The Harp of Erin Containing the Poetical Works of the Late Thomas Dermody. In Two Volumes |
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 | II. |
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THE PEASANT'S APPEAL. |
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 | The Harp of Erin |  |
THE PEASANT'S APPEAL.
Ye lordly sons of independant sway!
Supreme in honour, as in wealth secure,
Who from the hut, disdainful, turn away,
And slight the simple suff'rings of the poor;
Supreme in honour, as in wealth secure,
Who from the hut, disdainful, turn away,
And slight the simple suff'rings of the poor;
Won by the magic of prevailing woe,
Soft Pity's dew-drop trembling in your eye,
Oh! quit each idle pomp of painted show,
And lift the latch on shrinking Penury.
Soft Pity's dew-drop trembling in your eye,
Oh! quit each idle pomp of painted show,
And lift the latch on shrinking Penury.
No more the bright hearth lends its cheerful blaze;
With plenty teems no more the frugal board;
No more the infant round its parent plays,
Or smiling welcome owns the cottage-lord.
With plenty teems no more the frugal board;
No more the infant round its parent plays,
Or smiling welcome owns the cottage-lord.
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Long wint'ry hours of ceaseless labour past,
When night to toil brief interval bestows,
He views with care each darling face o'ercast,
And pangs domestic torture his repose.
When night to toil brief interval bestows,
He views with care each darling face o'ercast,
And pangs domestic torture his repose.
No ruddy features, on the turf-clad seat,
That fronts his door, at ev'ning close, are seen;
No anxious looks his fond approaching meet,
Or little footsteps brush the daisy'd green.
That fronts his door, at ev'ning close, are seen;
No anxious looks his fond approaching meet,
Or little footsteps brush the daisy'd green.
The sweet repast of cordial kindness o'er,
His stool no oft-invited pilgrim draws,
Prompt to relieve with legendary lore,
Of wearied industry the festive pause.
His stool no oft-invited pilgrim draws,
Prompt to relieve with legendary lore,
Of wearied industry the festive pause.
Scarce can his sinewy strength, and sun-burnt
brow,
Wrest a dry morsel from the gripe of Pride,
Sufficient to sustain life's languid glow,
Or with a famish'd family divide.
Wrest a dry morsel from the gripe of Pride,
Sufficient to sustain life's languid glow,
Or with a famish'd family divide.
Lost is the garden's small, but useful bound,
Whose vegetable charms so gaily spread;
Where the tall bean, luxuriant, breath'd around,
Or silver turnip rear'd its tufted head:
Whose vegetable charms so gaily spread;
Where the tall bean, luxuriant, breath'd around,
Or silver turnip rear'd its tufted head:
Forgot the culture of a master's hand,
Obnoxious weeds the happy confines seize,
The specious hemlock's baleful blooms expand,
And thistly down waves to the barren breeze.
Obnoxious weeds the happy confines seize,
The specious hemlock's baleful blooms expand,
And thistly down waves to the barren breeze.
160
What sorrows must the father's heart assail,
Should Sickness, with redoubled rage invade,
Fever, wild fiend, or pin'd consumption pale,
Want's hideous servants, desolate the shade?
Should Sickness, with redoubled rage invade,
Fever, wild fiend, or pin'd consumption pale,
Want's hideous servants, desolate the shade?
Methinks I mark him in this state forlorn,
With torment writhing on the cold, damp floor,
By each infuriate thought remorseless torn,
'Till the big anguish bursts,—and thought's no more.
With torment writhing on the cold, damp floor,
By each infuriate thought remorseless torn,
'Till the big anguish bursts,—and thought's no more.
Taught by this artless, not untender strain,
What varied ills the vassal hind await,
What silent wrongs inflict severest pain,
And bend him, groaning, to his ruthless fate;
What varied ills the vassal hind await,
What silent wrongs inflict severest pain,
And bend him, groaning, to his ruthless fate;
Ye lordly sons of independant sway!
Supreme in honour, as in wealth secure,
Ne'er from the hut, disdainful, turn away,
Nor slight the simple suff'rings of the poor!
Supreme in honour, as in wealth secure,
Ne'er from the hut, disdainful, turn away,
Nor slight the simple suff'rings of the poor!
| The Harp of Erin | |