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.
But the war note is waked, and the clangour of spears,
The dread yell of Sloghan yet sounds in our ears.
Shelley
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.
OCTOBER, 1809.
11. SONG.
Fierce roars the midnight storm
O'er the wild mountain,
Dark clouds the night deform,
Swift rolls the fountain--
See! o'er yon rocky height, _5
Dim mists are flying--
See by the moon's pale light,
Poor Laura's dying!
Shame and remorse shall howl,
By her false pillow-- _10
Fiercer than storms that roll,
O'er the white billow;
No hand her eyes to close,
When life is flying,
But she will find repose, _15
For Laura's dying!
Then will I seek my love,
Then will I cheer her,
Then my esteem will prove,
When no friend is near her. _20
On her grave I will lie,
When life is parted,
On her grave I will die,
For the false hearted.
DECEMBER, 1809.
12.
