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

Now faintly beaming on her lucid throne,
The moon, pale regent of the sky,
Her silvery sceptre sways on high,
While Silence, smoth'ring ev'ry sound
Unfit to hail her matron-ear,
Save the lone turtle's solitary moan,
That makes her awful pause more drear,
And keeps the list'ning sense in stilness bound,
Her ermine curtain gently draws around:
Till mounted on the scowling blast,
Anon the midnight demons rave,
And hurling in the iron air,
Come the fleet bands of wild Despair;
And Ruin, tumbled on the rocking wave,
And Conscience' haggard form with bleeding bosom bare.

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Aghast the guilty murd'rer stands,
And wrings his blood-polluted hands;
The orphan meets his bloodshot eye;
His ear is tortur'd with the widow'd sigh;
And oft, amidst his moon-struck ire,
Fiend Agony, with cheek on fire,
And Blasphemy, with icy frown,
And pale-ey'd Sorrow, mix the long-continuing groan;
While Night, by staring Fear astounded driv'n,
Impels her dun steeds up the steep of Heav'n.

Then, Muse, who often fir'd my breast
With song beyond my infant age,
Now greatly swell thy tuneful rage,
And more sublimely tell the rest.
For thou hast often rang'd the wild,
With Inspiration, Fancy's child,
And heard her seraph-chorded lyre:
While thy heart swell'd with purer fire,
Oft hast thou seen her on the bank,
With hoary willows fring'd around,
Her tresses brown with dewy frag'rance dank,
Sweetly excite the pensive-pleasing sound;
While all their chrystal caves among,
The sedge-crown'd sisters of the rill,
Re-echoed bland thy rural song;

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And ev'ry liquid air in lovelier thrill,
And heav'n-rapt Genius too, on yonder hill,
His starry head imbost in clouds,
Would give the harp a deeper fall;
And Melancholy wan, that shrouds
Her moping head in fun'ral pall,
At dewy-sandal'd Morning's peep,
Charm'd with the soft flow of her mellow'd pipe,
In melting music ripe;
Would often lap herself in raptur'd sleep,
Till, haply waken'd by the Oread's call,
Or the rude noise abrupt of yon loud-tott'ring wall;
While thus exalted by their aid,
A more than mortal lustre blaz'd around her head.

Seldom the reas'ning pow'r would come,
Lorn maid, to raise thy soaring sense;
Yet Goodness, void of weak pretence,
And cowl'd in no scholastic gloom,
Would often bless thy humble cell,
And love with thee, fond Muse, to dwell:
And Gratitude, celestial sprite,
Conversant in the laws above,
Would gently clear thy mental sight,
And ope the tome of feeling love;
Or lead thy ravish'd eye afar,

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To pierce th' unfolding world of grace,
And, fir'd with emulation, trace
The glowing journey of the prophet's car;
Or with thy Milton's shade converse
In heav'nly number'd verse;
With him commune, while ev'ry angel hung,
On ev'ry word, and bless'd his mending tongue.
And Michael rear'd his burning crest,
And felt more noble courage fill his breast,
When Milton told his heav'n-directed march,
Of angels scaling the celestial arch,
And Satan shudd'ring at his grim abode,
Hurl'd flaming to the deep by his victorious God.
Such was thy choice; but varying soon,
Thou rov'st along the cypress'd shade,
Charm'd with thy Della Crusca's song,
Or love-lorn Anna's sweeter boon,
To grief and thee! while weeping long,
You sympathiz'd with ev'ry care
That poignant thrill'd the faithful pair;
And willing to reward their love,
For him you robb'd the laureate grove,
And twin'd the myrtle for the charming maid.
Ah! may thy chaplets never fade
But o'er the lovers mutual grave,
The laurel-spray and blooming myrtle wave.

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But too digressive Muse, begin the lay,
And young Invention's magic birth display.

'Twas by Illyssus' verdant stream,
Where Plato, sage, would often rove
The shades of oliv'd Academe,
And seek hoar Wisdom's learned grove;
Blithe Phœbus, free from ev'ry care,
Met Fancy, the ecstatic fair,
Her bosom's downy swell compress'd—
The joyful woodlands told the rest;
For all the nymphs and muses came
To hail the god and matron dame;
And Hymen too, with lucid torch,
Enter'd in joy the hallow'd porch;
And as he came, with lovelier hue
The rose-bud bloom'd, and vi'let blue;
The sweetbriar loads the fragrant wind,
And round the oak the ivy twin'd
With greener clasp, and closer arms—
Sweet emblem of the owner's charms!
But far estrang'd was ev'ry strife,
No clarion hoarse, no martial fife,
Floated the strident gale along;
No artful sound of grating song;
The tortuous horn, the silver lyre,
The liquid nymphs, the heav'nly choir,

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The wooing of the am'rous air,
The ring-dove's plaintive pipe was there;
And ev'n the master, mad with joy,
With music hail'd his darling boy.
Invention, when of tender age,
Would love his mother's various page,
And kindling with her native lore
Rove along the whiten'd shore;
And oft, at deep of gloomy night,
Would watch pale Cynthia's sparkling light,
Dancing o'er the liquid way,
And scatter'd round in many a ray.
Or when his father's steeds would lave
Their burning hoofs in ocean's wave,
Would make their radiance fade away,
And Ev'ning, clad in palmer's gray,
Submit to Cynthia's car behind,
And solemnize the moaning wind!
Then would the youth attempt to climb
The cloud-capt mountain's swell sublime,
And view the black-brow'd clouds above,
Or trace the sable bird of Jove,
Where brooding Night's departed gloom
Was open'd by the low'ring plume;
Then would he lay his infant head
On the slop'd mountain's rocky bed.

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Hark to the torrent's cavern'd roar,
Or the wind blust'ring on the shore,
Or the sprite's sullen skriek below,
Or the calm sigh of gentler woe:
Oft would he think, in wizzard dream,
He saw the Genius of the stream,
Whose eddying waters play on high,
And spread with mists the sable sky,
Borne by his own mad surge adown,
From the rough mountain's crested crown,
Till shricking in his moody woe,
He plunges in the gulph below.

Oft would he seek the charnel gloom,
And dew the hapless lover's tomb,
Who, robb'd of ev'ry kind relief,
In wild extravagance of grief,
Impell'd, alas! by stern despair,
And the harsh treatment of the fair,
Plung'd the fell dagger in his breast;
Yet there, alas! he finds no rest;
His sad ghost walks his pensive round,
And feels his sorrow has no bound!
But then his mother leads the boy
To scenes of pleasure, shades of joy;
To verdant meadows, gay alcoves,
And plains the tender poet loves;

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But verdant meadows, gay alcoves,
Nor plains the tender poet loves,
Could give his heart such joy sincere
As the soft sigh, and stealing tear.
From these, Invention oft would stray
To abbies hoar, and castles gray,
Where Superstition justly bled,
Or banners wav'd o'er warriors dead;
Here would he loiter, here would find
The noblest sympathy of mind;
Here, where the shades of widows mourn,
Bind the pale ozier o'er the sacred urn:
But when to riper years he grew,
His soul confess'd a nobler flame;
Sage Newton well his influence knew,
And he with Inspiration came,
To lead the step of sapient Locke to fame.
Sweet Mulla's bard, with fancy fraught,
Caught native spirit from his pow'r,
Lapt in Imagination's fairy bow'r,
And mighty Milton pierc'd the vast sublime of thought.

Then let the sons of Britain try
Invention's vary'd field again,

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While Judgment lifts the genius high,
And Fancy paints, with piercing eye,
A new creation in her wond'rous reign!
Oh! may we learn sublimer lays,
Nor rob the ancient author's bays:
May Imitation's servile chain,
Confine the free-born soul in vain,
And native Liberty no more depart,
But fire the poet's thought, or warm the patriot's heart.