The Harp of Erin Containing the Poetical Works of the Late Thomas Dermody. In Two Volumes |
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EPISTLE FROM
MAJOR ANDRE TO ELEONORA.
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 | The Harp of Erin |  |
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EPISTLE FROM MAJOR ANDRE TO ELEONORA.
Written the night before his Execution.
From scenes where savage murder stalks around,And sighs of sorrow break through every sound;
Where innocence in vain for pardon pleads,
And Virtue, doom'd by tyrants, soonest bleeds;
Dear long-lost love! thy André greets once more
Thy tender bosom, and his native shore;
His native shore, where soft-eyed Pity stays,
And Mercy lends the crown her brightest rays.
Condemn'd, forlorn—ah! let me spare thy breast,
Condemn'd, when hope delusive called me blest;
Condemn'd, when love prevail'd in all thy charms,
Condemn'd, to feel no more thy rapt'rous arms;
No more to revel in thy soft'ning eye;
Mo more to tell my anguish, till I die.
Is this a bridal-night—yon fury-face
But ill-adorns the nuptial's hallow'd place!
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Could I once more thy dear embraces meet;
Sigh all my soul upon thy breast away,
And all my former vows in solemn ardour say:
Yet that's denied! inhuman fiends, again
Let André banquet on the charming pain,
The dreadful luxury of parting love,
'Tween life and death, in one calm moment prove;
Count all the minutes with ecstatic haste,
And sigh no more when the last minute's past.
Yet what is life? a puny pageant all,
Nor would I grudge, ye cruel heav'ns, to fall;
But ah! yon phantom of my promised bliss
Becks to her arms, and lingers on my peace;
Lo! her poor bosom pants with fiercest woes!
Her radiant tress in frantic frenzy flows;
Her eyes brimfull, their precious torrents spend,
Yes, I will fly, and bid thy mourning end:
Waft in one kiss my ardent soul to thine,
And then expire in ecstacy divine.
Fond, foolish struggle, can thy shrivell'd hand
Force the strong steel, the ruthless watch withstand?
Can thy weak nerves that tremble o'er this page,
O'ercome the despot's dire infernal rage?
O! could the frame invisibly decay,
And like the spirit urge its pathless way;
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And bind my heart to her's with Rapture's roseate band.
—The tyrant comes—sad lines my sorrows tell,
And she will bless this hand that writes a long fare-well.
| The Harp of Erin | |