Classic Poem

I

Why sleeps the harp of Erin's pride?
Why with'ring droops its shamrock wreath?
Why has that song of sweetness died
Which Erin's harp alone can breathe?

II

Oh 'twas the simplest, wildest thing!
The sighs of Eve that faintest flow
O'er airy lyres, did never fling
So sweet, so sad, a song of woe.

III

And yet its sadness seemed to borrow
From love, or joy, a mystic spell;
'Twas doubtful still if bliss or sorrow
From its melting lapses fell.

IV

For if amidst its tone's soft languish
A note of love or joy e'er streamed,
'Twas the plaint of lovesick anguish,
And still the " joy of grief" it seemed.

V

'Tis said oppression taught the lay
To him (of all the " sons of song"
That basked in Erin's brighter day)
The last of the inspired throng;

VI

That not in sumptuous hall or bow'r,
To victor chiefs on tented plain,
To festive souls, in festal hour,
Did he (sad bard) pour forth the strain.

VII

Oh no! For he, oppressed, pursued,
Wild, wand'ring, doubtful of his course,
With tears his silent harp bedewed,
That drew from Erin's woes their source.

VIII

It was beneath th' impervious gloom
Of some dark forest's deepest dell,
'Twas at some patriot hero's tomb,
Or on the drear heath where he fell.

IX

It was beneath the loneliest cave
That roofs the brow of misery,
Or stems the ocean's wildest wave,
Or mocks the sea-blast's keenest sigh.

X

It was through night's most spectral hours,
When reigns the spirit of dismay,
And terror views demoniac pow'rs
Flit ghastly round in dread array.

XI

Such was the time, and such the place,
The bard respired his song of woe,
To those who had of Erin's race
Survived their freedom's vital blow.

XII

Oh, what a lay the minstrel breathed!
How many bleeding hearts around,
In suff'ring sympathy enwreathed,
Hung desponding o'er the sound!

XIII

For still his harp's wild plaintive tones
Gave back their sorrows keener still,
Breathed sadder sighs, heaved deeper moans,
And wilder waked despair's wild thrill.

XIV

For still he sung the ills that flow
From dire oppression's ruthless fang,
And deepened every patriot woe,
And sharpened every patriot pang.

XV

Yet, ere he ceased, a prophet's fire
Sublimed his lay, and louder rung
The deep-toned music of his lyre,
And " Erin go brach" he boldly sung.