The Harp of Erin Containing the Poetical Works of the Late Thomas Dermody. In Two Volumes |
 | I. |
|
| 1. |
| 2. |
|
|
| I. |
| II. |
|
| I. |
| II. |
| III. |
| II. |
|
| I. |
| II. |
|
|
ON THE
DEATH OF LORD HEATHFIELD. |
|
 | The Harp of Erin |  |
ON THE DEATH OF LORD HEATHFIELD.
Aloft on Calpe's hideous height,
Rob'd in the sable garb of Night,
Sate the fell demons of the fight,
And wav'd their banners blue;
When moving with pathetic eye
The pensive Muse stole silent by,
And view'd full oft with rising sigh,
Where Heathfield's laurels grew.
Rob'd in the sable garb of Night,
Sate the fell demons of the fight,
And wav'd their banners blue;
When moving with pathetic eye
The pensive Muse stole silent by,
And view'd full oft with rising sigh,
Where Heathfield's laurels grew.
266
“Sound soft the harp, in solemn tone,”
And wail with sweet melodious moan—
The hero's rigid race is run,
Gone like the meteor's blaze!
The warrior falls to rise no more,
Mute be the cannon's thund'ring roar,
And sad, huge Calpe's rocky shore,
When thus the chief decays.
And wail with sweet melodious moan—
The hero's rigid race is run,
Gone like the meteor's blaze!
The warrior falls to rise no more,
Mute be the cannon's thund'ring roar,
And sad, huge Calpe's rocky shore,
When thus the chief decays.
The chief who in the fight deform
The fiery cataract could disarm,
And rise superior to the storm
Now seeks an humble grave:
Ah! shall my verse adorn his doom,
His laureate meed unfading bloom,
While holiest tears bedew his tomb,
And trophy'd standards wave?
The fiery cataract could disarm,
And rise superior to the storm
Now seeks an humble grave:
Ah! shall my verse adorn his doom,
His laureate meed unfading bloom,
While holiest tears bedew his tomb,
And trophy'd standards wave?
Hail Britain's bravest son, all hail!
Sequester'd from this worldly vale,
Enthron'd, where virtue shall not fail,
I see thy rev'rend shade:
Lo! braided amaranths entwine
Thy youthful brow in wreaths divine,
While thousand stars fierce-flashing shine
Around thy lumin'd head.
Sequester'd from this worldly vale,
Enthron'd, where virtue shall not fail,
I see thy rev'rend shade:
Lo! braided amaranths entwine
Thy youthful brow in wreaths divine,
While thousand stars fierce-flashing shine
Around thy lumin'd head.
267
Above the tongue of vulgar Fame,
Thou hast anneal'd thy deathless name,
In Calpe's glory-giving flame,
And Spain shall still prolong
The chieftain's praise, whose bold hand caught
A wreath beyond the minstrel's thought—
Yet let us tell how you have fought,
“And build the lofty song.”
Thou hast anneal'd thy deathless name,
In Calpe's glory-giving flame,
And Spain shall still prolong
The chieftain's praise, whose bold hand caught
A wreath beyond the minstrel's thought—
Yet let us tell how you have fought,
“And build the lofty song.”
| The Harp of Erin | |