Thomas Moore, from Irish Melodies, vol. 7
My gentle Harp, once more I waken|
The sweetness of thy slumbering strain;
In tears our last farewell was taken,
And now in tears we meet again.
No light of joy hath o'er thee broken,
But, like those harps whose heavenly skill
Of slavery, dark as thine, hath spoken,
Thou hang'st upon the willows still.
2. And yet, since last thy chord resounded,
3. Then, who can ask for notes of pleasure,|
My drooping Harp, from chords like thine?
Alas, the lark's gay morning measure
As ill would suit the swan's decline!
Or how shall I, who love, who bless thee,
Invoke thy breath for Freedom's strains,
When even the wreaths in which I dress thee
Are sadly mix'd - half flowers, half chains?
4. But come - if yet thy frame can borrow
| Song Index | Home Page |