Oh, who would not welcome that moment's returning, When passion first wak'd a new life thro' his frame, And his soul-like the wood that grows precious in burning Gave out all its sweets to love's exquisite flame! FILL THE BUMPER FAIR. FILL the bumper fair! Every drop we sprinkle O'er the brow of Care Ne'er so swiftly passes, As when through the frame It shoots from brimming glasses. Fill the bumper fair! Every drop we sprinkle O'er the brow of Care Smooths away a wrinkle. Sages can, they say, Grasp the lightning's pinions, And bring down its ray From the starr'd dominions ; So we, Sages, sit And 'mid bumpers bright'ning. From the heaven of Wit Draw down all its lightning. Wouldst thou know what first For wine's celestial spirit? When, as bards inform us, Prometheus stole away The living fires that warm us. The careless Youth, when up To Glory's fount aspiring, Took nor urn nor cup To hide the pilfer'd fire in.But O his joy ! when, round The halls of heaven spying, Among the stars he found A bowl of Bacchus lying. Some drops were in that bowl, Remains of last night's pleasure, With which the Sparks of Soul Mix'd their burning treasure. Hence the goblet's shower Hath such spells to win us; O'er that flame within us. Smooths away a wrinkle. DEAR HARP OF MY COUNTRY. DEAR Harp of my Country! in darkness I found thee, The cold chain of silence had hung o'er thee long,* When proudly, my own Island Harp, I unbound thee, And gave all thy chords to light, freedom and song! The warm lay of love, and the light note of gladness Have waken'd thy fondest, thy liveliest thrill; But so oft hast thou echoed the deep sigh of sadness, That e'en in thy mirth it will steal from thee still. Dear Harp of my Country! farewell to thy numbers, This sweet wreath of song is the last we shall twine! Go, sleep with the sunshine of Fame on thy slumbers, Till touch'd by some hand less unworthy than mine. If the pulse of the patriot, soldier, or lover, Have throbb'd at our lay, 'tis thy glory alone; I was but as the wind, passing heedlessly over, And all the wild sweetness I wak'd was thy own. * In that rebellious but beautiful song, "When Erin first rose,' there is, if I recollect right, the following line 'The dark chain of silence was thrown o'er the deep.' The Chain of Silence was a sort of practical figure of rhetoric among the ancient Irish. Walker tells us of" a celebrated contention for precedence between Finn and Gaul, near Finn's palace at Almhaim, where the attending bards, anxious, if possible, to produce a cessation of hostilities, shook the Chain of Silence, and flung themselves among the ranks." See also the Ode to Gaul, in Miss Brookes's Reliques of Irish Poetry. MY GENTLE HARP. MY gentle Harp! once more I waken And yet, since last thy chord resounded, With hopes that now are turn'd to shame. Then, who can ask for notes of pleasure, As ill would suit the swan's decline! Invoke thy breath for Freedom's strains, When ev'n the wreaths in which I dress thee Are sadly mix'd-half flowers, half chains ? But come, if yet thy frame can borrow AS SLOW OUR SHIP. AS slow our ship her foamy track When, round the bowl, of vanish'd years * Dimidio magicæ resonant ubi Memnone chorda." JUVENAL. |