 | The Harp of Erin |  |
311
TO THE CATHOLICS OF IRELAND.
Weep, sons of hapless Erin, weep,
Your chains in tears of anguish steep,
And as you bend the streaming eye,
Where pale and plunder'd brethren lie,
On Albion's head no blessings breathe,
She's ting'd with blood the victor wreath!
Your chains in tears of anguish steep,
And as you bend the streaming eye,
Where pale and plunder'd brethren lie,
On Albion's head no blessings breathe,
She's ting'd with blood the victor wreath!
Lo! where the famish'd peasant lies,
No more with freedom flash his eyes,
No more the smiling pleasures steal
From heav'n, to bless his temp'rate meal;
Ev'n hospitality, no more
Courts the tir'd stranger to the door.
No more with freedom flash his eyes,
No more the smiling pleasures steal
From heav'n, to bless his temp'rate meal;
Ev'n hospitality, no more
Courts the tir'd stranger to the door.
Indignant, wisdom flies the land,
Where folly plants her venal band;
Gay humour drops the beamy dart,
All pow'rless on corruption's heart;
And, veil'd in shame's most sullen hues,
Fair honour follows with the Muse!
Where folly plants her venal band;
Gay humour drops the beamy dart,
All pow'rless on corruption's heart;
And, veil'd in shame's most sullen hues,
Fair honour follows with the Muse!
Sweet country, shall I never hear
Best music to the patriot's ear;
The ploughman carol, as he wakes
The small lark from the russet brakes;
Or twilight, as it creeps along,
Made lovely by his ev'ning song!
Best music to the patriot's ear;
310
The small lark from the russet brakes;
Or twilight, as it creeps along,
Made lovely by his ev'ning song!
For, ah! without the lab'rer's toil,
(So much despis'd, the courtier's spoil!)
Without the soft arts that refine
The soul, and knit in bonds divine,
The vacant boast, the armed train,
Or all that tyrants grant—are vain!
(So much despis'd, the courtier's spoil!)
Without the soft arts that refine
The soul, and knit in bonds divine,
The vacant boast, the armed train,
Or all that tyrants grant—are vain!
Bleeds not my filial breast, and flow
No tributes to my country's woe?
Yes, while these streaming sluices view
Heav'n's light, shall pity fill anew;
But little can such grief avail!
Can tears a tyrant's heart assail?
Thy foes shall see, with equal fire,
I wield the sword, or sweep the lyre.
No tributes to my country's woe?
Yes, while these streaming sluices view
Heav'n's light, shall pity fill anew;
But little can such grief avail!
Can tears a tyrant's heart assail?
Thy foes shall see, with equal fire,
I wield the sword, or sweep the lyre.
So, mid the brown wood's leafy vault,
While echoing wilds his anguish caught,
The minstrel mourn'd—beneath the shade
Of barren boughs, for slav'ry made,
Juverna heard, and, as she sigh'd,
Quick turn'd, the blushful cheek to hide.
While echoing wilds his anguish caught,
The minstrel mourn'd—beneath the shade
Of barren boughs, for slav'ry made,
Juverna heard, and, as she sigh'd,
Quick turn'd, the blushful cheek to hide.
312
The speeding sail, that oft, of yore,
Commercial wealth, and plenty bore;
Droops in the gale—some British god
Has barr'd the ocean's open road,
In wild inviolable jest,
Says Thou be wretched, I am blest!
Commercial wealth, and plenty bore;
Droops in the gale—some British god
Has barr'd the ocean's open road,
In wild inviolable jest,
Says Thou be wretched, I am blest!
Weep, sons of hapless Erin, weep,
Your chains in tears of anguish steep;
And as you bend the streaming eye,
Where pale and plunder'd brethren lie;
On Albion's head no blessings breathe,
She's ting'd with blood the victor wreath!
Your chains in tears of anguish steep;
And as you bend the streaming eye,
Where pale and plunder'd brethren lie;
On Albion's head no blessings breathe,
She's ting'd with blood the victor wreath!
| The Harp of Erin | |