. Literature, art and song: Moore's melodies and American poems; . nguage with sorrows sad tone;^^ Till ikou didst divide them, and teach the fond layTo speak love when I m near thee, and grief when away. <WtJfp on, weep on, your hour is past; Your dreams of pride are oer;The fatal chain is round you cast. And you are men no vain the heros heart hath bled; The sages tongue hath warnd in vain;—Oh, Freedom! once thy flame hath fled, (^/ It never lights agam. ^i:: MAA^^KMOUkh 89 ^ Weep on—perhaps in after days,They 11 learn to love your name; When many a deed may wake in praise? That l
. Literature, art and song: Moore's melodies and American poems; . nguage with sorrows sad tone;^^ Till ikou didst divide them, and teach the fond layTo speak love when I m near thee, and grief when away. <WtJfp on, weep on, your hour is past; Your dreams of pride are oer;The fatal chain is round you cast. And you are men no vain the heros heart hath bled; The sages tongue hath warnd in vain;—Oh, Freedom! once thy flame hath fled, (^/ It never lights agam. ^i:: MAA^^KMOUkh 89 ^ Weep on—perhaps in after days,They 11 learn to love your name; When many a deed may wake in praise? That long hath slept in blame. And when they tread the ruind isle, Where rest, at length, the lord and slave, Theyll wondering ask, how hands so vileCould conquer hearts so brave? Twas fate, theyll say, a wayward fate Your web of discord wove;And while your tyrants joind in hate, You never jomd in hearts fell off, that ought to twine, And man profand what God had givenTill some were heard to curse-the shrine, Where others knelt to heaven! Sr p] ^^ *^f^/. §mx ^m\ii 0f mjj ®0«ttfrjj. ^ f HV Harp of my Country ! in darkness I found thee, The cold chain of silence had hung oer thee long,^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 wakend thy fondest, thy liveliest thrill;But, so oft hast thou echoed the deep sigh of sadness. That evn in thy mirth it will steal from thee still. ^9 ^ii, Dear Harp of my Country! farewell to thy numbers. This sweet wreath of song is the last we shall twine IGo, sleep with the sunshine of Fame on thy slumbers, Till touchd by some hand less unworthy than mine;If the pulse of the patriot, soldier, or lover, Vv/i5 Have throbbd at our lay, tis thy glory alone;I was but as the wind, passing heedlessly over. And all the wild sweetness I wakd was thy own
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