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. Ah dream too full of saddening truth! Those mansions o'er the main Are like the hopes I built in youth,-- As sunny and as vain!
[1] "The inhabitants of Arranmore are still persuaded that, in a clear day, they can see from this coast Hy Brysail or the Enchanted Island, the paradise of the Pagan Irish, and concerning which they relate a number of romantic stories",--_Beaufort's "Ancient Topography of Ireland_."
Lay his sword by his side,[1]--it hath served him too well Not to rest near his pillow below; To the last moment true, from his hand ere it fell, Its point was still turned to a flying foe. Fellow-laborers in life, let them slumber in death, Side by side, as becomes the reposing brave,-- That sword which he loved still unbroke in its sheath, And himself unsubdued in his grave.
Yet pause--for, in fancy, a still voice I hear, As if breathed from his brave heart's remains;-- Faint echo of that which, in Slavery's ear, Once sounded the war-word, "Burst your chains!" And it cries from the grave where the hero lies deep, "Tho' the day of your Chieftain for ever hath set, "Oh leave not his sword thus inglorious to sleep,-- "It hath victory's life in it yet!"
"Should some alien, unworthy such weapon to wield, "Dare to touch thee, my own gallant sword, "Then rest in thy sheath, like a talisman sealed, Or return to the grave of thy chainless lord. But, if grasped by a hand that hath learned the proud use Of a falchion, like thee, on the battle-plain,-- Then, at Liberty's summons, like lightning let loose, Leap forth from thy dark sheath again!"
[1] It was the custom of the ancient Irish, in the manner of the Scythians, to bury the favorite swords of their heroes along with them.
Oh, could we do with this world of ours As thou dost with thy garden bowers, Reject the weeds and keep the flowers, What a heaven on earth we'd make it! So bright a dwelling should be our own, So warranted free from sigh or frown, That angels soon would be coming down, By the week or month to take it.