Of freedom, unrestrained, from ev'ry hill. I think I hear those melting strains, that used To rouse the latent vigour of thy sons Them, careless of surrounding death, to strike For liberty and life. Before me rise The hoary-headed bards of other days, The former minstrels of my native land, Whose song was wont, in festive hall, to swell The burst of merriment and revelry; Or, in the field of strife, to fire the nerve With dauntless energy, unbending strength. What means that melancholy air, with which, "To rise no more,” and what should damp the fire Of freedom in the soul, and quench the spark, The heaven-born spark of liberty divine? Oh! what is life without the kindling glow But see, Erina, with a sylphic tread, And harp, light o'er her graceful shoulder thrown, The balmy ordour of umbrageous shrubs, Melodious tuned, in echoing tones, she breathes. Song. Oh! what are the pleasures this bosom has known, Since first my dear Oscar declared he was mine, Since first I would languish to hear the sweet tone, In which he would falter, "Erina, I'm thine!" How blest do I feel, when together we rove, But late when we wandered along by the shore, Where grandeur and beauty the footstep invite; How talked he of blessings that love had in store, And painted the joys of domestic delight! B Upon the green-robed mountain, they infix Their pensive gaze? why sleeps the slumb'ring harp? Alas! they weep the soul of feeling fled, Our native energy subdued, our race Of patriotic heroes, like the oaks That once upon the verdant hillock spread Weep, Erin weep, thy glory fied, No more, along the lonely vale, Shall Echo bear the tuneful tale. For where's the maid that swept the lyre, With all the minstrel's kindling fire? Or where's the bard, that, 'neath the oak, The soul of barmony awoke? Hibernia's once illustrious name, Her son's renowned in martial fame, Alas! were fruitless all, to save Her independence from the grave; Or bid her, from the icy tomb Of slavery, rekindling bloom. |