The Harp of Erin Containing the Poetical Works of the Late Thomas Dermody. In Two Volumes |
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TO FEELING. |
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 | The Harp of Erin |  |
293
TO FEELING.
Why thrills each nerve at Fancy's
pictur'd woe,
At pity's tale why starts the tender breast?
Can scenes, by thought's delusive pencil drest,
Bid the full drop of pregnant anguish flow?
What cruel pow'r thus wrings my easy heart?
'Tis feeling, prophetess of distant ills,
With pensive ecstacy she poin's the dart,
In pleasing poison ting'd, that slow, but surely kills.
At pity's tale why starts the tender breast?
Can scenes, by thought's delusive pencil drest,
Bid the full drop of pregnant anguish flow?
What cruel pow'r thus wrings my easy heart?
'Tis feeling, prophetess of distant ills,
With pensive ecstacy she poin's the dart,
In pleasing poison ting'd, that slow, but surely kills.
Oft o'er the cradled infant hath she wept,
And mark'd, with eye deprest, the woes of age;
Oft while the babe, in harmless silence slept,
She trac'd the vary'd passions, and their rage;
Wild-bursting wrath, revenge, with blood-shot glance,
Pale jealousy, on love, with scowling brow
Still watchful fix'd, false honor's impious glow,
All sunk as yet beneath the mental trance,
Nor rous'd by fervid youth, to shake this mortal stage.
And mark'd, with eye deprest, the woes of age;
Oft while the babe, in harmless silence slept,
She trac'd the vary'd passions, and their rage;
Wild-bursting wrath, revenge, with blood-shot glance,
Pale jealousy, on love, with scowling brow
Still watchful fix'd, false honor's impious glow,
All sunk as yet beneath the mental trance,
Nor rous'd by fervid youth, to shake this mortal stage.
294
Oft while the matron hung with fondest mirth
On him, whose truth first won her partial thought,
And all her smiling offspring throng the hearth,
Has feeling her funereal vision wrought;
Oft seem'd to view the baleful hearse await
The ghastly sire, the matron's widow'd weeds,
The smiling offspring snatch'd by feverish fate;
Meanwhile, fallacious grief! her tortur'd bosom bleeds.
On him, whose truth first won her partial thought,
And all her smiling offspring throng the hearth,
Has feeling her funereal vision wrought;
Oft seem'd to view the baleful hearse await
The ghastly sire, the matron's widow'd weeds,
The smiling offspring snatch'd by feverish fate;
Meanwhile, fallacious grief! her tortur'd bosom bleeds.
Ah! me, too many are our cares unfeign'd,
Too many troubles guard life's thorny way;
Yet ne'er have I of thy soft pangs complain'd,
Nor sought, with heedless haste, the giddy gay;
Beneath thy willows have I lov'd to mourn,
While stream'd the tribute tear from pity's sluice,
Still deck'd with flow'rs the hapless stranger's urn,
Sincerely sad—the martyr of the Muse!
Too many troubles guard life's thorny way;
Yet ne'er have I of thy soft pangs complain'd,
Nor sought, with heedless haste, the giddy gay;
Beneath thy willows have I lov'd to mourn,
While stream'd the tribute tear from pity's sluice,
Still deck'd with flow'rs the hapless stranger's urn,
Sincerely sad—the martyr of the Muse!
| The Harp of Erin | |