book x
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AS A BEAM O'ER THE FACE OF THE WATERS MAY GLOW.
As a beam o'er the face of the waters may glow While the tide runs in darkness and coldness below, So the cheek may be tinged with a warm sunny smile, Though the cold heart to ruin runs darkly the while.
One fatal remembrance, one sorrow that throws Its bleak shade alike o'er our joys and our woes. To which life nothing darker or brighter can bring For which joy has no balm and affliction no sting--
Oh! this thought in the midst of enjoyment will stay, Like a dead, leafless branch in the summer's bright ray; The beams of the warm sun play round it in vain, It may smile in his light, but it blooms not again.
THE MEETING OF THE WATERS.[1]
There is not in the wide world a valley so sweet As that vale in whose bosom the bright waters meet;[2] Oh! the last rays of feeling and life must depart, Ere the bloom of that valley shall fade from my heart.
Yet it _was_ not that nature had shed o'er the scene Her purest of crystal and brightest of green; 'Twas _not_ her soft magic of streamlet or hill, Oh! no,--it was something more exquisite still.
'Twas that friends, the beloved of my bosom, were near, Who made every dear scene of enchantment more dear, And who felt how the best charms of nature improve, When we see them reflected from looks that we love.
Sweet vale of Avoca! how calm could I rest In thy bosom of shade, with the friends I love best. Where the storms that we feel in this cold world should cease, And our hearts, like thy waters, be mingled in peace.
[1] "The Meeting of the Waters" forms a part of that beautiful scenery which lies between Rathdrum and Arklow, in the county of Wicklow, and these lines were suggested by a visit to this romantic spot, in the summer of the year 1807.
[2] The rivers Avon and Avoca.
HOW DEAR TO ME THE HOUR.
How dear to me the hour when daylight dies, And sunbeams melt along the silent sea, For then sweet dreams of other days arise, And memory breathes her vesper sigh to thee.
And, as I watch the line of light, that plays Along the smooth wave toward the burning west, I long to tread that golden path of rays, And think 'twould lead to some bright isle of rest.
TAKE BACK THE VIRGIN PAGE.
WRITTEN ON RETURNING A BLANK BOOK.
Take back the virgin page, White and unwritten still; Some hand, more calm and sage, The leaf must fill. Thoughts come, as pure as light Pure as even _you_ require: But, oh! each word I write Love turns to fire.
Yet let me keep the book: Oft shall my heart renew, When on its leaves I look, Dear thoughts of you. Like you, 'tis fair and bright; Like you, too bright and fair To let wild passion write One wrong wish there.
Haply, when from those eyes Far, far away I roam. Should calmer thoughts arise Towards you and home; Fancy may trace some line, Worthy those eyes to meet, Thoughts that not burn, but shine, Pure, calm, and sweet.
And as, o'er ocean, far, Seamen their records keep, Led by some hidden star Thro' the cold deep; So may the words I write Tell thro' what storms I stray-- _You_ still the unseen light, Guiding my way.
THE LEGACY.
When in death I shall calmly recline, O bear my heart to my mistress dear; Tell her it lived upon smiles and wine Of the brightest hue, while it lingered here. Bid her not shed one tear of sorrow To sully a heart so brilliant and light; But balmy drops of the red grape borrow, To bathe the relic from morn till night.
When the light of my song is o'er, Then take my harp to your ancient hall; Hang it up at that friendly door, Where weary travellers love to call.[1] Then if some bard, who roams forsaken, Revive its soft note in passing along, Oh! let one thought of its master waken Your warmest smile for the child of song. Keep this cup, which is now o'er-flowing, To grace your revel, when I'm at rest; Never, oh! never its balm bestowing On lips that beauty has seldom blest. But when some warm devoted lover To her he adores shall bathe its brim, Then, then my spirit around shall hover, And hallow each drop that foams for him.
[1] "In every house was one or two harps, free to all travellers, who were the more caressed, the more they excelled in music."--_O'Halloran_.
HOW OFT HAS THE BANSHEE CRIED.
How oft has the Banshee cried, How oft has death untied Bright links that Glory wove, Sweet bonds entwined by Love! Peace to each manly soul that sleepeth; Rest to each faithful eye that weepeth; Long may the fair and brave Sigh o'er the hero's grave.
We're fallen upon gloomy days![1] Star after star decays, Every bright name, that shed Light o'er the land, is fled. Dark falls the tear of him who mourneth Lost joy, or hope that ne'er returneth; But brightly flows the tear, Wept o'er a hero's bier.
Quenched are our beacon lights-- Thou, of the Hundred Fights![2] Thou, on whose burning tongue Truth, peace, and freedom hung! Both mute,--but long as valor shineth, Or Mercy's soul at war repineth, So long shall Erin's pride Tell how they lived and died.
[1] I have endeavored here, without losing that Irish character, which it is my object to preserve throughout this work, to allude to the sad and ominous fatality, by which England has been deprived of so many great and good men, at a moment when she most requires all the aids of talent and integrity.
[2] This designation, which has been before applied to Lord Nelson, is the title given to a celebrated Irish Hero, in a Poem by O'Guive, the bard of O'Niel, which is quoted in the "Philosophical Survey of the South of Ireland," page 433. "Con, of the hundred Fights, sleep in thy grass-grown tomb, and upbraid not our defeats with thy victories."
WE MAY ROAM THROUGH THIS WORLD.
We may roam thro' this world, like a child at a feast, Who but sips of a sweet, and then flies to the rest; And, when pleasure begins to grow dull in the east, We may order our wings and be off to the west; But if hearts that feel, and eyes that smile, Are the dearest gifts that heaven supplies, We never need leave our own green isle, For sensitive hearts, and for sun-bright eyes. Then remember, wherever your goblet is crowned, Thro' this world, whether eastward or westward you roam, When a cup to the smile of dear woman goes round, Oh! remember the smile which adorns her at home.
In England, the garden of Beauty is kept By a dragon of prudery placed within call; But so oft this unamiable dragon has slept, That the garden's but carelessly watched after all. Oh! they want the wild sweet-briery fence, Which round the flowers of Erin dwells; Which warns the touch, while winning the sense, Nor charms us least when it most repels. Then remember, wherever your goblet is crowned, Thro' this world, whether eastward or westward you roam, When a cup to the smile of dear woman goes round, Oh! remember the smile that adorns her at home.
In France, when the heart of a woman sets sail, On the ocean of wedlock its fortune to try, Love seldom goes far in a vessel so frail, But just pilots her off, and then bids her good-by. While the daughters of Erin keep the boy, Ever smiling beside his faithful oar, Thro' billows of woe, and beams of joy, The same as he looked when he left the shore. Then remember, wherever your goblet is crowned, Thro' this world, whether eastward or westward you roam, When a cup to the smile of dear woman goes round, Oh! remember the smile that adorns her at home.
EVELEEN'S BOWER.
Oh! weep for the hour, When to Eveleen's bower The Lord of the Valley with false vows came; The moon hid her light From the heavens that night. And wept behind her clouds o'er the maiden's shame.
The clouds past soon From the chaste cold moon, And heaven smiled again with her vestal flame: But none will see the day, When the clouds shall pass away, Which that dark hour left upon Eveleen's fame.
The white snow lay On the narrow path-way, When the Lord of the Valley crost over the moor; And many a deep print On the white snow's tint Showed the track of his footstep to Eveleen's door.
The next sun's ray Soon melted away Every trace on the path where the false Lord came; But there's a light above, Which alone can remove That stain upon the snow of fair Eveleen's fame.
LET ERIN REMEMBER THE DAYS OF OLD.
Let Erin remember the days of old. Ere her faithless sons betrayed her; When Malachi wore the collar of gold,[1] Which he won from her proud invader. When her kings, with standard of green unfurled, Led the Red-Branch Knights to danger;[2] Ere the emerald gem of the western world Was set in the crown of a stranger.
On Lough Neagh's bank as the fisherman strays, When the clear cold eve's declining, He sees the round towers of other days In the wave beneath him shining: Thus shall memory often, in dreams sublime, Catch a glimpse of the days that are over; Thus, sighing, look thro' the waves of time For the long-faded glories they cover.[3]
[1] "This brought on an encounter between Malachi (the Monarch of Ireland in the tenth century) and the Danes, in which Malachi defeated two of their champions, whom he encountered successively, hand to hand, taking a collar of gold from the neck of one, and carrying off the sword of the other, as trophies of his victory."--_Warner's "History of Ireland,"_ vol. i.