The Harp of Erin :: :: University of Virginia Library

Strike the glitt'ring harp again,
Loud let Erin's cliffs resound;
Once more the Muse's old domain
Is with celestial concord crown'd.
Her palmy hand she lifts sublime;
She spreads her radiant pinion round;
And from each giant mountain shade-embrown'd,
Midway on whose flinty breast
The flagging eaglet builds his nest,
Is heard the choral swell of Druid-rhime.

Spirits of woe, who in yon crimson cloud
Brood o'er the pale decline of drooping day,
And to the sun's weak westering ray
Flash each your sanguinary shroud,
Bend not on yon bleak hill the mournful brow
Where madd'ning brother against brother fought;
But, oh! let blessings blooming on the now
Misguided martyrs, balm each pensive thought;

260

Exhale from Pity's lid th' ascending tear,
And hail with saintly song the bright, absolving year.
Majestic months, your prosp'rous march pursue;
The sword, in olives twin'd, securely sleeps.
Lo! with maternal fondness Mercy weeps,
Oh! catch, oh! venerate the holy dew.
One drop from that refulgent sluice,
Can wash from Murder's pall the deepest dye,
And more than angel-purity produce;
War owns the influence of that dovelike eye:
War owns; and stooping from his iron car,
On adamantine axle borne,
His rough breast trench'd with many a scar,
With many a gash all rudely torn,
Receives the balm its sov'reign pow'rs infuse,
To every feeling op'd, and every beauteous muse.

Still let the Gallic vulture sweep
With ruthless sway the realms around,
While riding on the subject deep
Severe the Bri ish thunders sound;
Still let barbarian rage o'erturn
The poet's tomb, the hero's urn,

261

Still bathe the guilty wreath in blood,
Whose purple honours soon shall fade,
And fast by yellow Tyber's angry flood
Profane each venerable glade;
Each sacred haunt with living laurel hung,
Where godlike Tully thought, or softer Virgil sung.

Still, as his native deserts wild,
Where young-eyed Science never smil'd,
Still let the rude Siberian storm,
His mind unfashion'd as his form:—
Each arbitrary vaunt is vain,
When issuing from this hallow'd shore,
Our naval force, a dauntless train,
Intent on high emprize, explore
The limits of the watery plain,
From Danger's front the meed of glory tear,
Fling to the winds each vulgar fear;
And, mid the general wreck of Nature, brave
The missile carnage, and the yawning wave.

Oh! for the aid of that celestial youth,
Clad in the shining panoply of Truth,
Who turn'd the foes of fair Judæa pale,
Stretch'd his white arm, and shook his silver mail.

262

Then should the shrine of Virtue, rise
In all its decent pomp again;
Then, swelling to th' attentive skies,
Should breathe the bliss-requited strain,
And seraphs, stooping from their tuneful sphere,
Lend to the Son of Earth, a fond, propitious ear.

What time the purple twilight slowly sails
O'er dusk Marino's fairy-fading vales,
And yon dim isle, as moving on the main,
Seems bound by Ocean in a golden chain;
Full in the midst, of awful size,
Methinks, I see a warrior-spectre rise,
With many a wound his stately semblance gor'd;
Bright from the beach his kingly front he rears,
And still, ah! still, his looks betray
Clontarf's ill-fated memorable day,
Recent from ruin mid the lapse of years.
'Tis he!—'tis Munster's Lord!
Yet still, a faint, a shadowy smile I trace,
Like moon-light, hov'ring on his rev'rend face;

263

His ghostly cheek, methinks, to rapture warms,
As round Eblana's tow'rs he views
Cherubic Peace her halcyon-calm diffuse,
And the fair city swell with renovated charms.
Oh! long may that blest calm remain!
Oh! long may heav'nly union reign!
From whence surpassing transports spring;
And oh! the bloody drops, and impious dust,
Which foul Rebellion flung on Freedom's bust,
May Honour wipe away with taintless wing.
So shall each foreign menace fail:
So hostile hate in vain assail,
Tho' pride may prompt, or wealth allure,
A bulwark in confederate strength secure;
So rev'ling Nature, in thy partial smiles,
Learning, with pilgrim-step, may come,
Once more, to recognize his ancient home:
Once more, in all his simple state,
Bland Hospitality expand the gate,
Where Welcome oft was wont, with aspect gay,
To woo the weary minstrel from his way;
And Commerce, anchoring on the favour'd coast,
And Truth, and loyal Love, illustrious boast!
Wed in rich kindred the United Isles.

The campaigns in Italy.

See Apocrypha, chap. xi. ver. 8.

Brian Boroimh, (or, as it is pronounced) Boru, the magnanimous King of Munster, who with the greatest part of his army, and all his captains, was slain at the renowned battle of Clontarf, near Dublin.