Imagens da página
PDF
ePub
[ocr errors]
[merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][ocr errors][merged small]

How mournfully the midnight air
Among thy chords doth sigh,
As if it sought some echo there
Of voices long gone by;-
Of Chieftains, now forgot, who seem'd
The foremost then in fame;
Of Bards who, once immortal deem'd,
Now sleep without a name. —
In vain, sad Harp, the midnight air
Among thy chords doth sigh;
In vain it seeks an echo there
Of voices long gone by.

Couldst thou but call those spirits round,
Who once, in bower and hall,
Sat listening to thy magic sound,

Now mute and mould'ring all;-
But, no; they would but wake to weep
Their children's slavery;

Then leave them in their dreamless sleep,
The dead, at least, are free!
Hush, hush, sad Harp, that dreary tone,
That knell of Freedom's day;
Or, listening to its death-like moan,
Let me, too, die away.

[merged small][ocr errors][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small]
[blocks in formation]

WHAT life like that of the bard can be,
The wandering bard, who roams as free
As the mountain lark that o'er him sings,
And, like that lark, a music brings
Within him, where'er he comes or goes,
A fount that for ever flows!

The world's to him like some play-ground,
Where fairies dance their moonlight round;
If dimm'd the turf where late they trod,
The elves but seek some greener sod;
So, when less bright his scene of glee,
To another away flies he!

Oh, what would have been young Beauty's doom,
Without a bard to fix her bloom?
They tell us, in the moon's bright round,
Things lost in this dark world are found;
So charms, on earth long pass'd and gone,
In the poet's lay live on. —

Would ye have smiles that ne'er grow dim?
You've only to give them all to him,
Who, with but a touch of Fancy's wand,
Can lend them life, this life beyond,

And fix them high, in Poesy's sky, -
Young stars that never die!

Then, welcome the bard where'er he comes, -
For, though he hath countless airy homes,
To which his wing excursive roves,
Yet still, from time to time, he loves
To light upon earth and find such cheer
As brightens our banquet here.
No matter how far, how fleet he flies,
You've only to light up kind young eyes,
Such signal-fires as here are given, -
And down he'll drop from Fancy's heaven,
The minute such call to love or mirth
Proclaims he's wanting on earth!

[ocr errors]

This, this the doom must be

Of all who've lov'd, and liv'd to see

The few bright things they thought would stay For ever near them, die away.

Tho' fairer forms around us throng,

Their smiles to others all belong,

And want that charm which dwells alone
Round those the fond heart calls its own.

Where, where the sunny brow?

The long-known voice - where are they now?
Thus ask I still, nor ask in vain,
The silence answers all too plain.

Oh, what is Fancy's magic worth,
If all her art cannot call forth
One bliss like those we felt of old
From lips now mute, and eyes now cold?
No, no,- her spell is vain,-

As soon could she bring back again
Those eyes themselves from out the grave,
As wake again one bliss they gave.

I'VE A SECRET TO TELL THEE.

I'VE a secret to tell thee, but hush! not here,
Oh! not where the world its vigil keeps :
I'll seek, to whisper it in thine ear,

Some shore where the Spirit of Silence sleeps; Where summer's wave unmurm'ring dies,

Nor fay can hear the fountain's gush; Where, if but a note her night-bird sighs,

The rose saith, chidingly, "Hush, sweet, hush!”

There, amid the deep silence of that hour,
When stars can be heard in ocean dip,
Thyself shall, under some rosy bower,

Sit mute, with thy finger on thy lip:
Like him, the boy', who born among

The flowers that on the Nile-stream blush, Sits ever thus, his only song

To earth and heaven, "Hush, all, hush!”

[blocks in formation]
[blocks in formation]

Or, when the western wave grew bright

With daylight's parting wing, Have sought that Eden in its light Which dreaming poets sing;'

That Eden where th' immortal brave

Dwell in a land serene,Whose bow'rs beyond the shining wave, At sunset, oft are seen.

Ah dream too full of sadd'ning truth!
Those mansions o'er the main

Are like the hopes I built in youth,—
As sunny and as vain!

LAY HIS SWORD BY HIS SIDE.

LAY his sword by his side, it hath serv'd him too well

Not to rest near his pillow below;

To the last moment true, from his hand ere it fell,
Its point was still turn'd to a flying foe.
Fellow-lab'rers in life, let them slumber in death,
Side by side, as becomes the reposing brave,-
That sword which he loved still unbroke in its sheath,
And himself unsubdued in his grave.

Yet pause-for, in fancy, a still voice I hear,

As if breath'd from his brave heart's remains; Faint echo of that which, in Slavery's ear,

Once sounded the war-word, "Burst your chains!"

And it cries, from the grave where the hero lies deep, "Tho' the day of your Chieftain for ever hath set, "O leave not his sword thus inglorious to sleep,"It hath victory's life in it yet!

"Should some alien, unworthy such weapon to wield, "Dare to touch thee, my own gallant sword, "Then rest in thy sheath, like a talisman scal'd, "Or return to the grave of thy chainless lord. "But, if grasp'd by a hand that hath learn'd the proud use

"Of a falchion, like thee, on the battle-plain,"Then, at Liberty's summons, like lightning let loose,

"Leap forth from thy dark sheath again!

1 "The inhabitants of Arranmore are still persuaded that, in a clear day, they can see from this coast Hy Brysail, or the Enchanted Island, the Paradise of the Pagan Irish, and concerning which they relate a number of romantic stories."- Beaufort's Ancient Topography of Ireland.

2 It was the custom of the ancient Irish, in the manner of the Scythians, to bury the favourite swords of their heroes along with them.

[blocks in formation]
[blocks in formation]

THE DREAM OF THOSE DAYS.

THE dream of those days when first I sung thee is o'er,

Thy triumph hath stain'd the charm thy sorrows then wore;

And ev❜n of the light which Hope once shed o'er thy chains,

Alas, not a gleam to grace thy freedom remains.

Say, is it that slavery sunk so deep in thy heart, That still the dark brand is there, though chainless thou art;

And Freedom's sweet fruit, for which thy spirit long burn'd,

Now, reaching at last thy lip, to ashes hath turn'd?

Up Liberty's steep by Truth and Eloquence led, With eyes on her temple fix'd, how proud was thy tread!

Ah, better thou ne'er had'st liv'd that summit to gain,

Or died in the porch, than thus dishonour the fane.

FROM THIS HOUR THE PLEDGE IS GIVEN.

FROM this hour the pledge is given,

From this hour my soul is thine: Come what will, from earth or heaven, Weal or woe, thy fate be mine.

1 The name given to the banner of the Irish.

2 It is hardly necessary, perhaps, to inform the reader, that these

SILENCE IS IN OUR FESTAL HALLS.2

SILENCE is in our festal halls,

Sweet Son of Song! thy course is o'er;

In vain on thee sad Erin calls,

Her minstrel's voice responds no more;All silent as th' Eolian shell

Sleeps at the close of some bright day, When the sweet breeze, that wak'd its swell At sunny morn, hath died away.

Yet, at our feasts, thy spirit long,

Awak'd by music's spell, shall rise; For, name so link'd with deathless song Partakes its charm and never dies: And ev'n within the holy fane,

When music wafts the soul to heaven, One thought to him, whose earliest strain Was echoed there, shall long be given.

But, where is now the cheerful day,

The social night, when, by thy side, He, who now weaves this parting lay,

His skilless voice with thine allied; And sung those songs whose every tone, When bard and minstrel long have past, Shall still, in sweetness all their own, Embalm'd by fame, undying last?

Yes, Erin, thine alone the fame,

Or, if thy bard have shar'd the crown, From thee the borrow'd glory came, And at thy feet is now laid down. Enough, if Freedom still inspire

His latest song, and still there be, As evening closes round his lyre,

One ray upon its chords from thee.

lines are meant as a tribute of sincere friendship to the memory of an old and valued colleague in this work, Sir John Stevenson.

« AnteriorContinuar »