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Романа Дубровкина

Tho' the last glimpse of Erin with sorrow I see,
Yet wherever thou art shall seem Erin to me;
In exile thy bosom shall still be my home,
And thine eyes make my climate wherever we roam.

To the gloom of some desert or cold rocky shore,
Where the eye of the stranger can haunt us no more,
I will fly with my Coulin, and think the rough wind
Less rude than the foes we leave frowning behind.

And I'll gaze on thy gold hair, as graceful it wreathes,
And hang o'er thy soft harp, as wildly it breathes;
Nor dread that the cold-hearted Saxon will tear
One chord from that harp, or one lock from that hair.

When daylight was yet sleeping under the pillow,
And stars in the heavens still lingering shone,
Young Kitty, all blushing, rose up from her pillow,
The last time she e'er was to press it alone.
For the youth whom she treasured her heart and her soul in
Had promised to link the last tie before noon;
And when once the young heart of a maiden is stolen,
The maiden herself will steal after it soon.

As she look'd in the glass, which a woman ne'er misses,
Nor ever wants time for a sly glance or two,
A butterfly, fresh from the night-flower's kisses,
Flew over the mirror, and shaded her view.
Enraged with the insect for hiding her graces,
She brush'd him — he fell, alas! never to rise;
«Ah! such,» said the girl, «is the pride of our faces,
For which the soul's innocence too often dies.»

While she stole through the garden, where heart's-ease was growing,
She cull'd some, and kiss'd off its night-fallen dew;
And a rose, further on, look'd so tempting and glowing,
That, spite of her haste, she must gather it too:
But while o'er the roses too carelessly leaning,
Her zone flew in two, and the heart's-ease was lost:
«Ah! this means,» said the girl (and she sigh'd at its meaning),
«That love is scarce worth the repose it will cost!»

He:
WHAT the bee is to the floweret
When he looks for honey-dew,
Through the leaves that close embower it,
That, my love, I’ll be to you.

She:
What the bank, with verdure glowing,
Is to waves that wander near,
Whispering kisses, while they’re going,
That I’ll be to you, my dear.

But they say, the bee’s a rover,
Who will fly, when sweets are gone,
And, when once the kiss is over,
Faithless brooks will wander on.

He:
Nay, if flowers will lose their looks
If sunny banks will wear away,
’Tis but right that bees and brooks
Should sip and kiss them, while they may.

Has sorrow thy young days shaded,
As clouds o’er the morning fleet?
Too fast have those young days faded
That, even in sorrow, were sweet?
Does Time with his cold wing wither
Each feeling that once was dear? —
Then, child of misfortune, come hither,
I’ll weep with thee, tear for tear.

Has love to that soul, so tender,
Been like our Lagenian mine,
Where sparkles of golden splendour
All over the surface shine —
But, if in pursuit we go deeper,
Allured by the gleam that shone,
Ah! false as the dream of the sleeper,
Like Love, the bright ore is gone.

Has Hope, like the bird in the story,
That flitted from tree to tree
With the talisman’s glittering glory —
Has Hope been that bird to thee?
On branch after branch alighting,
The gem did she still display,
And, when nearest, and most inviting,
Then waft the fair gem away?

If thus the young hours have fleeted,
When sorrow itself look’d bright;
If thus the fair hope hath cheated,
That led thee along so light;
If thus the cold world now wither
Each feeling that once was dear —
Come, child of misfortune, come hither,
I’ll weep with thee, tear for tear.

St. Senanus

“On! haste, and leave this sacred isle,
Unholy bark, ere morning smile;
For on thy deck, though dark it be,
A female form I see;
And I have sworn this sainted sod
Shall ne’er by woman’s feet by trod!”

The Lady

“Oh! Father, send not hence my bark
Through wintry winds and billows dark,
I come, with humble heart, to share
Thy morn and evening prayer;
Nor mine the feet, oh! holy Saint,
The brightness of thy sod to taint.”

The lady’s prayer Senanus spurn’d;
The winds blew fresh, the bark return’d.
But legends hint, that had the maid
Till morning’s light delay’d,
And given the saint one rosy smile,
She ne’er had left his lonely isle.

Ne'er ask the hour — what is it to us
How Time deals out his treasures?
The golden moments lent us thus
Are not his coin, but Pleasure's.
If counting them o'er could add to their blisses,
I'd number each glorious second:
But moments of joy are, like Lesbia's kisses,
Too quick and sweet to be reckon'd.
Then fill the cup – what is it to us
How time his circle measures?
The fairy hours we call up thus
Obey no wand but Pleasure's.

Young Joy ne'er thought of counting hours,
Till Care, one summer's morning,
Set up, among his smiling flowers,
A dial, by way of warning.
But Joy loved better to gaze on the sun,
As long as its light was glowing,
Than to watch with old Care how the shadow stole on,
And how fast that light was going.
So fill the cup – what is it to us
How time his circle measures?
The fairy hours we call up thus
Obey no wand but Pleasure's.

OH, banquet not in those shining bowers,
Where Youth resorts, but come to me,
For mine’s a garden of faded flowers,
More fit for sorrow, for age, and thee.
And there we shall have our feast of tears,
And many a cup in silence pour;
Our guests, the shades of former years,
Our toasts, to lips that bloom no more.

There, while the myrtle’s withering boughs
Their lifeless leaves around us shed,
We’ll brim the bowl to broken vows
To friends long lost, the changed, the dead.
Or, while some blighted laurel waves
Its branches o’er the dreary spot,
We’ll drink to those neglected graves
Where valour sleeps, unnamed, forgot.

The dawning of morn, the daylight’s sinking,
The night’s long hours still find me thinking
Of thee, thee, only thee.
When friends are met, and goblets crown’d,
And smiles are near, that once enchanted,
Unreach’d by all that sunshine round,
My soul, like some dark spot, is haunted
By thee, thee, only thee.

Whatever in fame’s high path could waken
My spirit once, is now forsaken
For thee, thee, only thee.
Like shores, by which some headlong bark
To the ocean hurries, resting never,
Life’s scenes go by me, bright or dark,
I know not, heed not, hastening ever
To thee, thee, only thee.

I have not a joy but of thy bringing,
And pain itself seems sweet when springing
From thee, thee, only thee.
Like spells, that nought on earth can break,
Till lips, that know the charm, have spoken,
This heart, howe’er the world may wake
Its grief, its scorn, can but be broken
By thee, thee, only thee.

Shall the Harp then be silent, when he who first gave
To our country a name, is withdrawn from all eyes?
Shall a Minstrel of Erin stand mute by the grave
Where the first — where the last of her Patriots lies?

No — faint though the death-song may fall from his lips,
Though his Harp, like his soul, may with shadows be crost,
Yet, yet shall it sound, ’mid a nation’s eclipse,
And proclaim to the world what a star hath been lost; —

What a union of all the affections and powers
By which life is exalted, embellish’d, refined,
Was embraced in that spirit — whose centre was ours,
While its mighty circumference circled mankind.

Oh, who that loves Erin, or who that can see,
Through the waste of her annals, that epoch sublime —
Like a pyramid raised in the desert — where he
And his glory stand out to the eyes of all time;

That one lucid interval, snatch’d from the gloom
And the madness of ages, when fill’d with his soul,
A Nation o’erleap’d the dark bounds of her doom,
And for one sacred instant, touch’d Liberty’s goal?

Who, that ever hath heard him — hath drunk at the source
Of that wonderful eloquence, all Erin’s own,
In whose high-thoughted daring, the fire, and the force,
And the yet untamed spring of her spirit are shown?

An eloquence rich, wheresoever its wave
Wander’d free and triumphant, with thoughts that shone through
As clear as the brook’s «stone of lustre,» and gave,
With the flash of the gem, its solidity too.

Who, what ever approach’d him, when free from the crowd,
In a home full of love, he delighted to read
’Mong the trees which a nation had given, and which bow’d,
As if each brought a new civic crown for his head —

Is there one, who hath thus, through his orbit of life
But at distance observed him — through glory, through blame,
In the calm of retreat, in the grandeur of strife,
Whether shining or clouded, still high and the same? —

Oh no, not a heart that e’er knew him but mourns
Deep, deep, o’er the grave where such glory is shrined —
O’er a monument Fame will preserve ’mong the urns
Of the wisest, the bravest, the best of mankind!

Silence is in our festal halls, —
Sweet Son of Song! thy course is o'er;
In vain on thee sad Erin calls,
Her minstrel's voice responds no more;
All silent as th' Æolian shell
Sleeps at the close of some bright day,
When the sweet breeze, that waked its swell
At sunny morn, hath died away.

Yet, at our feasts thy spirit long,
Awaked by music's spell shall rise;
For, name so link'd with deathless song
Partakes its charms and never dies:
And ev'n within the holy fane,
When music wafts the soul to heaven,
One thought to him, whose earliest strain
Was echoed there, shall long be given.

But where is now the cheerful day,
The social night, when, by thy side,
He, who now weaves this parting lay,
His skilless voice with thine allied;
And sung those songs whose every tone,
When bard and minstrel long have past,
Shall still, in sweetness all their own,
Embalm'd by fame, undying last.

Yes, Erin, thine alone the fame, —
Or, if thy bard have shared the crown,
From thee the borrow'd glory came,
And at thy feet is now laid down.
Enough, if Freedom still inspire
His latest song, and still there be,
As evening closes round his lyre,
One ray upon its chords from thee.

Bring the bright garlands hither,
Ere yet a leaf is dying;
If so soon they must wither.
Ours be their last sweet sighing.
Hark, that low dismal chime!
'Tis the dreary voice of Time.
Oh, bring beauty, bring roses,
Bring all that yet is ours;
Let life's day, as it closes,
Shine to the last thro' flowers.

Haste, ere the bowl's declining,
Drink of it now or never;
Now, while Beauty is shining,
Love, or she's lost for ever.
Hark! again that dull chime,
'Tis the dreary voice of Time.
Oh, if life be a torrent,
Down to oblivion going,
Like this cup be its current,
Bright to the last drop flowing!

I pray you, let us roam no more
Along that wild and lonely shore,
Where late we thoughtless strayed;
’Twas not for us, whom heaven intends
To be no more than simple friends,
Such lonely walks were made.

That little Bay, where turning in
From ocean’s rude and angry din,
As lovers steal to bliss,
The billows kiss the shore, and then
Flow back into the deep again,
As though they did not kiss.

Remember, o’er its circling flood
In what a dangerous dream we stood—
The silent sea before us,
Around us, all the gloom of grove,
That ever lent its shade to love,
No eye but heaven’s o’er us!

I saw you blush, you felt me tremble,
In vain would formal art dissemble
All we then looked and thought;
’Twas more than tongue could dare reveal,
’Twas every thing that young hearts feel,
By Love and Nature taught.

I stopped to cull, with faltering hand,
A shell that, on the golden sand,
Before us faintly gleamed;
I trembling raised it, and when you
Had kist the shell, I kist it too—
How sweet, how wrong it seemed!

Oh, trust me, ’twas a place, an hour,
The worst that e’er the tempter’s power
Could tangle me or you in;
Sweet Nea, let us roam no more
Along that wild and lonely shore.
Such walks may be our ruin.