The melody of the harp

Oh, Harp of Erin what glamour gay,

What dark despairing are in thy lay?

What true love slighted thy sorrow wells,

What proud hearts plighted thy rapture tells.

Round thy dim form lamenting swarm

What banshees dread; till, glowing warm,

A heavenly iris of hope upsprings

From out the tumult that shakes thy strings.

(The chief dejected, with drooping brow,

Aroused, erected, is hearkening now,

The while abhorrent of shame and fear

Thy tuneful torrent invades his ear.

He calls his clan: "Who will and can

The slogan follow in Valour's van?"

Then forward thunder the gallant Gael

And death and plunder are o'er the pale.)

The child is calling through fever dreams;

When, softly falling as faery streams,

Thy magic Soontree his soul shall sweep,

Into the country of blessed sleep.

To ears that heed not their longing moan

Let lovers plead not with words alone,

But seek thine aid. The haughtiest maid

Will pause by thy sweet influence swayed;

Until the ditty so poignant proves,

She melts to pity and melting loves.