POEMS.
119
THE IRISH EXILE'S LAMENT.
Erin! the wild harp is hushed on thy mountains,
The sad wail of sorrow hath deadened its tone,
The hands that could strike on its bright chords are withered,
And those that are fettered are left thee alone.
Oh! once smiling garden! what blight hath passed o'er thee,
To sweep the fair flowers of peace from thy soil?
What spell hath been cast o'er the fate of thy children,
To mingle with tears the hard fruit of their toil?
Erin Mavourneen! light laughter hath wakened
Around the same hearths that are desolate now;
And they sleep not yet, who remember the halo
Flung down by contentment on each open brow.
But now is thy cabin-roof shelter no longer
From poverty's blasts, to the low-drooping head:
And the laughter that rang 'neath that roof, is now echoed,
By the famine-wrung cry for the then "daily bread."
The sad wail of sorrow hath deadened its tone,
The hands that could strike on its bright chords are withered,
And those that are fettered are left thee alone.
Oh! once smiling garden! what blight hath passed o'er thee,
To sweep the fair flowers of peace from thy soil?
What spell hath been cast o'er the fate of thy children,
To mingle with tears the hard fruit of their toil?
Erin Mavourneen! light laughter hath wakened
Around the same hearths that are desolate now;
And they sleep not yet, who remember the halo
Flung down by contentment on each open brow.
But now is thy cabin-roof shelter no longer
From poverty's blasts, to the low-drooping head:
And the laughter that rang 'neath that roof, is now echoed,
By the famine-wrung cry for the then "daily bread."
