The Harp of Erin Containing the Poetical Works of the Late Thomas Dermody. In Two Volumes |
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THE VISION OF ST. PATRICK.
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 | The Harp of Erin |  |
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THE VISION OF ST. PATRICK.
A FRAGMENT.
The storm was up, for mischief ready,
Old Patrick's church, with tempests giddy,
Rock'd its tall shatter'd spire unsteady;
Each antique pile
Regroan'd the blast, when fraught with dread, I
Stalk'd the long aisle:
Old Patrick's church, with tempests giddy,
Rock'd its tall shatter'd spire unsteady;
Each antique pile
Regroan'd the blast, when fraught with dread, I
Stalk'd the long aisle:
Sudden, meanwhile, a mitred shade,
In venerable stole array'd,
Broke on my musing eye dismay'd
From that lone tomb
Where Swift, Ierne's boast, is laid
Deep clad in gloom.
In venerable stole array'd,
Broke on my musing eye dismay'd
From that lone tomb
Where Swift, Ierne's boast, is laid
Deep clad in gloom.
“Ah me!” the awful semblance sigh'd,
“Thus lies my son, my country's guide,
Where Night and dim Oblivion hide
His moulder'd grave,
While trophies deck each corse of pride,
Each worthless slave.
“Thus lies my son, my country's guide,
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His moulder'd grave,
While trophies deck each corse of pride,
Each worthless slave.
“No filial tear by Wisdom shed,
Streams fondly o'er his marble bed;
No bosom mourns the patriot dead;
No scutcheons grace
The man, who Shame's broad colours spread
On Folly's face.
Streams fondly o'er his marble bed;
No bosom mourns the patriot dead;
No scutcheons grace
The man, who Shame's broad colours spread
On Folly's face.
“Unhappy clime, thrice blest in vain,
What hand shall wake the lofty strain?
Who, burst from thy inglorious train,
By genius fir'd,
That view'st unmov'd the minstrel's fane,
Dull, uninspir'd.
What hand shall wake the lofty strain?
Who, burst from thy inglorious train,
By genius fir'd,
That view'st unmov'd the minstrel's fane,
Dull, uninspir'd.
“Long, lovely exile, hath the pow'r
Whose sweet chord lent the raptur'd hour,
Left that mean coast where knaves devour
The meed of merit,
Where Want hails down its freezing shower
On struggling spirit!
Whose sweet chord lent the raptur'd hour,
Left that mean coast where knaves devour
The meed of merit,
Where Want hails down its freezing shower
On struggling spirit!
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“Where Worth's small gem unhceded gleams
Mid tasteless Grandeur's gorgeous beams,
Where scant the rill of Bounty streams,
To nurse those blooms
That frame the wreath which richly teems
With true perfumes.
Mid tasteless Grandeur's gorgeous beams,
Where scant the rill of Bounty streams,
To nurse those blooms
That frame the wreath which richly teems
With true perfumes.
“Nor Fame shall mark thy little shore,
Nor pleas'd Posterity explore
Thy curious haunts for native lore,
While sad, and low,
The Bard resigns his tuneful store
To listless Woe.”
Nor pleas'd Posterity explore
Thy curious haunts for native lore,
While sad, and low,
The Bard resigns his tuneful store
To listless Woe.”
| The Harp of Erin | |