Thomas Moore, from Irish Melodies, vol. 9
Fairest! put on a while|
These pinions of light I bring thee,
And o'er thy own green isle
In fancy let me wing thee.
Never did Ariel's plume,
At golden sunset, hover
O'er scenes so full of bloom
As I shall waft thee over.
2. Fields, where the Spring delays
3. Islets, so freshly fair,|
That never hath bird come nigh them,
But, from his course through air,
He hath been won down by them;*
Types, sweet maid, of thee,
Whose look, whose blush inviting,
Never did Love yet see
From heaven, without alighting.
4. Lakes, where the pearl lies hid,**
5. Then, if, while scenes so grand,|
So beautiful, shine before thee,
Pride for thy own dear land
Should haply be stealing o'er thee,
Oh, let grief come first,
O'er pride itself victorious
Thinking how man hath curst
What Heaven hath made so glorious.
** "Nennius, a British writer of the ninth century, mentions the abudance of pearls in Ireland. Their princes, he says, hung them behind their ears: and this we find comfirmed by a present made A.C. 1094, by Gilbert, Bishop of Limerick, to Anselm, Archbishop of Canterbury, of a considerable quantity of Irish pearls." - O'Halloran.
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