« PreviousContinue »
JJOW sweet the answer Echo makes
To Music at night, When, roused by lute or horn, she wakes, And, far away, o'er lawns and lakes, Goes answering light!
Yet Love hath echoes truer far,
And far more sweet,
The songs repeat.
'Tis when the sigh, in youth sincere,
And only then,—
Breath'd back again.
OH BANQUET NOT.
AH banquet not in those shining bowers
Where youth resorts — but come to me; For mine's a garden of faded flowers,
More fit for sorrow, for age, and thee. And there we shall have our feast of tears,
And many a cup in silence pour;
Our toasts to lips that bloom no more.
There, while the myrtle's withering boughs
Their lifeless leaves around us shed, We'll brim the bowl to broken vows,
To friends long lost, the changed, the dead. Or, while some blighted laurel waves
Its branches o'er the dreary spot, We'll drink to those neglected graves,
Where valor sleeps, unnamed, forgot.
THEE, THEE, ONLY THEE.
rpHE dawning of morn, the daylight's sinking,
Whatever in fame's high path could wraken
For thee, thee, only thee.
To the ocean hurries, resting never,
I have not a joy but of tby bringing,
And pain itself seems sweet when springing
From thee, thee, only thee.
Till lips that know the charm have spoken,
SHALL THE HARP THEN BE SILENT.
OHALL the Harp then be silent, when he who first ^ gave
To our country a name is withdrawn from all eyes? Shall a Minstrel of Erin stand mute by the grave
Where the first—where the last of her Patriots lies?
No—faint tho' the death-song may fall from his lips,
What a union of all the affections and powers
Was embraced in that spirit—whose centre was ours,
* It is only the first two verses that are either fitted or intended to be sung.
Oh, who that loves Erin, or who that can see, Thro' the waste of her annals, that epoch sublime —
Like a pyramid rais'd in the desert — where he And his glory stand out to the eyes of all time;
That one lucid interval, snatched from the gloom And the madness of ages, when fill'd with his soul,
A nation o'erleap'd the dark hounds of her doom, And for one sacred instant touch'd Liberty's goal—
Who, that ever hath heard him — hath drank at the source Of that wonderful eloquence, all Erin's own, In whose high-thoughted daring, the fire, and the force, And the yet untam'd spring of her spirit are shown;
An eloquence rich, wheresoever its wave
Wander'd free and triumphant, with thoughts that shone thr.ough,
As clear as the brook's * stone of lustre,' that gave, With the flash of the gem, its solidity too —
Who, that ever approached him, when free from the crowd, In a home full of love, he delighted to tread Mong the trees which a nation had giv'n, and which bow'd, As if each brought a new civic crown for his head— Is there one who hath thus, through his orbit of life, Rat at distance observ'd him — through glory, through blame, In the calm of retreat, in the grandeur of strife, Whether shining or clouded, still high and the same —
Oh no, not a heart that e'er knew him but mourns Deep, deep o'er the grave where such glory is shrin'd —
O'er a monument Fame will preserve 'mong the urns Of the wisest, the bravest, the best of mankind.
OH THE SIGHT ENTRANCING.
Oh, the sight entrancing,
When morning beam is glancing
O'er files array'd
With helm and blade,
That song whose breath
May lead to death,