 | The Harp of Erin |  |
And prudence too,
Like palmer old yclad, with wrinkled brow,
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—
Like palmer old yclad, with wrinkled brow,
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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
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.”
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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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.”
| The Harp of Erin | |