 | The Harp of Erin |  |
Ah! would ambition learn his proper bound,
Nor rear th' aspiring front terrific crown'd
With sanguine gems, and lurid laurels, seen
But seldom 'mid the olive's bashful green;
Would temp'rate Reason's philosophic rule
Assuage his frenzy, and his hot blood cool,
Instilling gentler cares of home-felt joy,
And sheath the sword, impatient to destroy;
Soon would those souls, that fir'd the recent flight,
In sacred league symphoniously unite;
Divine conviction, with Orphean skill,
Subdue to milder ends the savage will;
Each weed extirpate from the mental mould,
And a fresh growth of fairer bloom unfold.
Nor rear th' aspiring front terrific crown'd
With sanguine gems, and lurid laurels, seen
But seldom 'mid the olive's bashful green;
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Assuage his frenzy, and his hot blood cool,
Instilling gentler cares of home-felt joy,
And sheath the sword, impatient to destroy;
Soon would those souls, that fir'd the recent flight,
In sacred league symphoniously unite;
Divine conviction, with Orphean skill,
Subdue to milder ends the savage will;
Each weed extirpate from the mental mould,
And a fresh growth of fairer bloom unfold.
| The Harp of Erin | |