[1] "The Sun-burst" was the fanciful name given by the ancient Irish to the Royal Banner.
I saw from the beach, when the morning was shining, A bark o'er the waters move gloriously on; I came when the sun o'er that beach was declining, The bark was still there, but the waters were gone.
And such is the fate of our life's early promise, So passing the spring-tide of joy we have known; Each wave, that we danced on at morning, ebbs from us, And leaves us, at eve, on the bleak shore alone.
Ne'er tell me of glories, serenely adorning The close of our day, the calm eve of our night;-- Give me back, give me back the wild freshness of Morning, Her clouds and her tears are worth Evening's best light.
Oh, who would not welcome that moment's returning, When passion first waked a new life thro' his frame, And his soul, like the wood, that grows precious in burning, Gave out all its sweets to love's exquisite flame.
Fill the bumper fair! Every drop we sprinkle O'er the brow of Care Smooths away a wrinkle. Wit's electric flame Ne'er so swiftly passes, As when thro' the frame It shoots from brimming glasses. Fill the bumper fair! Every drop we sprinkle O'er the brow of Care Smooths away a wrinkle.
Sages can, they say, Grasp the lightning's pinions, And bring down its ray From the starred dominions:-- So we, Sages, sit, And, mid bumpers brightening, From the Heaven of Wit Draw down all its lightning.
Wouldst thou know what first Made our souls inherit This ennobling thirst For wine's celestial spirit? It chanced upon that day, When, as bards inform us, Prometheus stole away The living fires that warm us:
The careless Youth, when up To Glory's fount aspiring, Took nor urn nor cup To hide the pilfered fire in.-- But oh his joy, when, round The halls of Heaven spying, Among the stars he found A bowl of Bacchus lying!
Some drops were in the bowl, Remains of last night's pleasure, With which the Sparks of Soul Mixt their burning treasure. Hence the goblet's shower Hath such spells to win us; Hence its mighty power O'er that flame within us. Fill the bumper fair! Every drop we sprinkle O'er the brow of Care Smooths away a wrinkle.
Dear Harp of my Country! in darkness I found thee, The cold chain of silence had hung o'er thee long,[1] When proudly, my own Island Harp, I unbound thee, And gave all thy chords to light, freedom, and song! The warm lay of love and the light note of gladness Have wakened thy fondest, thy liveliest thrill; But, so oft hast thou echoed the deep sigh of sadness, That even in thy mirth it will steal from thee still. Dear Harp of my country! farewell to thy numbers, This sweet wreath of song is the last we shall twine! Go, sleep with the sunshine of Fame on thy slumbers, Till touched by some hand less unworthy than mine; If the pulse of the patriot, soldier, or lover, Have throbbed at our lay, 'tis thy glory alone; I was _but_ as the wind, passing heedlessly over, And all the wild sweetness I waked was thy own.