The Harp of Erin Containing the Poetical Works of the Late Thomas Dermody. In Two Volumes |
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 | The Harp of Erin |  |
Thronging through the twilight shade,
Venerable forms are seen,
Of warriors, patriots, poets, whose brave deeds
He on the swelling page pourtray'd,
O'er which, ev'n yet, heroic ardor bleeds!
But Judgment forward moves, weeping, he pours
The notes of melting sorrow, oft his eye
Turn'd in meek anguish to the cruel sky,
He speaks!
Venerable forms are seen,
Of warriors, patriots, poets, whose brave deeds
He on the swelling page pourtray'd,
O'er which, ev'n yet, heroic ardor bleeds!
But Judgment forward moves, weeping, he pours
The notes of melting sorrow, oft his eye
Turn'd in meek anguish to the cruel sky,
He speaks!
“All hail, in thy Elysian bow'rs,
Seraphic stranger, may the harps of heaven,
Most musical, thy solemn entry sound,
For thou couldst best celestial fire impart,
And with thy colours blend the spark of life;
Whether, triumphant from the glorious field,
The gallant soldier claim'd thy grace divine;
Or statesman, steady in his country's cause,
Thy vivid tint, thy animating touch
Gave lustre to each act; vile envy pined,
And Nature fondly lingered o'er thy piece;
Not Titian's kindling hues, or Guido's air
So exquisitely fine, nor Rosa's force
Romantically charming, nor the son
Of painting, Angelo, could snatch one leaf
From thy acknowledged laurels! Heav'n, how glows,
Correctly chaste, enchantingly combin'd,
Thy figur'd likeness, see! the rosy cheek,
The modest front ingenuous, the lip
Breathing delicious love, the sparkling eye
In humid radiance rolling, the smooth chin
Dimpled, the bosom, through its gauzy veil
Panting, and ev'n from continence himself
The stolen glance extorting! Beauty's own blush
Illumes! what angel, from his sapphire seat,
Descended, to unite the magic tints,
To give Promethean vigour to thy hand,
And rifle all the stores of varying light!
Seraphic stranger, may the harps of heaven,
Most musical, thy solemn entry sound,
237
And with thy colours blend the spark of life;
Whether, triumphant from the glorious field,
The gallant soldier claim'd thy grace divine;
Or statesman, steady in his country's cause,
Thy vivid tint, thy animating touch
Gave lustre to each act; vile envy pined,
And Nature fondly lingered o'er thy piece;
Not Titian's kindling hues, or Guido's air
So exquisitely fine, nor Rosa's force
Romantically charming, nor the son
Of painting, Angelo, could snatch one leaf
From thy acknowledged laurels! Heav'n, how glows,
Correctly chaste, enchantingly combin'd,
Thy figur'd likeness, see! the rosy cheek,
The modest front ingenuous, the lip
Breathing delicious love, the sparkling eye
In humid radiance rolling, the smooth chin
Dimpled, the bosom, through its gauzy veil
Panting, and ev'n from continence himself
The stolen glance extorting! Beauty's own blush
Illumes! what angel, from his sapphire seat,
Descended, to unite the magic tints,
To give Promethean vigour to thy hand,
And rifle all the stores of varying light!
| The Harp of Erin | |