'Twas light, indeed, too blest for one, Who had to turn to paths of care Through crowded haunts again to run, And leave thee bright and silent there. No more unto thy shores to come, Far better in thy weeping hours For, though unrivall'd still thy grace, Might hope to rest, and find in thee Weeping or smiling, lovely isle! For tho' but rare thy sunny smile, 'Tis heav'n's own glance when it appears. Like feeling hearts, when joys are few, Thomas Moore. Blarney Castle (Blarney) O, did you ne'er hear of "the Blarney" That's found near the banks of Killarney? Believe it from me, No girl's heart is free, Once she hears the sweet sound of the Blarney. For the Blarney's so great a deceiver, That a girl thinks you're there, though you leave her; And never finds out All the tricks you're about Till she's quite gone herself with your Blarney. O say, would you find this same "Blarney"? On the top of its wall (But take care you don't fall) There's a stone that contains all this Blarney. Like a magnet, its influence such is, From that blessed day You may kiss whom you please with your Blarney. Samuel Lover. The Harp that once, thro' Tara's Halls. (Tara. A place in County Meath, famous in the early history of Ireland as a royal residence.) THE harp that once, thro' Tara's halls, The soul of music shed, Now hangs as mute, on Tara's walls, As if that soul were fled. So sleeps the pride of former days, So glory's thrill is o'er, And hearts that once beat high for praise, Now feel that pulse no more. No more, to chiefs and ladies bright, The harp of Tara swells; The chord alone, that breaks at night, Its tale of ruin tells: Thus Freedom now so seldom wakes, Is when some heart indignant breaks, Thomas Moore. C The Lake Isle of Innisfree (Innisfree, Lough Gill) I WILL arise and go now, and go to Innisfree, And a small cabin build there, of clay and wattles made; Nine bean rows will I have there, a hive for the honey bee, And live alone in the bee-loud glade. And I shall have some peace there, for peace comes dropping slow, Dropping from the veils of the morning to where the cricket sings; There midnight's all a glimmer, and noon a purple I will arise and go now, for always, night and day, I hear lake-water lapping with low sounds by the shore; While I stand on the roadway or on the pavements gray, I hear it in the deep heart's core. William Butler Yeats. On Leaving Ireland 1 WE E are rounding Moy-n-Olurg, we sweep by its head and We plunge through the Foyle, Whose swans could enchant with their music the dead and Make pleasure of toil.. Oh, Erin, were wealth my desire, what a wealth were To gain far from thee, In the land of the stranger, but there even health were A sickness to me! Alas for the voyage, oh, high King of Heaven, For that I on the red plain of bloody Cooldrevin How happy the son is of Dima; no sorrow For him is designed, He is having this hour, round his own Kill in Dur row, The wish of his mind. The sound of the wind in the elms, like the strings of A harp being played, The note of the blackbird that claps with the wings of Delight in the glade. From Ireland: Historic and Picturesque, by Charles Johnston. |