Far better in thy weeping hours To part from thee, as I do now, When mist is o'er thy blooming bowers, Like sorrow's veil on beauty's brow.
For, though unrivalled still thy grace, Thou dost not look, as then, _too_ blest, But thus in shadow, seem'st a place Where erring man might hope to rest--
Might hope to rest, and find in thee A gloom like Eden's on the day He left its shade, when every tree, Like thine, hung weeping o'er his way.
Weeping or smiling, lovely isle! And all the lovelier for thy tears-- For tho' but rare thy sunny smile, 'Tis heaven's own glance when it appears.
Like feeling hearts, whose joys are few, But, when _indeed_ they come divine-- The brightest light the sun e'er threw Is lifeless to one gleam of thine!
'Twas one of those dreams, that by music are brought, Like a bright summer haze, o'er the poet's warm thought-- When, lost in the future, his soul wanders on, And all of this life, but its sweetness, is gone.
The wild notes he heard o'er the water were those He had taught to sing Erin's dark bondage and woes, And the breath of the bugle now wafted them o'er From Dinis' green isle, to Glenà's wooded shore.
He listened--while, high o'er the eagle's rude nest, The lingering sounds on their way loved to rest; And the echoes sung back from their full mountain choir, As if loath to let song so enchanting expire.
It seemed as if every sweet note, that died here, Was again brought to life in some airier sphere, Some heaven in those hills, where the soul of the strain They had ceased upon earth was awaking again!
Oh forgive, if, while listening to music, whose breath Seemed to circle his name with a charm against death, He should feel a proud Spirit within him proclaim, "Even so shalt thou live in the echoes of Fame:
"Even so, tho' thy memory should now die away, 'Twill be caught up again in some happier day, And the hearts and the voices of Erin prolong, Through the answering Future, thy name and thy song."
[1] Written during a visit to Lord Kenmare, at Killarney.
Fairest! put on awhile These pinions of light I bring thee, And o'er thy own green isle In fancy let me wing thee. Never did Ariel's plume, At golden sunset hover O'er scenes so full of bloom, As I shall waft thee over.