The Harp of Erin Containing the Poetical Works of the Late Thomas Dermody. In Two Volumes |
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FAREWELL TO IRELAND. |
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 | The Harp of Erin |  |
246
FAREWELL TO IRELAND.
“Rank nurse of nonsense; on whose
thankless coast
The base weed thrives, the nobler bloom is lost:
Parent of pride and poverty, where dwell
Dullness and brogue and calumny:—farewell!
Lo! from thy land the tuneful prophet flies,
And spurns the dust behind in folly's eyes.
Merit, bright meteor, o'er thy gloomy night
Stream'd of poetic charm the loveliest light;
Dimm'd by thy mist, and shorn of many a ray,
The brilliant glory bursts, and glides away,
In purer skies to shed its radiant glow,
And leaves a lonely waste of gloom below.
In vain thy children tun'd the lofty strain;
Thy children propp'd the sinking isle in vain;
Vice is well-pension'd, virtue seeks the shades,
And all the muse and all the patriot fades.
No Moira comes to clear thy circling fogs,
But Westmorland still rules congenial bogs.
The base weed thrives, the nobler bloom is lost:
Parent of pride and poverty, where dwell
Dullness and brogue and calumny:—farewell!
Lo! from thy land the tuneful prophet flies,
And spurns the dust behind in folly's eyes.
Merit, bright meteor, o'er thy gloomy night
Stream'd of poetic charm the loveliest light;
Dimm'd by thy mist, and shorn of many a ray,
The brilliant glory bursts, and glides away,
In purer skies to shed its radiant glow,
And leaves a lonely waste of gloom below.
In vain thy children tun'd the lofty strain;
Thy children propp'd the sinking isle in vain;
Vice is well-pension'd, virtue seeks the shades,
And all the muse and all the patriot fades.
No Moira comes to clear thy circling fogs,
But Westmorland still rules congenial bogs.
247
“Yet ere my better fortune fills the sail,
Ere fav'ring zephyr fans the speeding gale;
While tears by turns, and angry curses, rend
This injur'd breast; inglorious spot, attend:
(For spite of anger, spite of satire's thrill,
Nature boils o'er; thou art my country still).
Oh! pause on ruin's steepy cliff profound:
Oh! raise thy pale, thy drooping sons around;
Exalt the poor, the lordly proud oppress,
Thy tyrants humble, but thy soldiers bless.
Worn by long toil, as if foredoom'd by fate
To glut some pamper'd reprobate of state,
Thy artists cherish; bid the mighty soul
Of wisdom range beyond cold want's control;
And haply when some native gem you see
Unknown, unfriended, lost,—oh, think on me!”
Ere fav'ring zephyr fans the speeding gale;
While tears by turns, and angry curses, rend
This injur'd breast; inglorious spot, attend:
(For spite of anger, spite of satire's thrill,
Nature boils o'er; thou art my country still).
Oh! pause on ruin's steepy cliff profound:
Oh! raise thy pale, thy drooping sons around;
Exalt the poor, the lordly proud oppress,
Thy tyrants humble, but thy soldiers bless.
Worn by long toil, as if foredoom'd by fate
To glut some pamper'd reprobate of state,
Thy artists cherish; bid the mighty soul
Of wisdom range beyond cold want's control;
And haply when some native gem you see
Unknown, unfriended, lost,—oh, think on me!”
| The Harp of Erin | |