FRAGMENT XVI.
TO SIGNOR ALPHONSO PILLIGRINNI, LL.D.
Professor of Italian and Spanish, Trinity College, Dublin.
[_]
(Written on the north-west coast of Connaught, at
the Seat of Sir M. C---n, Bart.)
I
The castle lies low, whose towers frown'd so high,
And the landscape is awful and bold;
The mountains around lift their heads to the sky,
And the woods many ages have told.
II
And the world's greatest ocean still dashes its wave
'Gainst the coast that is savagely wild:
Midst the castle's grey ruins there still yawns a cave
Where the sun's cheering light never smil'd.
III
And steep is the precipice, horrid to view,
That rears o'er the ocean its crest:
They say that no bird to its summit e'er flew,
And its base 'neath the waves seems to rest.
IV
And the blast that awakes on Columbia's far shore
Unimpeded here breathes its last sigh,
And the rocks round whose brow th' Atlantic winds roar
The spent storms of Columbia defy.
V
Nor is there a spot midst this scene of romance
Obscur'd by oblivion's dark veil,
Nor is there a fragment that rivets the glance
But some charm from tradition can steal.
VI
For many a pilgrim has pillow'd his head
In that cell that now moulders away,
And many a brave chief and warrior has bled
Near these walls that now fall to decay.
VII
In that spot, by the thistle and long grass o'ergrown,
That breathes round a desolate gloom,
When the blasts through the old abbey's grey ruins moan,
Lies the pilgrim and warrior's tomb.
VIII
But the little enthusiast who boasts thee her friend,
And who strays midst this world of romance,
Where nature such scenes e'en to fancy can lend
As ne'er floated on fancy's rapt glance;
IX
Who roams midst this landscape, so awful and wild,
Who hangs on th' Atlantic's deep roar,
Who visits the cave where the sun never smil'd,
And wanders the desolate shore;
X
Who sighs o'er the tomb where the warrior's laid low,
Where the rough thistle waves its lone head,
Where the blasts o'er the old abbey's grey ruins flow,
And a requiem breathe over the dead;
XI
Yes, th' enthusiast e'en here, midst these scenes drear and wild,
The gentlest of spirits has found,
And many a bosom “ethereally mild,”
By the sweet ties of sympathy bound.
XII
And that polish of manner which only can flow
From the soul that is warm and refin'd,
And those heart-born endearments which shed their soft glow
O'er the stronger endowments of mind.
XIII
Then, oh! tell me, dear friend, what has place, what has scene,
To do with the heart or the soul?
For like theirs, sure thine own gen'rous bosom had been
The same 'neath the line or the pole.
