 | The Harp of Erin |  |
103
CARROL'S COMPLAINT.
Where Antrim's giant-pillars riseAbrupt, to prop th' incumbent skies,
And fling their frowning shadows o'er the flood;
Wild with woe his frenzied air,
His big breast to the tempest bare,
Smit with his country's wounds indignant Carrol stood.
Responsive to his tuneful lore,
Juverna's ancient harp he bore.
Holy harp, whose witching numbers
Lapp'd the soul in heavenly slumber,
Bade youth's impassion'd bosom bleed,
Or wak'd the gen'rous mind to high heroic deed!
Thou, a sea-nymph once, couldst skim
Gentle ocean's burnish'd brim;
Once through coral groves couldst stray,
And with the dimpling eddies play;
'Till chang'd by fate, to sooth that shore
With song, which thou didst wash before,
104
Thy silvery shoulders stretch'd behind,
Lo! still th' uninjur'd mermaid-shape remains;
Save that thy copious locks afford
To music each appropriate chord,
Nor Sol's bright tresses pour'd superior strains.
With tutor'd fingers, taught to fly
Through ev'ry maze of harmony,
The bard (erewhile whose magic measures
Steep'd the tearful lid in pleasures,
And grac'd the storied hall of chieftains and of kings)
Thus swept with sorrowing agony the strings:
“Doom'd to perish, hapless coast,
Never more thy birthright boast;
Purchas'd with thy flowing gore,
Independance boast no more.
The native fragrance of thy fields,
The stores thine every valley yields,
Plains where Learning's pilgrim-feet
First could find a safe retreat;
Plains where nought empoison'd dwells,
Whilom purg'd by saintly spells,
Basely sold and ever lost;
Henceforth shall glut a rav'ning host.
Fiends of slaughter, say if yet
Martyr'd peace be in your debt;
105
So insatiate still to slay.
Flesh'd in death, inhuman, tell
How many a guiltless victim fell.
Has not oft the filial sword
The father's wither'd breast explor'd?
Has not oft the infant's scream,
Mid the fir'd hut's midnight gleam;
Has not oft the virgin's shriek,
Doubly dyed in blood her cheek;
Has not oft the matron's cry,
Her sons, her husband, groaning nigh;
Wrung and torn my bursting soul?—
Mark a part, not blast the whole.
The wily knave who leads astray
The peasant tribe, an easy prey;
The fool by mad ambition led,
And idle praise, to risk his head;
The bold-fac'd thief, th' assassin dark;
Unmov'd, for instant vengeance mark:
Carrol's self will dig their grave:—
But spare the innocent, the brave.
| The Harp of Erin | |