The Harp of Erin Containing the Poetical Works of the Late Thomas Dermody. In Two Volumes |
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THE WANDERER.
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 | The Harp of Erin |  |
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THE WANDERER.
A FRAGMENT.
Yon rich domain once own'd Benignus
lord,
Long by all earthly changes unassail'd;
But fell injustice seiz'd his frugal hoard,
His cattle perished, and his harvests failed.
Long by all earthly changes unassail'd;
But fell injustice seiz'd his frugal hoard,
His cattle perished, and his harvests failed.
Forlorn and poor, yet still of steady mind,
To foreign climes he bent his cheerless way;
One tender babe alone, he left behind,
That in the nurse's arms yet lisping lay.
To foreign climes he bent his cheerless way;
One tender babe alone, he left behind,
That in the nurse's arms yet lisping lay.
Homeward, at last, with feeble steps he came,
Full many a year had worn his furrow'd face;
A beggar's garb bely'd his nobler frame,
For through that garb appear'd a rev'rend grace.
Full many a year had worn his furrow'd face;
A beggar's garb bely'd his nobler frame,
For through that garb appear'd a rev'rend grace.
And now a stately mansion met his eye;
Thither he turned to seek a nightly bed,
Where he might heave, unknown, the secret sigh,
Where he might haply rest his aching head.
Thither he turned to seek a nightly bed,
Where he might heave, unknown, the secret sigh,
Where he might haply rest his aching head.
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His claim was heard: the gates were open'd wide,
For Charity herself dwelt porter there;
Nor did she help with ostentatious pride,
But on each gift bestow'd a friendly tear.
For Charity herself dwelt porter there;
Nor did she help with ostentatious pride,
But on each gift bestow'd a friendly tear.
The master came to soothe his sorrowing guest,
And pledged with sweet humility the bowl;
But, oh! what throbbing wonder fill'd his breast,
When all his father rush'd upon his soul.
And pledged with sweet humility the bowl;
But, oh! what throbbing wonder fill'd his breast,
When all his father rush'd upon his soul.
Amazed he marked each feature o'er and o'er,
Nor could pale age each manly beauty hide,
“And do I hold thee (sobb'd he out,) once more,
My son! my son!” the happy hermit cry'd.
Nor could pale age each manly beauty hide,
“And do I hold thee (sobb'd he out,) once more,
My son! my son!” the happy hermit cry'd.
| The Harp of Erin | |