The Harp of Erin :: :: University of Virginia Library

And art thou fall'n from thy majestic height,
Bold bird of Jove? the lightning of thine eye
Wont to pursue the rebels of the sky,
Extinct—and all thy former vigour gone,
In such a space! Lamented patriot, say,
Is thy full sun of glory clos'd in night?
Has death extinguish'd ev'ry genuine ray,
Erst beaming from thy breast, truth's spotless throne?
Ah, me! how short mortality's sad reign,
How short our durance in life's vile abode!
When fate commands, all terrine ties, how vain,
Vain the calm sceptre or tyrannic rod!
Equality unfolds her russet pall,
With portion just, o'er all;
And dull oblivion mars the pageant dream!
Quaint scutcheons, high wrought tombs are seen,
Low as the humble shepherd's hillock green,
And o'er that hillock green, as pure tears stream

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And sighs as fervent heave,
As o'er the classic urn, or civic grave?
But o'er the classic urn, the civic grave,
Shall nations bid no laureate honors wave;
Say, shall a Moira sink without a name,
A Milton seek the shade unken'd by partial fame?
Lo! from Parnassian dell the Muses come,
And Fancy, fair, her temples bound
With flow'rets, cull'd from ev'ry plain around
Each verdant stalk, or bell,
Dank with Castalian dews, and dipt in loveliest bloom?
Struck by her wand, in mystic guise
Ten thousand sprites arise
Obedient to the spell!
In bright array th' aërial squadrons throng;
Honour, her eye-ball fix'd in ardent gaze
On Truth's eternal blaze—
Freedom, with helm of fiery hue,
Her front with many a starry gem
Illum'd, like that rich diadem
That flames a meteor o'er the heav'nly plain,
And draws behind a long and glitt'ring train.

And prudence too,
Like palmer old yclad, with wrinkled brow,

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And silver'd locks, the long-drawn troop doth join;
Though eld has feebled his weak tott'ring frame,
And public cares to craze his head combine,
And frigid thoughts earth-born, confound his schemes divine.
Now from the rest th' immortal queen appears!
To her these winged minstrels bow,
And to their lyres accord the lofty song,
That gives some chosen son to fame.
Virtue, th' immortal queen, well-pleas'd, commends
Their high heroic theme, their sounding harp
Meet, or for Doric reed, or Spartan fife!
And o'er each bard with fond attention bends.
No sound offends the ear, of discord sharp,
No tone, express of inharmonic strife;
But cease—th' immortal queen, with humid eye,
And paly cheek, signs of excessive woe,
Draws from her aching breast one matchless sigh,
Bids from her lid one tear ambrosian flow,
And cries—

“Thou, last and best executor
Of all my grand behests! thou, faithful slave
Of heav'n, to nothing less than heav'n a slave,
Accept this off'ring from a hand divine.
Lo! in this crown I've braided flow'rs more sweet
Than amaranth, more lasting too, and more

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Tenacious of their fragrance; modesty,
Small gem, that like the violet, eschews
The garish day, yet glads the lonely vale
With unbought odours; Wisdom, charg'd with sweets,
But guarded by a speary throng of thorns,
To touch profane offensive; Fortitude
That rears his red crest in the glare of noon,
Ambitious of the blaze from Phœbus' car
Glanc'd on his bosom; Truth, too, decks thy choice
Like the pale snowdrop clad in kindred white,
Her heart much whiter. But to excel them all,
Here's Piety, obscur'd by modest veil,
To all the rest, a tint more soft'ning lends,
Sombre not sad—Such is the crown of virtue,
And such the meed Alcander's worth deserves.”