« AnteriorContinuar »
The armaments which thunderstrike the walls
Thy shores are empires, chang'd in all save thee
Thou glorious mirror, where th' Almighty's form
And I have lov'd thee, Ocean! and my joy
Made them a terror-'twas a pleasing fear,
THE MANIAC'S SONG.
Bring me a garland, bring me a wreath ;
Bring me a flower from the dank stream side; Bring me an herb smelling sweetly of death,
Wet with the drowsy tide.
Haste to the pool with the green-weed breast,
Where the dark wave crawls through the sedge; Where the bittern of the wilderness builds her nest
In the flags of its oozy edge ;
Where no sun shines through the livelong day,
Because of the blue-wreath'd mist, Where the cockatrice creeps her foul egg to lay,
And the speckled snake has hiss'd :
And bring me the flag that is moist with the wave,
And the rush where the heath-winds sigh, And the hemlock plant that flourishes so brave,
And the poppy, with its coal-black eye ;
And weave them tightly, and weave them well,
The fever of my head to allay ; And soon shall I faint with the death-weed smell,
And sleep these throbbings away.
And my hot, hot heart, that is fluttering so fast,
Shall shudder with a strange, cold thrill ;
And the damp hand of death o'er my forehead
shall be pass'd,
And crystals of ice on my bosom shall arise,
Prest out from the shivering pore ;
But soon it shall struggle no more.
For the poppy on my head shall her cool breath
shed, And wind through the blue, blue tide ; And the bony wand of Death shall draw my last
breath, All by the dank stream side.
THE MAD MAID'S SONG.
Good-morrow to the day so fair!
Good morning, Sir, to you !
Bedabbled with the dew !
Good-morning to this primrose too!
Good-morrow to each maid,
Wherein my love is laid !
I'll seek bim there! I know, ere this,
The cold, cold earth doth shake him;
By you, Sir, to awake him.
Pray, hurt him not! tho' he be dead,
He knows well who do love him ;
And who do rudely move him.
He's soft and tender-pray, take heed !
With bands of cowslips bind him;
That I shall never find him!
THE EXILE OF ERIN.
There came to the beach a poor Exile of Erin;
The dew on his thin robe was heavy and chill; For his country he sigh’d, when at twilight re
pairing, To wander alone by the wind-beaten hill. But the day-star attracted his eyes' sad devotion; For it rose o'er his own native isle of the ocean, Where once in the fire of his youthful emotion,
He sung the bold anthem of Erin-go-bragh.
“ Sad is my fate!" said the heart-broken stranger,
“ The wild deer and wolf to a covert can flee; But I have no refuge from famine and danger,
A home and a country remain not to me. Never again, in the green sunny bowers, Where my forefathers liv'd, shall I spend the sweet
hours; Or cover my harp with the wild-woven flowers,
And strike to the numbers of Erin-go-bragh.
“ Erin, my country! tho' sad and forsaken,
In dreams I revisit thy sea-beaten shore ;
But, alas! in a far foreign land I awaken,
more! Oh cruel fate! wilt thou never replace me In a mansion of peace, where no perils can chase
Never again shall my brothers embrace me!
They died to defend me, or live to deplore!
“ Where is my cabin-door, fast by the wild wood ?
Sisters and sire, did ye weep for its fall? Where is the mother that look'd on my childhood ?
And where is the bosom-friend, dearer than all ? Ah! my sad heart, long abandon'd by pleasure ! Why did it dote on a fast-fading treasure ! Tears like the rain-drops may fall without measure ;
But rapture and beauty they cannot recall,
" Yet, all its sad recollections suppressing,
One dying wish my lone bosom can draw; Erin! an Exile bequeaths thee his bles !
Land of my forefathers, Erin-go-bragh!
Oft have I seen yon solitary man
* 1.e. Ireland, my darling; Ireland for ever.