More pointed still we make ourselves,
Regret, Remorse, and Shame;
And Man, whose heav'n erected face The smiles of love adorn,
Man's inhumanity to Man
Makes countless thousands mourn.
See yonder poor o'erlabour'd wight,
So abject, mean, and vile,
Who begs a Brother of the Earth
To give him leave to toil;-
And see his Lordly fellow-worm
The poor petition spurn,
Unmindful, though a weeping wife,
And helpless offspring mourn.
If I'm design'd yon lordling's slave,
By Nature's law design'd,
Why was an independent wish
E'er planted in my mind?
If not, why am I subject to
His cruelty, or scorn?
Or why has Man the will and pow'r
To make his fellow mourn?
Yet, let not this too much, my Son,
Disturb thy youthful breast;
This partial view of human kind
Is surely not the last.
The poor, oppressed, honest man,
Had never sure been born,
Had there not been some recompense
To comfort those that mourn.
O Death! the poor man's dearest friend,
The kindest and the best;
Welcome the hour my aged limbs
Are laid with thee at rest.
The Great, the Wealthy, fear thy blow,
From pomp and pleasure torn;
But oh a blest relief to those
That weary-laden mourn.
THE FLOWER OF LOVE LIES BLEEDING.
OH! once the harp of Innisfail*
Was strung full high to notes of gladness;
But yet it often told a tale
Of more prevailing sadness.
Sad was the note, and wild its fall,
As winds that moan at night forlorn
Along the isles of Fion-Gael,
When for O'Connor's child to mourn,
The harper told, how lone, how far
From any mansion's twinkling star,
From any path of social men,
Or voice but from the fox's den,
The Lady in the desert dwelt,
And yet no wrongs, no fear she felt:
Say why should dwell in place so wild
The lovely pale O'Connor's child?
Sweet lady! she no more inspires
Green Erin's heart with beauty's pow'r,
As in the palace of her sires
She bloom'd a peerless flow'r.
*The ancient name of Ireland.
Gone from her hand and bosom, gone,
The regal broche, the jewell'd ring,
That o'er her dazzling whiteness shone
Like dews on lilies of the spring.
Yet why, though fall'n her brother's kerne,*
Beneath De Bourgo's battle stern,
While yet in Leinster unexplor'd,
Her friends survive the English sword;
Why lingers she from Erin's host,
So far on Galway's shipwreck'd coast;
Why wanders she a huntress wild-
The lovely pale O'Connor's child?
And fix'd on empty space, why burn
Her eyes with momentary wildness:
And wherefore do they then return
To more than woman's mildness?
Dishevell❜d are her raven locks,
On Connocht Moran's name she calls;
And oft amidst the lonely rocks
She sings sweet madrigals.
Plac'd in the foxglove and the moss,
Behold a parted warrior's cross!
That is the spot where, evermore,
The lady, at her shielingt door,
Enjoys that in communion sweet,
The living and the dead can meet;
For lo! to love-lorn fantasy,
The hero of her heart is nigh.
*Kerne, the ancient Irish foot Soldiery.
† Rude hut, or cabin.
Bright as the bow that spans the storm,
In Erin's yellow vesture clad,"
A son of light, a lovely form,
He comes and makes her glad:
Now on the grass-green turf he sits,
His tassell'd horn beside him laid;
Now o'er the hills in chase he flits,
The hunter and the deer a shade!
Sweet mourner! those are shadows vain,
That cross the twilight of her brain :
Yet she will tell you, she is blest,
Of Connocht Moran's tomb possess'd,
More richly than in Aghrim's bow'r,
When bards high prais'd her beauty's pow'r,'
And kneeling pages offer'd up
The morat* in a golden cup.
'A hero's bride! this desert bow'r,
'It ill befits thy gentle breeding:
'And wherefore dost thou love this flow'r
'To call-My love lies bleeding?"
"This purple flow'r my tears have nurs'd;
A hero's blood supply'd its bloom:
I love it, for it was the first
That grew on Connocht Moran's tomb.
Oh! hearken, stranger, to my voice!
This desert mansion is my choice;
And blest, tho' fatal, be the star
That led me to its wilds afar :
* A drink made of the juice of mulberry mixed with honey.
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