Though the bard to purer fame may soar, Though he win the wise, who frown'd before, He'll never meet A joy so sweet In all his noon of fame, As when first he sung to woman's ear And, at every close, she blush'd to hear Oh! that hallow'd form is ne'er forgot, Still it lingering haunts the greenest spot "Twas odour fled As soon as shed; 'Twas morning's winged dream! Oh! 'twas light that ne'er can shine again THE PRINCE'S DAY1. THOUGH DARK ARE OUR SORROWS. AIR-St. Patrick's Day. THOUGH dark are our sorrows, to-day we'll forget them, And smile through our tears, like a sun-beam in showers; There never were hearts, if our rulers would let them, More form'd to be grateful and blest than ours! But, just when the chain Has ceased to pain, And hope has enwreath'd it round with flowers, 1 This song was written for a fète in honour of the Prince of WALES's birth-day, given by my friend, Major BRYAN, last year (1810), at his seat in the county of Kilkenny. There comes a new link Our spirits to sink! Oh! the joy that we taste, like the light of the poles, Is a flash amid darkness, too brilliant to stay; But though 'twere the last little spark in our souls, We must light it up now, on our Prince's day. Contempt on the minion, who calls you disloyal! Though fierce to your foe, to your friends you are true! And the tribute most high to a head that is royal, Is love from a heart, that loves liberty too. While cowards, who blight Your fame, your right, Would shrink from the blaze of the battle array; The standard of green In front would be seen. Oh! my life on your this minute, faith! were you summon'd You'd cast every bitter remembrance away, And shew what the arm of old Erin has in it, When roused by the foe, on her Prince's day. He loves the green isle, and his love is recorded In hearts which have suffer'd too much to forget; And hope shall be crown'd, and attachment rewarded, And Erin's gay jubilee shine out yet! By many a stroke, But nothing can cloud its native ray; Each fragment will cast A light to the last, And thus, Erin, my country! though broken thou art, There's a lustre within thee, that ne'er will decay; A spirit, that beams through each suffering part, And now smiles at their pain, on the Prince's day! WEEP ON, WEEP ON. AIR-The Song of Sorrow. WEEP on, weep on, your hour is past; In vain the hero's heart hath bled; The sage's tongue hath warn'd in vain:Oh, Freedom! once thy flame hath fled, It never lights again! Weep on-perhaps in after days They'll learn to love your name; And many a deed may wake in praise |