 | The Harp of Erin |  |
As rising from the gloomy realms of
night,
The glitt'ring day-star shows his rosy light,
Streams his soft radiance o'er the warbling grove,
And wakes each spray to harmony and love;
So, touch'd by tender thought of happier time,
My renovated spirit soars sublime,
To catch the lustre of thy genial rays,
And bask, sweet Peace, in thy auspicious blaze!
Already has the slaught'ring pow'r confest
Thy gentle sway, and clasp'd thee to his breast:
Already the rash sparks of fury fly
From the dread circle of his blood-shot eye,
While sooth'd to slumber by resistles charms,
The grizzly warrior sinks into thy arms.
See! where the smiling joys, a wanton train!
Urge his rude car along the level plain,
Each iron wheel entwine with florets gay,
Or, fearful, wipe fresh drops of blood away.
See! where the myrtle's balmy branch they rend,
And living laurels with the olive blend,
Pleas'd, o'er his rugged front's portentous lour,
To shed, with lavish hand, the fragrant show'r;
Till many a sprightly sport, and wayward wile,
Unbend his features to a surly smile,
And the grim god, dissolv'd in new-born bliss,
Luxurious, faints upon each nectar'd kiss.
The glitt'ring day-star shows his rosy light,
Streams his soft radiance o'er the warbling grove,
And wakes each spray to harmony and love;
So, touch'd by tender thought of happier time,
My renovated spirit soars sublime,
To catch the lustre of thy genial rays,
And bask, sweet Peace, in thy auspicious blaze!
Already has the slaught'ring pow'r confest
Thy gentle sway, and clasp'd thee to his breast:
203
From the dread circle of his blood-shot eye,
While sooth'd to slumber by resistles charms,
The grizzly warrior sinks into thy arms.
See! where the smiling joys, a wanton train!
Urge his rude car along the level plain,
Each iron wheel entwine with florets gay,
Or, fearful, wipe fresh drops of blood away.
See! where the myrtle's balmy branch they rend,
And living laurels with the olive blend,
Pleas'd, o'er his rugged front's portentous lour,
To shed, with lavish hand, the fragrant show'r;
Till many a sprightly sport, and wayward wile,
Unbend his features to a surly smile,
And the grim god, dissolv'd in new-born bliss,
Luxurious, faints upon each nectar'd kiss.
While anxious Hawkesbury, whose fervid zeal,
And forceful tongue, promote the public weal,
Sagacious Hermes of th' applauding state!
With winged speed confirms the will of fate,
And bids each cloud before his flight remove,
Charg'd with the mandates of our British Jove;
Again, will Addington his car incline
To the weak homage of my humble line?
Nor scorn the minstrel-boy, whose modest aim
Ne'er scal'd before the arduous steep of fame,
Content, in lone obscurity, to sing,
Nor bathe his bold lip in the Thespian spring.
Delightful rushing on my raptur'd view,
What pompous years their radiant march renew!
A shining host! and crowded still behind,
New, dazzling glories press upon my mind.
Oblivion! let thy lenient finger steal
O'er the sad, silent past, the shadowy veil!
Ah! ne'er let mem'ry's melancholy spell
Disturb the gallant bands that guiltless fell;
Presenting to pale fancy's tearful sight,
The ghostly terrors of each foreign fight;
Save when, with pilgrim-step, she loves to trace,
By moonlight dim, some memorable place,
Where Pity, to her sacred vigil true,
Wets the dead soldier's sod with holiest dew;
Or sterner Honour consecrates the ground,
Whose green turf lightly heaves o'er dust renown'd.
And forceful tongue, promote the public weal,
Sagacious Hermes of th' applauding state!
With winged speed confirms the will of fate,
And bids each cloud before his flight remove,
Charg'd with the mandates of our British Jove;
Again, will Addington his car incline
To the weak homage of my humble line?
Nor scorn the minstrel-boy, whose modest aim
Ne'er scal'd before the arduous steep of fame,
204
Nor bathe his bold lip in the Thespian spring.
Delightful rushing on my raptur'd view,
What pompous years their radiant march renew!
A shining host! and crowded still behind,
New, dazzling glories press upon my mind.
Oblivion! let thy lenient finger steal
O'er the sad, silent past, the shadowy veil!
Ah! ne'er let mem'ry's melancholy spell
Disturb the gallant bands that guiltless fell;
Presenting to pale fancy's tearful sight,
The ghostly terrors of each foreign fight;
Save when, with pilgrim-step, she loves to trace,
By moonlight dim, some memorable place,
Where Pity, to her sacred vigil true,
Wets the dead soldier's sod with holiest dew;
Or sterner Honour consecrates the ground,
Whose green turf lightly heaves o'er dust renown'd.
| The Harp of Erin | |