 | Songs and ballads by Samuel Lover |  |
SWEET HARP OF THE DAYS THAT ARE GONE.
TO THE IRISH HARP.
Oh, give me one strain
Of that wild harp again,
In melody proudly its own!
Sweet harp of the days that are gone!
Time's wide-wasting wing
Its cold shadow may fling
Where the light of the soul hath no part;
The sceptre and sword
Both decay with their lord—
But the throne of the bard, is the heart.
Of that wild harp again,
In melody proudly its own!
Sweet harp of the days that are gone!
Time's wide-wasting wing
Its cold shadow may fling
Where the light of the soul hath no part;
The sceptre and sword
Both decay with their lord—
But the throne of the bard, is the heart.
142
And hearts, while they beat
To thy music so sweet,
Thy glories will ever prolong,
Land of honour and beauty and song!
The beauty, whose sway
Woke the bard's votive lay,
Hath gone to eternity's shade,
While, fresh in its fame,
Lives the song to her name,
Which the minstrel immortal hath made!
To thy music so sweet,
Thy glories will ever prolong,
Land of honour and beauty and song!
The beauty, whose sway
Woke the bard's votive lay,
Hath gone to eternity's shade,
While, fresh in its fame,
Lives the song to her name,
Which the minstrel immortal hath made!
| Songs and ballads by Samuel Lover | |