In ecstatic confusion the warrior shall sip,
The kisses that glow on his love's dewy lip,
And mutual, eternal, embraces shall prove, _15
The rewards of the brave are the transports of love.
The kisses that glow on his love's dewy lip,
And mutual, eternal, embraces shall prove, _15
The rewards of the brave are the transports of love.
Shelley
SONG.
TRANSLATED FROM THE ITALIAN.
Oh! what is the gain of restless care,
And what is ambitious treasure?
And what are the joys that the modish share,
In their sickly haunts of pleasure?
My husband's repast with delight I spread, _5
What though 'tis but rustic fare,
May each guardian angel protect his shed,
May contentment and quiet be there.
And may I support my husband's years,
May I soothe his dying pain, _10
And then may I dry my fast falling tears,
And meet him in Heaven again.
JULY, 1810.
9. SONG.
TRANSLATED FROM THE GERMAN.
Ah! grasp the dire dagger and couch the fell spear,
If vengeance and death to thy bosom be dear,
The dastard shall perish, death's torment shall prove,
For fate and revenge are decreed from above.
Ah! where is the hero, whose nerves strung by youth, _5
Will defend the firm cause of justice and truth;
With insatiate desire whose bosom shall swell,
To give up the oppressor to judgement and Hell--
For him shall the fair one twine chaplets of bays,
To him shall each warrior give merited praise, _10
And triumphant returned from the clangour of arms,
He shall find his reward in his loved maiden's charms.
In ecstatic confusion the warrior shall sip,
The kisses that glow on his love's dewy lip,
And mutual, eternal, embraces shall prove, _15
The rewards of the brave are the transports of love.
OCTOBER, 1809.
10. THE IRISHMAN'S SONG.
The stars may dissolve, and the fountain of light
May sink into ne'er ending chaos and night,
Our mansions must fall, and earth vanish away,
But thy courage O Erin! may never decay.
See! the wide wasting ruin extends all around, _5
Our ancestors' dwellings lie sunk on the ground,
Our foes ride in triumph throughout our domains,
And our mightiest heroes lie stretched on the plains.
Ah! dead is the harp which was wont to give pleasure,
Ah! sunk is our sweet country's rapturous measure, _10
But the war note is waked, and the clangour of spears,
The dread yell of Sloghan yet sounds in our ears.
Ah! where are the heroes! triumphant in death,
Convulsed they recline on the blood sprinkled heath,
Or the yelling ghosts ride on the blast that sweeps by, _15
And 'my countrymen! vengeance! ' incessantly cry.
TRANSLATED FROM THE ITALIAN.
Oh! what is the gain of restless care,
And what is ambitious treasure?
And what are the joys that the modish share,
In their sickly haunts of pleasure?
My husband's repast with delight I spread, _5
What though 'tis but rustic fare,
May each guardian angel protect his shed,
May contentment and quiet be there.
And may I support my husband's years,
May I soothe his dying pain, _10
And then may I dry my fast falling tears,
And meet him in Heaven again.
JULY, 1810.
9. SONG.
TRANSLATED FROM THE GERMAN.
Ah! grasp the dire dagger and couch the fell spear,
If vengeance and death to thy bosom be dear,
The dastard shall perish, death's torment shall prove,
For fate and revenge are decreed from above.
Ah! where is the hero, whose nerves strung by youth, _5
Will defend the firm cause of justice and truth;
With insatiate desire whose bosom shall swell,
To give up the oppressor to judgement and Hell--
For him shall the fair one twine chaplets of bays,
To him shall each warrior give merited praise, _10
And triumphant returned from the clangour of arms,
He shall find his reward in his loved maiden's charms.
In ecstatic confusion the warrior shall sip,
The kisses that glow on his love's dewy lip,
And mutual, eternal, embraces shall prove, _15
The rewards of the brave are the transports of love.
OCTOBER, 1809.
10. THE IRISHMAN'S SONG.
The stars may dissolve, and the fountain of light
May sink into ne'er ending chaos and night,
Our mansions must fall, and earth vanish away,
But thy courage O Erin! may never decay.
See! the wide wasting ruin extends all around, _5
Our ancestors' dwellings lie sunk on the ground,
Our foes ride in triumph throughout our domains,
And our mightiest heroes lie stretched on the plains.
Ah! dead is the harp which was wont to give pleasure,
Ah! sunk is our sweet country's rapturous measure, _10
But the war note is waked, and the clangour of spears,
The dread yell of Sloghan yet sounds in our ears.
Ah! where are the heroes! triumphant in death,
Convulsed they recline on the blood sprinkled heath,
Or the yelling ghosts ride on the blast that sweeps by, _15
And 'my countrymen! vengeance! ' incessantly cry.
