 | The Harp of Erin |  |
254
HYMN TO THE MEMORY OF THOMSON.
O! gentlest of the gifted train,
Whom wild wreaths deck'd from Fancy's bow'r,
May wonder raise the ardent strain,
To hymn thine inexpressive pow'r.
Whom wild wreaths deck'd from Fancy's bow'r,
May wonder raise the ardent strain,
To hymn thine inexpressive pow'r.
Still, as the vary'd Seasons roll
Mid the fierce sunshine, or the storm,
I trace thy fair, enthusiast soul,
I meet thy silent-musing form.
Mid the fierce sunshine, or the storm,
I trace thy fair, enthusiast soul,
I meet thy silent-musing form.
And oft, methinks, where yellowing shades
Ripe Autumn's browner beauties show,
I hear thee, with the village-maids,
Breathe the sad tale of pleasing woe.
Ripe Autumn's browner beauties show,
I hear thee, with the village-maids,
Breathe the sad tale of pleasing woe.
Or, stretch'd beneath some cliff's rude crest,
By each sublimest horror fir'd,
New prospects sink into thy breast,
While Nature sits with Thee, retir'd.
By each sublimest horror fir'd,
New prospects sink into thy breast,
While Nature sits with Thee, retir'd.
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Oft, as the lurid flashes cleave
Night's murky vault, and flit around,
Shall praise fresh blooms of glory weave,
And fence with bays thy hallow'd mound.
Night's murky vault, and flit around,
Shall praise fresh blooms of glory weave,
And fence with bays thy hallow'd mound.
For thou could'st in the tempest tow'r,
Or dart amid noon's sultry rays,
Or rifle each ethereal flow'r
From the clear rainbow's liquid blaze.
Or dart amid noon's sultry rays,
Or rifle each ethereal flow'r
From the clear rainbow's liquid blaze.
Then what, but these great landscapes wrought
By thine own hand, can praise aright?
Where substance seems to wed with thought,
And words delude the raptur'd sight:
By thine own hand, can praise aright?
Where substance seems to wed with thought,
And words delude the raptur'd sight:
Where fancy'd currents seem to rill,
And murmur through the magic line:
Where swells sublime th' ideal hill,
And o'er the page glib light'nings shine.
And murmur through the magic line:
Where swells sublime th' ideal hill,
And o'er the page glib light'nings shine.
Then oft let Genius young peruse
That page divine, with studious care;
Meanwhile the much-astonish'd muse
Finds her own soul reflected there.
That page divine, with studious care;
Meanwhile the much-astonish'd muse
Finds her own soul reflected there.
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And oh! from thy superior sphere,
Shade ever sacred to this heart,
Lull with high sounds my chasten'd ear,
Th' imperishable flame impart!
Shade ever sacred to this heart,
Lull with high sounds my chasten'd ear,
Th' imperishable flame impart!
| The Harp of Erin | |