Classic Poem

WHERE A NTRIM'S giant pillars rise
Abrupt, to prop th' incumbent skies,
And fling their frowning shadows o'er the flood;
Wild with woe his frenzy'd air,
His big breast to the tempest bare,
Smit with his country's wounds indignant C ARROL stood,
Responsive to his tuneful lore,
J UVERNA'S ancient harp he bore,
Holy harp! whose witching numbers
Lap'd the soul in heavenly slumbers,
Bade youth's impassion'd bosom bleed,
Or, wak'd the gen'rous mind to high, heroic deed:
Thou, a sea-nymph once, could skim
Gentle Ocean's burnish'd brim,
Once, thro' coral groves could stray,
And with the dimpling eddies play,
'Till chang'd by Fate, to sooth that shore
With song, which thou did'st wash before,
Thy pristine form reversely twin'd,
Thy silvery shoulders stretch'd behind,
Lo! still th' uninjur'd mermaid-shape remains,
Save that thy copious locks afford
To Music each appropriate chord,
Nor S OL'S bright tresses pour'd superior strains!
With tutor'd fingers, taught to fly
Thro' ev'ry maze of harmony,
The Bard, (erewhile, whose magic measures
Steep'd the tearful lid in pleasures,
And grac'd the storied hall of Chieftains and of Kings,)
Thus swept with sorrowing agony the strings,
" Doom'd to perish, hapless coast,
Never more thy birth-right boast,
Purchas'd with thy flowing gore,
Independance boast no more;
The native fragrance of thy fields,
The stores thine every valley yields,
Plains, where Learning's pilgrim feet
First could find a safe retreat,
Plains, where nought empoison'd dwells,
Whilom purg'd by saintly spells,
Basely sold, and ever lost,
Henceforth, shall glut a rav'ning host:
Fiends of Slaughter! say, if yet
Martyr'd Peace be in your debt,
Not enough of carnage, say,
So insatiate still to slay?
Flesh'd in death, inhuman, tell
How many a guiltless victim fell?
Has not oft the filial sword
The father's wither'd breast explor'd?
Has not, oft, the infant's scream,
Mid the fir'd hut's midnight gleam,
Has not, oft, the virgin's shriek,
(Double-dy'd in blood her cheek!)
Has not, oft, the matron's cry,
Her sons, her husband groaning nigh,
Wrung, and torn my bursting soul? —
Mark a part, not blast the whole;
The wily knave, who leads astray
The peasant tribe, an easy prey!
The fool, by mad ambition led
And idle praise, to risque his head,
The bold-fac'd thief, th' assassin dark,
Unmov'd, for instant vengeance mark,
C ARROL'S self will dig their grave,
But spare the Innocent , the B RAVE ! "