IRISH MELODIES. MY GENTLE HARP. My gentle Harp, once more I waken In tears our last farewell was taken, And now in tears we meet again. No light of joy hath o'er thee broken, But, like those Harps whose heav'nly skill Of slavery, dark as thine, hath spoken, And yet, since last thy chord resounded, And many an ardent bosom bounded With hopes that now are turn'd to shame. Yet even then, while Peace was singing Then, who can ask for notes of pleasure, As ill would suit the swan's decline! Or how shall I, who love, who bless thee, Invoke thy breath for Freedom's strains, When ev'n the wreaths in which I dress thee, Are sadly mix'd-half flow'rs, half chains? But come if yet thy frame can borrow How gaily, ev'n mid gloom surounding, * Dimidio magicæ resonant ubi Memnone chordæ.—Juvenal. IN THE MORNING OF LIFE. In the morning of life, when its cares are unknown, And its pleasures in all their new lustre begin, When we live in a bright-beaming world of our own, And the light that surrounds us is all from within; Oh 'tis not, believe me, in that happy time We can love, as in hours of less transport we may; Of our smiles, of our hopes, 'tis the gay sunny prime, But affection is truest when these fade away. When we see the first glory of youth pass us by, Like a leaf on the stream that will never return; When our cup, which had sparkled with pleasure so high, First tastes of the other, the dark-flowing urn; Then, then is the time when affection holds sway With a depth and a tenderness joy never knew; Love, nursed among pleasures, is faithless as they, But the love born of Sorrow, like Sorrow, is true. |