 | The Harp of Erin |  |
Vainly, would human arrogance deny,
The pow'rs that in thy dread commission lie;
Vainly, would his prepost'rous dream advance
To heaven's high seat the anarchy of chance;
And print upon the yielding heart of youth,
The poet's fiction, not th' apostle's truth,
Rude health impair'd, this idle mock'ry fled,
When sickness plants with thorns his burning bed,
When conscience self her gorgon-mirror rears,
And shakes her snaky scourge, and slights his tears,
Where shall the God-abandon'd look for ease,
Who laugh'd, so Intely, at his just decrees?
Where, but to that exulting fiend, whose praise
He toil'd to celebrate in happier days.
The pow'rs that in thy dread commission lie;
Vainly, would his prepost'rous dream advance
To heaven's high seat the anarchy of chance;
And print upon the yielding heart of youth,
The poet's fiction, not th' apostle's truth,
210
When sickness plants with thorns his burning bed,
When conscience self her gorgon-mirror rears,
And shakes her snaky scourge, and slights his tears,
Where shall the God-abandon'd look for ease,
Who laugh'd, so Intely, at his just decrees?
Where, but to that exulting fiend, whose praise
He toil'd to celebrate in happier days.
| The Harp of Erin | |