 | The Poems of J. J. Callanan |  |
129
THE LAMENT.
Awake, my lyre, though to thy lay no voice of gladness sings,
Ere yet the viewless power be fled that oft hath swept thy strings;
I feel the flickering flame of life grow cold within my breast,
Yet once again, my lyre, awake, and then I sink to rest.
Ere yet the viewless power be fled that oft hath swept thy strings;
I feel the flickering flame of life grow cold within my breast,
Yet once again, my lyre, awake, and then I sink to rest.
And must I die? Then let it be, since thus 'tis better far,
Than with the world and conquering fate to wage eternal war.
Come then thou dark and dreamless sleep, to thy cold clasp I fly
From shattered hopes and blighted heart, and pangs that cannot die.
Than with the world and conquering fate to wage eternal war.
Come then thou dark and dreamless sleep, to thy cold clasp I fly
From shattered hopes and blighted heart, and pangs that cannot die.
Yet would I live, for, oh! at times I feel the tide of song
In swells of light come strong and bright my heaving heart along;
Yet would I live, in happier day, to wake with master hand,
A lay that should embalm my name in Albin's beauteous land.
In swells of light come strong and bright my heaving heart along;
Yet would I live, in happier day, to wake with master hand,
A lay that should embalm my name in Albin's beauteous land.
130
Oh had I been in battle field amid the charging brave,
I then had won a soldier's fame or filled a soldier's grave;
I then had lived to call thee mine, thou all of bliss to me,
Or smiled in death, my sweetest one, to think I died for thee.
I then had won a soldier's fame or filled a soldier's grave;
I then had lived to call thee mine, thou all of bliss to me,
Or smiled in death, my sweetest one, to think I died for thee.
'Tis past, they've won—my sun has set—I see my coming night,
I never more shall press that hand or meet that look of light.
Among old Albin's future bards no song of mine shall rise.
Go, sleep, my harp, for ever sleep, go, leave me to my sighs!
I never more shall press that hand or meet that look of light.
Among old Albin's future bards no song of mine shall rise.
Go, sleep, my harp, for ever sleep, go, leave me to my sighs!
They've won, but, Mary, from this breast thy love they could not part,
All freshly green it lingers round the ruin of my heart.
One thought of me may cloud thy soul, one tear may dim thine eye,
That I have sung and loved in vain, forsaken thus to die!
All freshly green it lingers round the ruin of my heart.
One thought of me may cloud thy soul, one tear may dim thine eye,
That I have sung and loved in vain, forsaken thus to die!
O England, O my country, despite of all my wrongs,
I love thee still my native land, thou land of sweetest songs,
One thought still cheers my life's last close, that I shall rest in thee,
And sleep as minstrel heart should sleep, among the brave and free.
I love thee still my native land, thou land of sweetest songs,
One thought still cheers my life's last close, that I shall rest in thee,
And sleep as minstrel heart should sleep, among the brave and free.
| The Poems of J. J. Callanan | |