 | The poetical works of Samuel Woodworth |  |
THE EXILED HARPER.
“Friendless exile! old and hoary,
Banish sorrow and complaint,
Wake thy harp to Erin's glory,
Sing the lay of Erin's saint.”
Banish sorrow and complaint,
Wake thy harp to Erin's glory,
Sing the lay of Erin's saint.”
'T was Saint Patrick's festal morning,
When I met the man of grief;
On his cheek the tear was burning,
Withered was the shamrock's leaf.
When I met the man of grief;
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Withered was the shamrock's leaf.
“No!” exclaimed the aged stranger,
“Erin's glory is no more,
Hordes of bloody tyrants range her—
Freedom flies Hibernia's shore.
“Erin's glory is no more,
Hordes of bloody tyrants range her—
Freedom flies Hibernia's shore.
“Shackled with the yoke of Britain,
Doomed to vassalage and chains,
Be her name nor sung nor written
Till Oppression fly her plains.
Doomed to vassalage and chains,
Be her name nor sung nor written
Till Oppression fly her plains.
“Bright she shines in ancient legends,
When her sons awoke the lay;
Ere her peaceful, verdant regions
Groaned beneath ambition's sway.
When her sons awoke the lay;
Ere her peaceful, verdant regions
Groaned beneath ambition's sway.
“Ask me not to sing of glory;
For by all the griefs I bear,
By these scattered locks so hoary,
By our holy saint I swear:
For by all the griefs I bear,
By these scattered locks so hoary,
By our holy saint I swear:
“Erin's harp shall ever slumber,
Never whisper through the vale,
Never breathe a tuneful number
Pregnant with dishonor's tale.
Never whisper through the vale,
Never breathe a tuneful number
Pregnant with dishonor's tale.
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“Fallen are the chiefs of Erin,
Fallen in their country's cause,
Green their tombs are now appearing,
There her weeping daughters pause.
Fallen in their country's cause,
Green their tombs are now appearing,
There her weeping daughters pause.
“When the night-blast scours the mountains,
When it murmurs through the groves,
Mournful, by the dusky fountains,
Emmet's shade in sadness moves.
When it murmurs through the groves,
Mournful, by the dusky fountains,
Emmet's shade in sadness moves.
“See! it points to cursed Oppression!
Hark! its shrieks arrest the gale!
Hurl your thunders on aggression,
Bid our warriors fill the vale!
Hark! its shrieks arrest the gale!
Hurl your thunders on aggression,
Bid our warriors fill the vale!
“Veterans, rouse! and save your nation!
Hark! the trumpet calls to arms!”
“Stranger! calm this perturbation,
Here no martial trump alarms.”
Hark! the trumpet calls to arms!”
“Stranger! calm this perturbation,
Here no martial trump alarms.”
In his eye, where fire was beaming,
Now appeared the tear of grief—
“No,” he sighed, “I was but dreaming,
Erin groans without relief.
Now appeared the tear of grief—
“No,” he sighed, “I was but dreaming,
Erin groans without relief.
“But I'll feed the fond reflection,
Days of other months review,
Call again to recollection,
Dear companions whom I knew.
Days of other months review,
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Dear companions whom I knew.
“Now oppressed by power and violence,
Not a harpstring breathes a tone,
Wrapt in sorrow, thought, and silence,
Erin's hapless minstrel mourns.
Not a harpstring breathes a tone,
Wrapt in sorrow, thought, and silence,
Erin's hapless minstrel mourns.
“Sing of Erin's glory! madness!
Would our saint accept the lay?
No—devote to silent sadness
This our patron's festive day.”
Would our saint accept the lay?
No—devote to silent sadness
This our patron's festive day.”
| The poetical works of Samuel Woodworth | |