath which sunset links.
At ev'ning o'er the sea, ' Thus when my parting spirit sinks.
Then hope may smile for me. |
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