The Harp of Erin Containing the Poetical Works of the Late Thomas Dermody. In Two Volumes |
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 | The Harp of Erin |  |
Though late, the Muse, on Abercrombie's hearse,
Hung her vain wreath of tributary verse;
And still would paint with no ungraceful art,
His Kempt's high purpose, and benignant heart.
One of the favor'd few, who best might claim
A portion of his friendship, or his fame.
Now brighter scenes attract her fond survey,
Scenes that entice the wanderer on her way,
And festive pleasures, drest in florid bloom,
Indignant, chide her ling'ring o'er the tomb.
Hark! the loud cannon from the Julian tow'r,
With harmless thunder scares the midnight hour!
Th' illumin'd domes their mimic stars display,
And Thames' blue breast reflects a softer day!
Again, majestic river! on thy tide,
In splendid state shall anch'ring navies ride;
Again, shall rapture hear, thy banks along,
The seaman's whistle join the shepherd's song;
And sun-burnt commerce waft, with patient smile,
The wealth of worlds to her distinguish'd isle.
Lo! where the woe-worn widow, trembling stands,
And lifts to heav'n her supplicating hands;
Lo! where the virgin, thrill'd with doubt severe,
In modest anguish hides the trickling tear!
Mourners, look up, and live! infectious air,
Nor prison'd want, nor comfortless despair,
Could from your sailor's faithful soul remove
The stubborn ties of duty and of love.
Yes! he shall come, with fond assiduous care,
To soothe your sorrows, or at least to share;
The manly strength, which oft, with lion-force,
Through death's dire breach could urge its dauntless course;
Once more shall for your helpless age provide,
And shield you from the coward-taunt of pride!
Methinks, escap'd by chance, from thousands slain,
Proud of his wounds, and triumphing in pain,
Fame-fed, awhile forgetful he is poor,
I see the soldier ope his native door!
The latch, by him untouch'd for many a year,
Leaps to his hand!—and oh! what scenes appear!
The wond'ring wife, approaching from afar,
Scarce knows his face, deform'd with many a scar;
The tott'ring grandsire, though his eye-sight fail,
Feels the superior sense, within, prevail;
The ready stool his prattling tribe prepare,
Their wild black eyes upturn'd with dubious stare;
Aside the knapsack's hairy wonder thrust;
Or, from the polish'd musquet rub the rust.
Then fledg'd with down, the hurrying moments fly.
O'er many a question, many a quick reply,
Fell siege, and fatal storm, and ambuscade,
In dying embers on the hearth pourtray'd;
'Till wearied toil, to needful rest withdrawn,
Adjourns th' unfinish'd story to the dawn.
Cherubic Peace! whose wond'rous power can save
Contending empires from the gaping grave,
When, like an earthquake, felt by Nature's groans,
Gigantic discord shakes establish'd thrones,
And stooping from the whirlwind's wing sublime,
His huge scythe seizes from the grasp of Time,
Prepar'd, with one exterminating blow,
To lay the labours of creation low.
Again, beneath thy joy-inspiring shade,
The chearful artizan shall ply his trade,
Shape into symmetry the fluid mass
Of pliant steel, or fire-tormented brass:
Or stamp on kingly gold the monarch's head,
No more condemn'd to mould the murd'rous lead.
Again, encourag'd by the halcyon-sway,
Wealth's merchant-sons shall crowd the busy quay,
With costly cargoes load the shining ground,
And pour rich plenty on each coast around.
E'en the poor captive, whose disastrous doom,
Has hurl'd him to the dungeon's dreary gloom,
With kind compassion sooth'd, shall gladly know,
That Britain venerates a fallen foe,
Fond, with soft skill, to close each cruel scar,
And heal the gashes of remorseless war.
Yet must I mourn your lot, unhappy band!
Who pine at distance from your natal land,
Doom'd, in unpitied misery to roam,
Abroad deserted, and despis'd at home;
For I have often mark'd your lonely way,
When hast'ning from the giddy and the gay,
Some dark, congenial solitude, you sought,
In whisper'd plaint t' impart the tender thought;
While the unfeeling hind, who ne'er could boast
Of fortune's favour, or bemoan'd it, lost,
Whose heart ne'er own'd Humanity's sweet glow,
Unsympathizing, scoff'd your social woe.
Say, why should party's baneful pest divide
The panting lover from his promis'd bride?
The finer fibres of affection rend,
And plant hostility 'twixt friend and friend?
Yes! let the exil'd victim view, once more,
His vintage swell, though double-dy'd in gore;
Lord of himself, in his own mansion stand,
And share the harvest, planted by his hand.
Hung her vain wreath of tributary verse;
And still would paint with no ungraceful art,
His Kempt's high purpose, and benignant heart.
205
A portion of his friendship, or his fame.
Now brighter scenes attract her fond survey,
Scenes that entice the wanderer on her way,
And festive pleasures, drest in florid bloom,
Indignant, chide her ling'ring o'er the tomb.
Hark! the loud cannon from the Julian tow'r,
With harmless thunder scares the midnight hour!
Th' illumin'd domes their mimic stars display,
And Thames' blue breast reflects a softer day!
Again, majestic river! on thy tide,
In splendid state shall anch'ring navies ride;
Again, shall rapture hear, thy banks along,
The seaman's whistle join the shepherd's song;
And sun-burnt commerce waft, with patient smile,
The wealth of worlds to her distinguish'd isle.
Lo! where the woe-worn widow, trembling stands,
And lifts to heav'n her supplicating hands;
Lo! where the virgin, thrill'd with doubt severe,
In modest anguish hides the trickling tear!
Mourners, look up, and live! infectious air,
Nor prison'd want, nor comfortless despair,
Could from your sailor's faithful soul remove
The stubborn ties of duty and of love.
Yes! he shall come, with fond assiduous care,
To soothe your sorrows, or at least to share;
206
Through death's dire breach could urge its dauntless course;
Once more shall for your helpless age provide,
And shield you from the coward-taunt of pride!
Methinks, escap'd by chance, from thousands slain,
Proud of his wounds, and triumphing in pain,
Fame-fed, awhile forgetful he is poor,
I see the soldier ope his native door!
The latch, by him untouch'd for many a year,
Leaps to his hand!—and oh! what scenes appear!
The wond'ring wife, approaching from afar,
Scarce knows his face, deform'd with many a scar;
The tott'ring grandsire, though his eye-sight fail,
Feels the superior sense, within, prevail;
The ready stool his prattling tribe prepare,
Their wild black eyes upturn'd with dubious stare;
Aside the knapsack's hairy wonder thrust;
Or, from the polish'd musquet rub the rust.
Then fledg'd with down, the hurrying moments fly.
O'er many a question, many a quick reply,
Fell siege, and fatal storm, and ambuscade,
In dying embers on the hearth pourtray'd;
'Till wearied toil, to needful rest withdrawn,
Adjourns th' unfinish'd story to the dawn.
207
Contending empires from the gaping grave,
When, like an earthquake, felt by Nature's groans,
Gigantic discord shakes establish'd thrones,
And stooping from the whirlwind's wing sublime,
His huge scythe seizes from the grasp of Time,
Prepar'd, with one exterminating blow,
To lay the labours of creation low.
Again, beneath thy joy-inspiring shade,
The chearful artizan shall ply his trade,
Shape into symmetry the fluid mass
Of pliant steel, or fire-tormented brass:
Or stamp on kingly gold the monarch's head,
No more condemn'd to mould the murd'rous lead.
Again, encourag'd by the halcyon-sway,
Wealth's merchant-sons shall crowd the busy quay,
With costly cargoes load the shining ground,
And pour rich plenty on each coast around.
E'en the poor captive, whose disastrous doom,
Has hurl'd him to the dungeon's dreary gloom,
With kind compassion sooth'd, shall gladly know,
That Britain venerates a fallen foe,
Fond, with soft skill, to close each cruel scar,
And heal the gashes of remorseless war.
208
Who pine at distance from your natal land,
Doom'd, in unpitied misery to roam,
Abroad deserted, and despis'd at home;
For I have often mark'd your lonely way,
When hast'ning from the giddy and the gay,
Some dark, congenial solitude, you sought,
In whisper'd plaint t' impart the tender thought;
While the unfeeling hind, who ne'er could boast
Of fortune's favour, or bemoan'd it, lost,
Whose heart ne'er own'd Humanity's sweet glow,
Unsympathizing, scoff'd your social woe.
Say, why should party's baneful pest divide
The panting lover from his promis'd bride?
The finer fibres of affection rend,
And plant hostility 'twixt friend and friend?
Yes! let the exil'd victim view, once more,
His vintage swell, though double-dy'd in gore;
Lord of himself, in his own mansion stand,
And share the harvest, planted by his hand.
| The Harp of Erin | |