 | The Harp of Erin |  |
O! exquisite distress! oh, startling thought,
Beyond the highest pitch of fancy wrought;
Severest of severe! poor trembling thing,
(For thing thou art if so) what torments spring,
What twilight cares, what agonies unknown—
Will no kind suppliance to the sapient Throne,
No vows, no pray'rs, soft intercession force,
Or, the great mandate from its fate divorce.
Beyond the highest pitch of fancy wrought;
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(For thing thou art if so) what torments spring,
What twilight cares, what agonies unknown—
Will no kind suppliance to the sapient Throne,
No vows, no pray'rs, soft intercession force,
Or, the great mandate from its fate divorce.
Is Pity's ear quite clos'd? Is Mercy's eye
Averted from thy woes? Is soft reply,
Or soothing promise of some stated end,
When pangs no more the writhing frame shall rend,
Deny'd—Forbid it Reason!—Heav'n forbid!
The tear of melting rage, in deep clouds hid,
Shall fall on ev'ry wound, like healing dew,
Again the long-divided whole renew;
Again to man his cherub-semblance give,
And Death himself beset, allow the dead to live;
Sin purg'd by touch ethereal, sin no more,
The Sire shall pardon, and the Son restore!
Averted from thy woes? Is soft reply,
Or soothing promise of some stated end,
When pangs no more the writhing frame shall rend,
Deny'd—Forbid it Reason!—Heav'n forbid!
The tear of melting rage, in deep clouds hid,
Shall fall on ev'ry wound, like healing dew,
Again the long-divided whole renew;
Again to man his cherub-semblance give,
And Death himself beset, allow the dead to live;
Sin purg'd by touch ethereal, sin no more,
The Sire shall pardon, and the Son restore!
| The Harp of Erin | |