A Walk by the Bay of Dublin

While travelled poets pen their polished rhymes
In praise of distant lands and southern climes,—
While tourists tell of gorgeous realms afar,
How bless'd by heaven—how beautiful they are!—
While every scene but moderately fair,
Shines on their page, as if all heaven were there!—
Scenes which, if viewed by their discerning eyes
Within the circle of their native skies,
Tho' decked with all that Nature's hands bestow,
Were passed unheeded as too mean and low!—
While thus are praised, in learned rhyme and prose,
Italia's sun and wild Helvetia's snows,
The trackless forest and the teeming mine,
Ice at the Poles and earthquakes at the Line,—
One who, yet free from fashion's freezing zone,
Admires not every country but—his own!—
Whose heart unchill'd and whose impartial eye
Dare to be just to scenes which round him lie!—
With skilless hand he ventures to portray
A sketch, Eblana, of thy beauteous bay,—
Rival and twin of bright Parthenope!

'Tis that sweet hour when morning melts away
In the full splendours of the golden day,
When sea and sky, when mountain, vale, and stream,
Bask in the glories of the noontide beam!
Oh! what a vision bursts upon my sight!—
Offspring of heaven and parent of delight.
This scene, which now my raptured eyes survey,
Those purple mountains and this silvery bay,
Those verdant heights, with tall trees waving o'er,
Those fearful crags which guard the crescent shore,
Those dazzling villas, crowding every steep,
Those snow-white sails which skim along the deep,
Those pointed hills which pierce the cloudless sky,
Those ruined towers which tell of days gone by,—
Form such a picture both for eye and heart,
As puts to shame the poet's—painter's art!
What words can tell—what pencil here can trace
The mingled magic of this matchless place?
On either shore what glorious views expand!
What varying wonders crowd on either hand!

Oft have I paced and traversed o'er and o'er
Marino's woods and Moynealta's shore,—
Both classic spots, both worthy of the bay,—
The one of old, the other of to-day.
Here aged Brian taught the Danish horde
The offended justice of a patriot's sword.
Here too, when nigh a thousand years had roll'd
Their blood-stained waves to mix with those of old,—
When peace and freedom bless'd again our shore,
And Brian lived in Charlemont once more!—
Mid those fair groves, with taste and virtue bless'd,
Here did the patriot take his well-earned rest.
But not alone the lore of vanish'd days
Gilds this sweet spot with its reflected rays.
Here nature sports in most indulgent mood,
Laughs on the lawn and wantons in the wood!
The pansy opes its gold and violet wings,
The soaring sky-lark in the sun-light sings;
The red valerian and the ivy green,
With fragrant wild-flowers, weave their tangled screen
Round ancient trees and rocks and aged walls,
Where the thrush whistles and the cuckoo calls!

Now passing o'er, but not with careless haste,
Ratheny's strand and wild Kilbarrock's waste,
By rushy fields whose herbage oft disclose
The green-winged orchis and the pale primrose,
Let us ascend to scenes more widly fair,
Up the brown slopes of lofty Bennadair!
That lonely mountain which above the tide
Lifts its long back and swells its dusky side!
As some dread monster from its ocean lair
Bursts o'er the wave to breathe the upper air,
Then, fixed by magic in eternal sleep,
Spreads its huge length along the shuddering deep!
What tho' no giant oaks adorn the scene,
As fond tradition tells there once had been;
What tho' its groveless heights no more prolong
The cheerful chirpings of the wild bird's song;
Still is it rich in many a charm and grace,
Which age revives and time cannot efface;
Rich in the relics which its glens retain,
The druid altar and the ruined fane.

The samphire gatherer on each mossy glade,
Here may pursue his wild and “dreadful trade”
Here those who love to view a noble scene,
Tho' vast, distinct,—sublime, but still serene,—
Here may they rest, and feast their dazzled sight
With all the glories circling round this height.
From Edria's Isle to where Three Sisters stand,
Like giant Graces o'er the southern land,
The waveless sea like one vast mirror shines,
Bright as the treasures of ten thousand mines!
Here, lovely bay! above thy tranquil sea,
Here let me take my fond farewell of thee.
When grief or pain, despondency or care,
Fell on my heart, and worked their ruin there,
One quiet walk along thy silent shore,
One look at thee, and all my grief was o'er!
When friends and brothers quickly pass'd away,
The fond companions of my earlier day,
When disappointment came to dwell with me,
Still, still I clung to nature and to thee!
Like a fond mother watching o'er her child,
Thus hast thou ever on my footsteps smiled,
Oh! shame if then I acted not my part,
And gave not back to thee my ever-grateful heart!
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