For, though unrivalled still thy grace,
Thou dost not look, as then, _too_ blest,
But thus in shadow, seem'st a place
Where erring man might hope to rest--
Might hope to rest, and find in thee
A gloom like Eden's on the day
He left its shade, when every tree,
Like thine, hung weeping o'er his way.
Weeping or smiling, lovely isle!
And all the lovelier for thy tears--
For tho' but rare thy sunny smile,
'Tis heaven's own glance when it appears.
Like feeling hearts, whose joys are few,
But, when _indeed_ they come divine--
The brightest light the sun e'er threw
Is lifeless to one gleam of thine!
'TWAS ONE OF THOSE DREAMS.[1]
'Twas one of those dreams, that by music are brought,
Like a bright summer haze, o'er the poet's warm thought--
When, lost in the future, his soul wanders on,
And all of this life, but its sweetness, is gone.
The wild notes he heard o'er the water were those
He had taught to sing Erin's dark bondage and woes,
And the breath of the bugle now wafted them o'er
From Dinis' green isle, to Glena's wooded shore.
He listened--while, high o'er the eagle's rude nest,
The lingering sounds on their way loved to rest;
And the echoes sung back from their full mountain choir,
As if loath to let song so enchanting expire.
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