The lay of an Irish harp or metrical fragments. By Miss Owenson |
I. |
II. |
III. |
IV. |
V. |
VI. |
VII. |
VIII. |
IX. |
X. |
XI. |
XII. |
XIII. |
XIV. |
XV. |
XVI. |
XVII. | FRAGMENT XVII.
CONCETTE. |
XVIII. |
XIX. |
XX. |
XXI. |
XXII. |
XXIV. |
XXV. |
XXVI. |
XXVII. |
XXVIII. |
XXIX. |
XXX. |
XXXI. |
XXXII. |
XXXIV. |
XXXV. |
XXXVI. |
XXXVII. |
XXXVIII. |
XXXIX. |
XLI. |
XLII. |
XLIII. |
XLIV. |
XLV. |
XLVII. |
XLVIII. |
The lay of an Irish harp | ||
78
FRAGMENT XVII. CONCETTE.
Go, balmy zephyr, softly breatheTo her for whom these buds I wreath;
Yes, breathe the echo of my sigh
To her whose soul-seducing eye
Has look'd, I fear, my soul away:
But, zephyr, dare not to betray
That 'tis to her I lay my doom;
Tell her I die—but not for whom!
The lay of an Irish harp | ||