The Harp of Erin Containing the Poetical Works of the Late Thomas Dermody. In Two Volumes |
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| TO MY MUSE. |
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 | The Harp of Erin |  |
TO MY MUSE.
Well, after all our quarrels, strifes, and squabble,And though full oft I've curs'd thy tuneful gabble,
I cannot say, sweet slut, I quite abhor ye—
Methinks I have a sneaking kindness for ye.
Nor can I quite forget the bliss-wing'd hours
We spent of yore, collecting wild hedge-flow'rs
Of varied light and shade, what time the dawn
Fair child, in purple vapours swath'd, appear'd,
The sullen face of ancient Darkness cheer'd,
And flung his short beams o'er the glimm'ring lawn,
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Took Thetis' parting kiss, and scal'd the sky,
Then peeping through thick mists, dispers'd all sorrow,
And bade his early bard, the lark, good-morrow.
Yes, you were youthful then, and gay, and airy,
Light as an Oread, a beauteous fairy,
Leading me mad o'er park-gate, hedge, and ditches,
Nor car'd three farthings tho' I tore my breeches!
Oft would the plum'd choir, twitt'ring from the shade,
Prate to lone Echo, in her winding shell,
Their loves and fears, and sportive pastimes tell,
Swelling the slender pipe till thou hast sung,
And all in breathless silence charmed hung.
Ev'n Zephyr furl'd his filmy plume with care,
Floating before, in rude and reckless flight,
Now on the soft breast of his gentle air
Fix'd pendulous, and still as musing night.
Charms you once had, and these most rapturous too
Ere envious Woe, and sour Misfortune scowl'd;
Ere the loud blast of dismal Horror howl'd
Round my sad front, nor could unripen'd age,
And guiltless song, the felon fiends assuage.
Now metamorphos'd to a scolding shrew,
All thy lov'd beauties lose their former force,
And much am I advis'd to sue
Ere envious Woe, and sour Misfortune scowl'd;
Ere the loud blast of dismal Horror howl'd
Round my sad front, nor could unripen'd age,
And guiltless song, the felon fiends assuage.
Now metamorphos'd to a scolding shrew,
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And much am I advis'd to sue
For a poetical divorce;
But, hang it, 'tis too late to shut the stable,
We must even drudge as well as we are able.
But, hang it, 'tis too late to shut the stable,
We must even drudge as well as we are able.
| The Harp of Erin | |