 | A collection of poems on various subjects |  |
21
LINES
ON THE LAST OF THE IRISH HARPERS.
INSCRIBED TO MR. HERBERT, BY WHOSE DESCRIPTION
OF THE MINSTREL THEY WERE SUGGESTED.
Were not the lovely goddess blind,
Did she her gaudy minion seek,
It were a blush for fortune's cheek,
The muse can seldom call her kind!
Did she her gaudy minion seek,
It were a blush for fortune's cheek,
The muse can seldom call her kind!
But, on her minion's cheek—O! there
Let shame imprint its deepest dye,
That e'er, by rude adversity,
The son of song's a man of care.
Let shame imprint its deepest dye,
That e'er, by rude adversity,
The son of song's a man of care.
22
O pity! that the tuneful tongue
Should ever faulter through a tear,
Or tuneful hand, we love to hear,
Should own a heart by anguish wrung.
Should ever faulter through a tear,
Or tuneful hand, we love to hear,
Should own a heart by anguish wrung.
Poor Hampson! last of all his peers!
The patron's smile had ceas'd to grace
The only of the minstrel race,
A bard of many—many years.
The patron's smile had ceas'd to grace
The only of the minstrel race,
A bard of many—many years.
A hovel was the minstrel's hall,
The minstrel's couch, a pallet mean,
And humble was his cup, I ween,
Nor ever ready at his call.
The minstrel's couch, a pallet mean,
And humble was his cup, I ween,
Nor ever ready at his call.
And, save the traveller that came
At times to wake the master's pride,
No friend the minstrel had, beside
His harp—which ever was the same.
At times to wake the master's pride,
No friend the minstrel had, beside
His harp—which ever was the same.
23
For it had serv'd the minstrel, young,
And seen the smile of other days—
The times of favour and of praise—
And still it bore as sweet a tongue.
And seen the smile of other days—
The times of favour and of praise—
And still it bore as sweet a tongue.
A thing it was, uncouth to see,
Unwrought with colouring or gold;
'Twas fashion'd as the harp of old—
'Twas only made for harmony!
Unwrought with colouring or gold;
'Twas fashion'd as the harp of old—
'Twas only made for harmony!
And dear was lov'd the vassal true;
For, ever near the ministrel's side,
Now, more his solace than his pride,
E'en where he slept it slumber'd too.
For, ever near the ministrel's side,
Now, more his solace than his pride,
E'en where he slept it slumber'd too.
And well it paid him with its strain—
For oft, I guess, the restless smart,
That 'woke within his world-sick heart,
Its sympathy did lull again.
For oft, I guess, the restless smart,
That 'woke within his world-sick heart,
Its sympathy did lull again.
24
I grieve 'twas ne'er my lot to see
This last of Erin's minstrel race,
For dear I love each little trace
Of Erin, as she us'd to be.
This last of Erin's minstrel race,
For dear I love each little trace
Of Erin, as she us'd to be.
But I have heard his praise from One,
Whose native soul was form'd to praise
The melody of Erin's lays—
Her genuine and loyal son!
Whose native soul was form'd to praise
The melody of Erin's lays—
Her genuine and loyal son!
The Minstrel had the skill to move
The heart, no less than charm the ear;
At will, could bring the list'ners tear,
His touching cadence to approve.
The heart, no less than charm the ear;
At will, could bring the list'ners tear,
His touching cadence to approve.
And then, with all the master's guile,
With rapid hand he'd change the lay
To lightsome lilt, and charm away
That tear, 'till all the soul would smile!
With rapid hand he'd change the lay
To lightsome lilt, and charm away
That tear, 'till all the soul would smile!
25
Nor be the muse asham'd to tell,
If less had been the minstrel's skill,
She would have lov'd to praise it still,
Because he priz'd his country well.
If less had been the minstrel's skill,
She would have lov'd to praise it still,
Because he priz'd his country well.
For it had been, in better days,
Long past, the minstrel's lot to roam;
He could have found a foreign home,
But sought the land that own'd his lays.
Long past, the minstrel's lot to roam;
He could have found a foreign home,
But sought the land that own'd his lays.
The minstrel's day of toil is o'er;
His harp is dumb, his hand is cold,
His feats of song shall oft be told—
But, ah! they shall be heard no more!
His harp is dumb, his hand is cold,
His feats of song shall oft be told—
But, ah! they shall be heard no more!
And hear, ye sons of wealth, he died
Uncherish'd, unconsol'd and lone—
A bard to patronage unknown—
This man who was his country's pride!
Uncherish'd, unconsol'd and lone—
A bard to patronage unknown—
This man who was his country's pride!
| A collection of poems on various subjects | |