The Harp of Erin :: :: University of Virginia Library

While o'er thy urn the pitying Virtues weep,
And lull thy tuneful soul to endless sleep,
Ah! spare one moment from the baleful tomb,
And burst from black oblivion's envious gloom;
To future ages, Goldsmith, shine confest,
And seize the hallow'd temple of my breast:
In warblings wild attune the trembling chord,
And soothe the melting mind at every word:
For thou alone such pity couldst impart,
And touch the master movements of the heart;
With beauty's languor tinge the lovely cheek,
And raise such thoughts as words but faintly speak.

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What artless innocence adorns each line,
What glowing tints the precious draught refine,
When to the heart thy thrilling numbers cling,
And rapture floats along the golden string!
Caught by the sound, my eyes unbounded roll
Along the page, and tell my frenzied soul,
While rising passions paint my varying face,
And Nature gleams in each attractive trace.

E'en now, while o'er the devious path I stray,
And smiling auburn stops my museful way,
Fresh transports swell the torrent of delight,
And all thy simple neatness charms my sight.
The new-built village rears its humble head,
And desolation's murky crew are fled;
Plenty adorns again each rural street,
And friendship walks with every sweet I meet.
The sounds of joy accost my wish'd return,
And not one native wretch is left to mourn.
The palsied dame that from yon stagnant flood,
Dipp'd the sour bev'rage for her ev'ning food,
Now sees again her humble cot secure,
And thousand welcomes greet her at the door.
And though no husband meets her hast'ning pace,
No sportive children bless her smiling face,

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Yet rose-lip'd peace her couch of straw attends,
And all the grateful neighbours are her friends.
From the chill storm that rends the tow'ring dome,
Yon thickset hedges save her little home;
And when the thoughts of former times arise,
With pious hand she wipes her streaming eyes;
Resign'd and calm she hopes to be forgiv'n,
And kneels compliant to the will of Heav'n.
Yet though the widow's tears may sometime flow,
And tell the tender luxury of woe;
Though all her sufferings past sad thoughts inspire,
And swell her annals by the ev'ning fire;
Full many a wretch, by loss of fortune curst,
Though rear'd in plenty, by indulgence curs'd,
Has quaffed the cup of grief, unmix'd with joy,
And heaved for ages the eternal sigh.

Yon elm that, swelling on the ample sight,
Copes with the hill behind in equal height,
Has seen full many a shepherd tress around,
And fresh delighted with the bagpipe's sound.
High on a tree with mossy verdure green,
The rural minstrel oft, with cheerful mien,
Harmonic instrument of song inspires,
And feeds the latent spark of am'rous fires.

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Along the plain the damsels diftly skim;
And every ogling swain robust of limb,
With simple grace the fair one's hand receives,
And holds it close, and willingly believes
No rival youth his sweetheart's love possess'd,
Or bought the cherry ribbon for her breast;
Or led her late at eve to neighbouring fair,
To win her virgin heart incautious there.

While all their sons attract the village crowd,
And tell their joy in revelry aloud,
The hoary sire in rev'rend grandeur sit,
Recounting feats of valour, or their wit;
And such a ring attends the orleage ball,
That scarce the alehouse seat can hold them all.
Replenish'd quarts supply the nutbrown tide,
And swell amain each hoary patriarch's pride;
Till each contends to crack the drollest jest,
And quite forgets that e'er he was distress'd.
The sage exciseman boasts his youthful deeds;
The barber spruce, how oft his patient bleeds;
And while the farrier apes the tuneful throng,
The limping corporal hops, and falls along.

The younger race, along the meadows stray,
Or build their lofty tenements of clay;

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Or, warrior-like, the wooden steed bestride,
While captive infants totter at their side.
Some in a snug retreat, of nobler parts,
With mystic tale entrap the yielding hearts,
'Till stalking awful up the winding lane,
The rural pedant shakes his hostile cane.
Amaz'd, the little audience stand to bow,
And read the dismal threat'nings of his brow.
The good man views each blooming pupil's face,
And gives the nod of triumph or disgrace.

But, lo! the curate comes with aspect meek,
And asks from each the labour of the week.
Some shew the pious task with glist'ning eye,
And some expect his anger with a sigh:
But far from him the supercilious sneer,
Or critic frown, inflieting pangs of fear,
To each his little present he extends,
And parts with all the youthful troop, his friends.
Applausive shouts attend his prosp'rous way,
And all unanimous combine the lay.
Thus some fond bird regales with choicest food,
And anxiously defends her infant brood;
Spreads her soft pinions o'er the downy nest,
And warms each unfledged darling in her breast:

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And as with patient wing she flits along,
The grateful warblers cheer her with a song;
Till rising tuneful from the shelter'd glade,
The neighb'ring songsters join the serenade.

See where of yore the bankrupt merchant lay,
To rav'ning duns and cruel men a prey;
Where sunk his state, by barb'rous landlords press'd,
And many a pang has agoniz'd his breast;
There tow'rs again the sign with gilded post,
And rich apparel lie, the wearer's boast.
Full many a frolic crowns the oaken chair,
And many a son of honest mirth is there.

But lo! methinks new wonders strike my eye,
Where flames the white-wash'd alehouse sign on high.
There leans the bar-maid o'er the creaking door,
And gives a well-fill'd tankard to the poor;
While in her dimpling cheek the Graces smile,
And sweet simplicity attracts the while.
Beyond the house, a verdant arbour lies,
And spreads its flaunting flow'rs of various dyes,
There have I traced the novel's fairy dance,
Or pierc'd the murky caves of gay romance,

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Meanwhile, the quaint ear'd cur, with sudden bark,
The pretty trembler frighted in the dark.

Ah! vale belov'd; where sportive health advanced,
And all the choir of youthful pleasures danced;
While poesy led on the jocund throng,
And sooth'd their labours with her sweetest song;
While Shannon's warbling wave return'd the strain,
And hanging mountains caught the sound again:
How oft have all thy babbling echoes rung,
With the first lays my muse enamour'd sung;
And seem'd to propagate the tuneful theme
With sounds prophetic of my future fame!
Where'er I go; ah! may thy image rest,
Within the sacred mansion of my breast:
Ah! may that breast thy dearest scenes retain,
Thou loveliest village of the loveliest plain.
Thy decent church with antique sculptures graced
Thy spire with half its mystic marks effaced,
The bowling-green with velvet herbage gay,
The mill-stream glitt'ring to the solar ray,
The well-wove bow'r for whisp'ring lovers made,
The school embosom'd in the healthiest shade,
The two-arch'd bridge aslant the level road,
And slated well the parson's small abode;

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Nay, even the peasant's straw-thatch hut can charm,
And numerous beauties deck th' adjacent farm,
When, from the world and all its splendours free,
Sweet place, I fondly ruminate on thee.

Would the rich man but thank the lab'rers toil,
And cheer the brow of anguish with a smile,
Inglorious sloth would shortly leave the land,
And fly pernicious to some alien strand.
Then would the poor man's merit full appear,
And smiling Spring invest the blooming year;
O'er cultur'd grounds the master walk with joy,
And see mute gladness in the farmer's eye;
While waving seeds of corn their lord unfold,
And clothe the laughing fields with bearded gold.
So should sweet Auburn more majestic rise,
And glad with new delight the poet's eyes.

In a sort of dedication of this little poem to Lord Forbes, Dermody rests his claim to a humble imitation of Goldsmith, on the circumstance of “being born very near the place which that poet so elegantly describes.” He says also that “it was written in the space of three hours, in a very wet evening, when his ideas were somewhat cramped and vapid, from the impression of the dull air, or from dulness itself.”