The Harp of Erin Containing the Poetical Works of the Late Thomas Dermody. In Two Volumes |
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ELEGIAC STANZAS ON MYSELF. |
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 | The Harp of Erin |  |
230
ELEGIAC STANZAS ON MYSELF.
To Pleasure's wiles an easy prey,
Beneath this sod a bosom lies;
Yet spare the meek offender's clay,
Nor part with dry averted eyes.
Beneath this sod a bosom lies;
Yet spare the meek offender's clay,
Nor part with dry averted eyes.
O stranger! if thy wayward lot
Through Folly's heedless maze has led,
Here nurse the true, the tender thought,
And fling the wild flow'r on his head.
Through Folly's heedless maze has led,
Here nurse the true, the tender thought,
And fling the wild flow'r on his head.
For he, by this cold hillock clad,
Where tall grass twines the pointed stone,
Each gentlest balm of feeling had,
To sooth all sorrow but his own.
Where tall grass twines the pointed stone,
Each gentlest balm of feeling had,
To sooth all sorrow but his own.
For he, by tuneful Fancy rear'd,
(Though ever-dumb he sleeps below,)
The stillest sigh of anguish heard,
And gave a tear to ev'ry woe.
(Though ever-dumb he sleeps below,)
The stillest sigh of anguish heard,
And gave a tear to ev'ry woe.
Oh! place his dear harp by his side,
(His harp, alas! his only hoard;)
The fairy breeze at even tide
Will trembling kiss each weeping chord.
(His harp, alas! his only hoard;)
The fairy breeze at even tide
Will trembling kiss each weeping chord.
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Oft on yon crested cliff he stood,
When misty twilight stream'd around;
To mark the slowly-heaving flood,
And catch the deep wave's sullen sound.
When misty twilight stream'd around;
To mark the slowly-heaving flood,
And catch the deep wave's sullen sound.
Oft when the rosy dawn was seen
'Mid blue to gild the blushing steep,
He trac'd o'er yonder margent green
The curling cloud of fragrance sweep.
'Mid blue to gild the blushing steep,
He trac'd o'er yonder margent green
The curling cloud of fragrance sweep.
Oft did he pause, the lark to hear,
With speckled wing, the skies explore;
Oft paus'd to see the slow flock near:
But he shall hear and see no more.
With speckled wing, the skies explore;
Oft paus'd to see the slow flock near:
But he shall hear and see no more.
Then, stranger, be his foibles lost;
At such small foibles Virtue smil'd:
Few was their number, large their cost,
For he was Nature's orphan-child.
At such small foibles Virtue smil'd:
Few was their number, large their cost,
For he was Nature's orphan-child.
The graceful drop of pity spare,
(To him the bright drop once belong'd:)
Well, well his doom deserves thy care;
Much, much he suffer'd, much was wrong'd.
(To him the bright drop once belong'd:)
Well, well his doom deserves thy care;
Much, much he suffer'd, much was wrong'd.
When taught by life its pangs to know,
Ah! as thou roam'st the checker'd gloom,
Bid the sweet night-bird's numbers flow,
And the last sunbeam light his tomb.
Ah! as thou roam'st the checker'd gloom,
Bid the sweet night-bird's numbers flow,
And the last sunbeam light his tomb.
| The Harp of Erin | |