The lay of an Irish harp :: :: University of Virginia Library

Why sleeps the Harp of Erin's pride?
Why with'ring droops its Shamrock wreath?
Why has that song of sweetness died
Which Erin's Harp alone can breathe?

II

Oh! 'twas the simplest, wildest thing!
The sighs of Eve that faintest flow
O'er airy lyres, did never fling
So sweet, so sad, a song of woe.

III

And yet its sadness seem'd to borrow
From love, or joy, a mystic spell;
'Twas doubtful still if bliss or sorrow
From its melting lapses fell.

IV

For if amidst its tone's soft languish
A note of love or joy e'er stream'd,
'Twas the plaint of love-sick anguish,
And still the “joy of grief” it seem'd.

V

'Tis said oppression taught the lay
To him—(of all the “sons of song”
That bask'd in Erin's brighter day)
The last of the inspir'd throng;

VI

That not in sumptuous hall, or bow'r,
To victor chiefs, on tented plain,
To festive souls, in festal hour,
Did he (sad bard!) pour forth the strain.

VII

Oh no! for he, opprest, pursued,
Wild, wand'ring, doubtful of his course,
With tears his silent Harp bedew'd,
That drew from Erin's woes their source.

VIII

It was beneath th' impervious gloom
Of some dark forest's deepest dell,

'Twas at some patriot hero's tomb,
Or on the drear heath where he fell.

IX

It was beneath the loneliest cave
That roofs the brow of misery,
Or stems the ocean's wildest wave,
Or mocks the sea-blast's keenest sigh.

X

It was through night's most spectral hours,
When reigns the spirit of dismay,
And terror views demoniac pow'rs
Flit ghastly round in dread array.

XI

Such was the time, and such the place,
The bard respir'd his song of woe,

To those, who had of Erin's race
Surviv'd their freedom's vital blow.

XII

Oh, what a lay the minstrel breath'd!
How many bleeding hearts around,
In suff'ring sympathy enwreath'd,
Hung desponding o'er the sound!

XIII

For still his Harp's wild plaintive tones
Gave back their sorrows keener still,
Breath'd sadder sighs, heav'd deeper moans,
And wilder wak'd despair's wild thrill.

XIV

For still he sung the ills that flow
From dire oppression's ruthless fang,

And deepen'd every patriot woe,
And sharpen'd every patriot pang.

XV

Yet, ere he ceas'd, a prophet's fire
Sublim'd his lay, and louder rung
The deep-ton'd music of his lyre,
And Erin go brach he boldly sung.