Shall a bard, whom not the world in arms
Could bend to tyranny's rude control,
Thus quail at sight of woman's charms
And yield to a smile his freeborn soul?
Thus sung the sage, while, slyly stealing,
The nymphs their fetters around him cast,
And,--their laughing eyes, the while, concealing,--
Led Freedom's Bard their slave at last.
For the Poet's heart, still prone to loving,
Was like that rack of the Druid race,[1]
Which the gentlest touch at once set moving,
But all earth's power couldn't cast from its base.
[1] The Rocking Stones of the Druids, some of which no force is able to
dislodge from their stations.
OH, ARRANMORE, LOVED ARRANMORE.
Oh! Arranmore, loved Arranmore,
How oft I dream of thee,
And of those days when, by thy shore,
I wandered young and free.
Full many a path I've tried, since then,
Thro' pleasure's flowery maze,
But ne'er could find the bliss again
I felt in those sweet days.
How blithe upon thy breezy cliffs,
At sunny morn I've stood,
With heart as bounding as the skiffs
That danced along thy flood;
Or, when the western wave grew bright
With daylight's parting wing,
Have sought that Eden in its light,
Which dreaming poets sing;[1]--
That Eden where the immortal brave
Dwell in a land serene,--
Whose bowers beyond the shining wave,
At sunset, oft are seen.
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