The Harp of Erin Containing the Poetical Works of the Late Thomas Dermody. In Two Volumes |
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THE DAYS OF YORE. |
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 | The Harp of Erin |  |
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THE DAYS OF YORE.
In knightly hall, or lady's bow'r,
Erewhile the vocal lyre was strung;
And many a laurel, many a flow'r,
Round the sweet Minstrel's harp was hung:
Erewhile the vocal lyre was strung;
And many a laurel, many a flow'r,
Round the sweet Minstrel's harp was hung:
Graceful array'd in flowing stole
Of green, with tissued roses wove,
His ardor warm'd th' heroic soul,
His softness sooth'd disastrous love:
Of green, with tissued roses wove,
His ardor warm'd th' heroic soul,
His softness sooth'd disastrous love:
Mid Harmony's responsive hoard,
His cunning fingers featly caught
Each sound, that rapture might afford,
Or lift sublime the tow'ring thought.
His cunning fingers featly caught
Each sound, that rapture might afford,
Or lift sublime the tow'ring thought.
Yet oft to shun the garish beam,
Mid the deep desert would he stray;
And following quick some haunted stream,
Oft wander from the world away:
Mid the deep desert would he stray;
And following quick some haunted stream,
Oft wander from the world away:
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Stretch'd, listless, on the headlong steep,
Oft would he gaze the scene below;
The painted cloud, the toiling deep,
The purple heath with golden glow!
Oft would he gaze the scene below;
The painted cloud, the toiling deep,
The purple heath with golden glow!
And oft, in silent transport laid,
'Till the shrill curfew struck his ear,
Has Twilight don'd her checquer'd shade,
And Darkness veil'd him musing there.
'Till the shrill curfew struck his ear,
Has Twilight don'd her checquer'd shade,
And Darkness veil'd him musing there.
But yet no fear, mid wild forlorn,
The bard should seek a savage bed;
Some hermit, at his glad return,
The pillow bless'd that lap'd his head.
The bard should seek a savage bed;
Some hermit, at his glad return,
The pillow bless'd that lap'd his head.
Of hateful penury no fear,
The poet still a welcome found:
The peasant press'd his homely cheer,
And magic song the banquet crown'd.
The poet still a welcome found:
The peasant press'd his homely cheer,
And magic song the banquet crown'd.
Gay as the little birds, that fly
All devious through the tangled wood,
To whom boon Nature's stores supply
Their vernal couch, their simple food.
All devious through the tangled wood,
To whom boon Nature's stores supply
Their vernal couch, their simple food.
Ah me! those happy days are past,
And alter'd sore his heavy fate;
By each rude vassal's scoff disgrac'd,
And banish'd from the lordly gate.
And alter'd sore his heavy fate;
By each rude vassal's scoff disgrac'd,
And banish'd from the lordly gate.
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Yet nought of Heav'n illumes that heart
That deals its tuneful servant wrong,
Nor aught of bliss can wealth impart
To him, who slights the honey'd song.
That deals its tuneful servant wrong,
Nor aught of bliss can wealth impart
To him, who slights the honey'd song.
For, sure, of Heav'n that purer flame,
That hath his polish'd mind possess'd;
And sure from source celestial came
The sunshine that pervades his breast.
That hath his polish'd mind possess'd;
And sure from source celestial came
The sunshine that pervades his breast.
Then, nobles deign, and barons bold,
To rear the glory of your land;
And when true genius you behold,
Confess th' Almighty Master's hand.
To rear the glory of your land;
And when true genius you behold,
Confess th' Almighty Master's hand.
Nor dazzling gem on Beauty's brow,
Nor titled Grandeur's garter'd shine,
Can aught so passing bright bestow,
Oh, Genius, as thy splendid line!
Nor titled Grandeur's garter'd shine,
Can aught so passing bright bestow,
Oh, Genius, as thy splendid line!
| The Harp of Erin | |