 | The Harp of Erin |  |
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FAREWELL TO CARE.
Away, ye Cares; ye
black-brow'd Cares, away!
Must mortal man aye drag your galling chain?
Away! the sun sits monarch of the day,
The glorious sun; and guides his glitt'ring wain,
His wheels half-hanging o'er the western main.
I drink the influence of his balmy light:
I feel the hot tide throb through every vein:
Young Transport calls, in purple pleasures dight.
Young Transport calls, and why should I remain?
No: let me shun thy shades, and join her jovial train.
Must mortal man aye drag your galling chain?
Away! the sun sits monarch of the day,
The glorious sun; and guides his glitt'ring wain,
His wheels half-hanging o'er the western main.
I drink the influence of his balmy light:
I feel the hot tide throb through every vein:
Young Transport calls, in purple pleasures dight.
Young Transport calls, and why should I remain?
No: let me shun thy shades, and join her jovial train.
What though the haughty patron damns my song,
And Malice looks with meagre eye askance?
I'll trip the daisied meadows blithe along,
Braid my loose locks and mingle in the dance.
Not Pride can break this dear delicious trance;
Not Envy style this sylvan joyance wrong.
For who can bound the pennons of the soul?
Who mar those scenes I love to rove among?
Ne mortal word the sweet flow'rs can control;
Or bid the pausing sun frown grim, and cease to roll.
And Malice looks with meagre eye askance?
I'll trip the daisied meadows blithe along,
Braid my loose locks and mingle in the dance.
Not Pride can break this dear delicious trance;
Not Envy style this sylvan joyance wrong.
For who can bound the pennons of the soul?
Who mar those scenes I love to rove among?
Ne mortal word the sweet flow'rs can control;
Or bid the pausing sun frown grim, and cease to roll.
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Though Greatness turns away, the rill will pour
In liquid measure from its channell'd bed;
The surge will gleam, and kiss the golden shore;
The blue-topp'd mount will lift his awful head.
Though poverty may rule my humble shed,
The teeming wild will grant an unbought store;
The briar will blow, the living nectar spring,
The vernal rushes strew the fragrant floor:
Dainties, in sooth, that well might please a king.
Then cast thy woes aside, and hymns of comfort sing.
In liquid measure from its channell'd bed;
The surge will gleam, and kiss the golden shore;
The blue-topp'd mount will lift his awful head.
Though poverty may rule my humble shed,
The teeming wild will grant an unbought store;
The briar will blow, the living nectar spring,
The vernal rushes strew the fragrant floor:
Dainties, in sooth, that well might please a king.
Then cast thy woes aside, and hymns of comfort sing.
The lark is merry though he has no hoard;
The blackbird carols though his house is gone;
Come, spendthrift, come, and feed at Nature's board;
Nature's unkind to luxury alone.
Nor pains nor aches shall vex each tortur'd bone;
Temperance no room for sickness may afford.
Rise with thy brother-bards, in social glee:
The morn will put her brightest purple on.
Fools of this world! what wight would spleen-sick be,
If he could roam at large, and chaunt his joys, with me?
The blackbird carols though his house is gone;
Come, spendthrift, come, and feed at Nature's board;
Nature's unkind to luxury alone.
Nor pains nor aches shall vex each tortur'd bone;
Temperance no room for sickness may afford.
Rise with thy brother-bards, in social glee:
The morn will put her brightest purple on.
Fools of this world! what wight would spleen-sick be,
If he could roam at large, and chaunt his joys, with me?
With bards long gone celestial converse hold,
And court coy fancy in her woodbound bow'r;
What time, as by sage Beldames we are told,
Aerial warblings charm the solemn hour;
While marshall'd elves their glitt'ring glow-worms pour,
And “drowsy tinklings lull the distant fold;”
What time bright spirits load the wing of eve,
And frenzy'd minstrels wond'rous sights behold.
Those with soft dreams thy spirit shall relieve,
Till fancy brilliant wreaths of fabled verdure give.
And court coy fancy in her woodbound bow'r;
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Aerial warblings charm the solemn hour;
While marshall'd elves their glitt'ring glow-worms pour,
And “drowsy tinklings lull the distant fold;”
What time bright spirits load the wing of eve,
And frenzy'd minstrels wond'rous sights behold.
Those with soft dreams thy spirit shall relieve,
Till fancy brilliant wreaths of fabled verdure give.
Beneath the awful foliage of yon oak
That shudders at the eddying pool below;
Where abbey-aisles rebound the woodman's stroke
And sister-currents wildly-dimpling flow;
There thou, who bear'st the bitter weight of woe,
Mayst all thy scenes of happier youth revoke;
Nought shall intrude, save when the silver trout
Haply should spring from stripling's hairy yoke;
Comus will never lead his revel rout
To stun thy feelings there with bacchanalian shout.
That shudders at the eddying pool below;
Where abbey-aisles rebound the woodman's stroke
And sister-currents wildly-dimpling flow;
There thou, who bear'st the bitter weight of woe,
Mayst all thy scenes of happier youth revoke;
Nought shall intrude, save when the silver trout
Haply should spring from stripling's hairy yoke;
Comus will never lead his revel rout
To stun thy feelings there with bacchanalian shout.
Those walls, enwrought with age's with'ring grey,
Where hoary blossoms crown the turret's brow,
Ne'er echo to the drunkard's wassail lay.
Here sighs the lover his immortal vow,
Here weeps the friend his parted friend below:
Fond meditation marks each mould'ring clay,
And reverend relics holy horrors tell.
Here ancient Virtue lives, serenely gay.
Old tales have famed each mystic cavern well;
And hidden treasures lurk, eld says, in every cell.
Where hoary blossoms crown the turret's brow,
Ne'er echo to the drunkard's wassail lay.
Here sighs the lover his immortal vow,
Here weeps the friend his parted friend below:
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And reverend relics holy horrors tell.
Here ancient Virtue lives, serenely gay.
Old tales have famed each mystic cavern well;
And hidden treasures lurk, eld says, in every cell.
Away, ye Cares; ye black-brow'd Cares, away!
Let Fortune smile or frown, I still can smile;
Constant can fabricate the artless lay,
While conscience whispers that I know no guile.
Full pleasant prospects, lo! reward my toil,
Full glad, I trow, when life 'gins to decay,
Those tranquil joys shall gild declining age;
While Hope's sheen-mirror darts a lucky ray
On the pure breast; and in this mortal cage
Uncensur'd may I sing, nor dread Detraction's rage.
Let Fortune smile or frown, I still can smile;
Constant can fabricate the artless lay,
While conscience whispers that I know no guile.
Full pleasant prospects, lo! reward my toil,
Full glad, I trow, when life 'gins to decay,
Those tranquil joys shall gild declining age;
While Hope's sheen-mirror darts a lucky ray
On the pure breast; and in this mortal cage
Uncensur'd may I sing, nor dread Detraction's rage.
| The Harp of Erin | |