The Harp of Erin Containing the Poetical Works of the Late Thomas Dermody. In Two Volumes |
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GENIUS PERSONIFIED. |
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 | The Harp of Erin |  |
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GENIUS PERSONIFIED.
By yon lone copse have you not seen,
With folded arms and musing mien,
The pensive poet stray,
What time the west's last, fading fire,
Seem'd in soft flashes to expire,
And vestal twilight mourn'd the solemn death of day?
With folded arms and musing mien,
The pensive poet stray,
What time the west's last, fading fire,
Seem'd in soft flashes to expire,
And vestal twilight mourn'd the solemn death of day?
Did you not mark his varying face,
His wayward, wild, disorder'd pace,
His loose, uncertain air?
The light'nings that illum'd his eye,
With angel-forms conversing high,
Anon, all sudden sunk in motionless despair?
His wayward, wild, disorder'd pace,
His loose, uncertain air?
The light'nings that illum'd his eye,
With angel-forms conversing high,
Anon, all sudden sunk in motionless despair?
Youth of unsettled soul, ah! stay
Thy furious, rash, enthusiast way,
Nor seek yon shade forlorn;
Nor, on yon tumbling torrent pour,
Nor, roam along the desert shore,
Till the drear tempest smiles beneath the gleam of morn!
Thy furious, rash, enthusiast way,
Nor seek yon shade forlorn;
Nor, on yon tumbling torrent pour,
Nor, roam along the desert shore,
Till the drear tempest smiles beneath the gleam of morn!
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Does broken friendship wound thy breast?
Or slighted love, severest pest!
Or disappointed pride?
Ah! me, that breast, divinely meek,
Nor love's, nor friendship's bonds could break,
And, but thy pastoral reed, thou scorn'st all pomp beside!
Or slighted love, severest pest!
Or disappointed pride?
Ah! me, that breast, divinely meek,
Nor love's, nor friendship's bonds could break,
And, but thy pastoral reed, thou scorn'st all pomp beside!
'Tis haughty scorn of humbler worth,
Disdaining thy inglorious birth,
Unconscious of thy mind,
That drives thee thus to scenes remote;
That checks thy sweetly-warbled note,
And in despondence steeps thine energies refin'd:
Disdaining thy inglorious birth,
Unconscious of thy mind,
That drives thee thus to scenes remote;
That checks thy sweetly-warbled note,
And in despondence steeps thine energies refin'd:
Thus, useless by some savage stream,
A ruby sheds its sanguine beam,
Nor knows the wond'ring swain;
This jewel, in its proper place,
The monarch's starry front might grace,
Or, brighter than her eyes, the beauty's zone sustain!
A ruby sheds its sanguine beam,
Nor knows the wond'ring swain;
This jewel, in its proper place,
The monarch's starry front might grace,
Or, brighter than her eyes, the beauty's zone sustain!
| The Harp of Erin | |