 | The Harp of Erin |  |
WRITTEN IN A BURIAL PLACE.
Ah me! and must I, like the tenant
lie
Of this dark cell, all hush'd the witching song,
And will not Feeling bend his streaming eye
On my green sod, as slow he wends along,
And, smiting his rapt bosom, softly sigh,
“His genius soar'd above the vulgar throng!”
Of this dark cell, all hush'd the witching song,
And will not Feeling bend his streaming eye
On my green sod, as slow he wends along,
And, smiting his rapt bosom, softly sigh,
“His genius soar'd above the vulgar throng!”
Will he not fence my weedless turf around,
Sacred from dull-ey'd Folly's vagrant feet,
And there, soft-swelling in aerial sound,
Will he not list, at eve, to voices sweet,
Strew with the spring's first flow'rs the little mound,
And often muse within the lone retreat!
Sacred from dull-ey'd Folly's vagrant feet,
And there, soft-swelling in aerial sound,
Will he not list, at eve, to voices sweet,
253
And often muse within the lone retreat!
Yes;—though I not affect th' immortal bay,
Nor bold effusions of the learned quill,
Nor often have I wound my tedious way
Up the steep summit of the Muse's hill,
Yet sometimes have I pour'd th' incondite lay,
And sometimes have I felt the rapt'rous thrill;
Nor bold effusions of the learned quill,
Nor often have I wound my tedious way
Up the steep summit of the Muse's hill,
Yet sometimes have I pour'd th' incondite lay,
And sometimes have I felt the rapt'rous thrill;
Him therefore, whom ev'n once, the sacred Muse
Has blest, shall be to feeling ever dear,
And soft as sweet sad April's gleamy dews,
On my cold clay shall fall the genial tear,
While pensive as the springing herb he views,
He cries, “Though mute, there is a poet here!”
Has blest, shall be to feeling ever dear,
And soft as sweet sad April's gleamy dews,
On my cold clay shall fall the genial tear,
While pensive as the springing herb he views,
He cries, “Though mute, there is a poet here!”
| The Harp of Erin | |