« السابقةمتابعة »
To the Marquis of Wellesley,
On his being appointed Lord Lieutenant of Ireland.
Genius of Erin! whence the smile
That gently plays around thy cheek, A pearly tear of woe the while
Just dropped upon thy snowy neck ? Where hast thou seen a sight of joy,
Or whence this unexpected bliss ? Has thy grief learned to know alloy, Or hast thou caught a friendly glance From power and mightiness? Perchance
Genius of Erin, it is this.
Hark! even upon the breeze a note
Marquis of Wellesley! thine the deed;
Be thine the praise for all that's done;
Hand reaches hand of different creed ; Heart, long disjoined, now reaches heart, And joins from hence no more to part.
Guardian of Nations! what's the meed For the vast conquests he has won ?
Green Western Isle! thou once wast free
As on thy hills the mountain roe ; Bright shone the sun of Liberty,
Peace and contentment in its glow. Light was the tune upon thy lyres,
Merry the song of mountain swain ; These days we knew not, nor our sires,
And they may never come again. Our fathers lived in ignorance,
Dark superstition reigned around; Learning to meet was merest chance,
And darkness covered all the ground. Since then a sun of glory rose,
And spread its beams upon our land, 'Twas Literature, whose radiance glows
Far as the British realms expand. Thanks to Britannia's mighty power,
That filled our land with peaceful arts, That brought her laws to Erin's shore,
And lent her aid to form our hearts. Even then, when Knowledge had gone forth, From East to West, from South to North, The sounds of rancour filled the air, And bigotry reigned everywhere.
Clans against clans at variance stood,
But, son of Mornington, thy fame
In days of old, if such as thee
Had reigned among our father's sires,
To hush their broils, to quell their ires,
In humble reverence we kneel,
For the high seat of majesty ;
The wisdom of mortality
Prince of the powerful West !
If such there chance to fall,
Who sees and governs all.
First among monarchs, mighty king!
And cast a smiling glance around
On her green fields and wooded ground, And know from East to Western strand
He is beloved ; nay more, can say “Erin mavourneen ! thee I
sway : Thou art my own, my native land!” Our dearest ruler, we look up
To thy decrees so justly meet, Nor deem it slavery to stoop
Our willing hands beneath thy feet.
Thy consort, well is she arrayed
In the rich robes of majesty ;
Her outstretched hand—'tis always free
To do the deed of charity.
Sweet Marchioness, be still the same,
As erst thou wert when others sung ; Thousands shall bless thy very name,
And prayers ascend from every tongue. And thus thy name in after ages
Shall live when we have passed away, Thy deeds shall fill the poet's pages
A subject for his sweetest lay.
May Heaven protect its lov’d ones still,
And guide them safely through Each dark attempt, and every ill
"Tis theirs to undergo.