The Harp of Erin Containing the Poetical Works of the Late Thomas Dermody. In Two Volumes |
 | I. |
 | II. |
|
|
POETICAL PHRENZY. |
|
|
 | The Harp of Erin |  |
181
POETICAL PHRENZY.
Where fades in yonder tented sky,
The ling'ring sun's last rosy dye,
I faintly view created forms,
Forth from the purple clouds advance,
While musing Fancy in her witching trance,
Decks each fair shape with inexpressive charms;
Serene, the dusky moments glide away,
'Till pensive ev'ning folds the silent valves of day.
O! nought of wondrous or sublime,
Can 'scape that minstrel's gifted sight;
Whose breast the faery joys delight,
And all the subtle spells of wizard rhime;
He, o'er the pale moon's shaded face
Can many a beauteous semblance trace;
He, in the torrents tumbling flood,
Can view, severe, its angry God;
Or, when the elemental fiends conspire,
Nature convuls'd, and sick'ning mid the gloom,
His eagle-eye may, all unhurt, presume
To mark the red right arm, that darts the forked fire.
The ling'ring sun's last rosy dye,
I faintly view created forms,
Forth from the purple clouds advance,
While musing Fancy in her witching trance,
Decks each fair shape with inexpressive charms;
Serene, the dusky moments glide away,
'Till pensive ev'ning folds the silent valves of day.
O! nought of wondrous or sublime,
Can 'scape that minstrel's gifted sight;
Whose breast the faery joys delight,
And all the subtle spells of wizard rhime;
He, o'er the pale moon's shaded face
Can many a beauteous semblance trace;
He, in the torrents tumbling flood,
Can view, severe, its angry God;
Or, when the elemental fiends conspire,
Nature convuls'd, and sick'ning mid the gloom,
His eagle-eye may, all unhurt, presume
To mark the red right arm, that darts the forked fire.
182
Where'er the poet bends his thoughtful way,
Ideal crowds fantastic gambols play;
Ev'n where the branches deep-embrown'd,
Fling a delightful desert round,
His piercing glance society can found:
Where, low the tangled thicket lies;
Imaginary cities rise;
And, plain to wild Invention's ken alone,
The forests boast of wonders not their own;
Meanwhile, his visionary senses find,
New airy children of Promethean mind.
Ideal crowds fantastic gambols play;
Ev'n where the branches deep-embrown'd,
Fling a delightful desert round,
His piercing glance society can found:
Where, low the tangled thicket lies;
Imaginary cities rise;
And, plain to wild Invention's ken alone,
The forests boast of wonders not their own;
Meanwhile, his visionary senses find,
New airy children of Promethean mind.
In some diviner dream, like those,
Shakspeare, thy noblest spirit rose;
Then, “sea nymphs rung the hourly knell;”
Then, teem'd with hideous births the blasted heath;
Then, left the royal Dane his earthy bed beneath;
And Fancy whisper'd in thy ravish'd ear,
Such matchless flights above yon lunar sphere,
As rigid reason ne'er could tell!
Shakspeare, thy noblest spirit rose;
Then, “sea nymphs rung the hourly knell;”
Then, teem'd with hideous births the blasted heath;
Then, left the royal Dane his earthy bed beneath;
And Fancy whisper'd in thy ravish'd ear,
Such matchless flights above yon lunar sphere,
As rigid reason ne'er could tell!
| The Harp of Erin | |