RANGLEAWE—THE
ROVING BARD.
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From
the cot of my father, as day-light descended,
And Sol dipped his rim in
the far distant wave,
O’er the hills of Slievegallin my lone steps
I bended,
Where the heath-bell nods
gently o’er RANG’S*
silent grave. [Page
199]
There calmly in sleep rests the Bard, famed in story,
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Who
oft from his lip would wild melody pour,
When of Erin he sung, and her long faded
glory,
While his harp the soft
numbers repeated Gillore.
But that harp now no longer its sweet tones awaken,
To gladden the heart with
each soft melting thrill—
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Ah,
no! every chord slumbers sadly forsaken,
And the lip that breathed
o’er them now hushed on the hill.
[Page 200]
To the past days of sunshine fond memory bore me,
And pictured the joys that
no longer appear—
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She
marked out the spot, where the Bard slept before
me—
That spot which
the children of Erin revere.
His tomb shall be decked with the ever-green heather—
The shamrock and daisy around
it be spread—
And the sweet smiling daughters of Erin shall gather
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The
loveliest flowers to garnish his bed.
Then farewell, loved minstrel—although thy
harp slumbers,
Some true kindred spirit
may yet wake its tone,
And touch with pure finger the soul-breathing numbers
That liberty kindles in
hearts like our own.
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Yes—freedom restored to the green hills of
Erin,
Shall proudly display her
own banner again—
While the Demon of party in torture’s despairing,
And tyranny conquered shall
writhe in her chain. [Page 201]
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*
As there are few of the Irish people to whom the
writings and character of RANGLEAWE, (Francis Dowling,)
are not well known, it is enough to say, that his
poetic and extemporaneous effusions, together with
a copiousness of that ready wit which is so truly
the characteristic of Irishmen, rendered him an
object of the greatest respect, and always procured
for him, wherever he went, the “Cead mile
fuille duit,” hundred thousand welcomes.—Like
most other poets, he was particularly fond of celebrating
the pretty girls of his day. The greatest favourite
that he ever had was MISS DOWNY, whose lovely form
and features are still clear to my recollection.
I never saw her but once, and that when I was but
very young. She was then on a visit to a friend,
in my own little village, Tullinagee—and
curiosity led me to see the lady whom our old bard
had so highly celebrated. With rude boyish gaze,
I strictly surveyed the fading form of her who once
could inspire the lover and the poet. There was
an indescribable something in her look and manner
that I thought surpassed all I had ever seen, and
made such an impression on my mind, that it still
is, and ever shall be, unmoved by the operations
of time. [back] |
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