Written in Ravensdale Park.
Hail, native shades! where, in my youthful hours,
In guiltless gaiety, and health serene,
I found pure pleasure in your shelt'ring bow'rs,
When Summer's sunshine gilt the beauteous scene.
Oft have I climb'd thy mountain's heathy height,
Eager the distant country to explore;
And view'd Dundalk, that, lovely to the sight,
Majestic, smiles, beside the pleasant shore.
There the blue waves, quick flashing on the day,
Innum'rous gleam along the level strand;
There, ships their pict'resque beauties oft display,
Impell'd by gales, or by light breezes fann'd.
When tender feelings fill'd my youthful breast,
Oft thro' thy scented walks, dear Ravensdale,
I've rambled, with my Anna's converse bless'd,
When Nature's sylvan music fill'd the gale.
How sweet, to her my love's impassion'd voice
By Echo gently whisper'd from the shade —
To view that form (which made my soul rejoice)
In the white robe of Innocence array'd!
Now, low she lies in the oblivious grave,
Whilst, here, the lovely bow'ry scenes remain —
Thus, Time and Death our comforts oft bereave,
And render earthly expectations vain.
Hark! how the dove, with wild melodious tone,
Pours tender plaints in the responding grove;
Thus would my soul my darling's loss bemoan;
Whilst from my eyes descend the tears of love.
Ah! Fancy, bear me from this mournful state,
And lead me back, with retrospective light,
To where, with patriotic zeal elate,
Our independent soldiers met my sight.
Then, when the love of Freedom was no crime,
On yonder mead, along the river's side,
I've seen our Volunteers, with port sublime,
Wield their bright arms, with Valour's noble pride.
Lost is that martial spirit, now — no more
The mass of gen'rous brethren guard our Isle:
Yet Providence may social love restore,
And o'er our land Fraternal Friendship smile.
Adieu! ye solitary shades, adieu!
Ireland's green laurel creeps along the ground,
In your dark maze — and where the moss-rose grew,
The night-shade and unpleasant fern abound.
Yet may your laurels, glist'ning in the light,
Crown Ireland's sons — your bow'rs may yet contain
True lovers, who shall here their hands unite;
Then shall my patriot-muse no more complain.
Hail, native shades! where, in my youthful hours,
In guiltless gaiety, and health serene,
I found pure pleasure in your shelt'ring bow'rs,
When Summer's sunshine gilt the beauteous scene.
Oft have I climb'd thy mountain's heathy height,
Eager the distant country to explore;
And view'd Dundalk, that, lovely to the sight,
Majestic, smiles, beside the pleasant shore.
There the blue waves, quick flashing on the day,
Innum'rous gleam along the level strand;
There, ships their pict'resque beauties oft display,
Impell'd by gales, or by light breezes fann'd.
When tender feelings fill'd my youthful breast,
Oft thro' thy scented walks, dear Ravensdale,
I've rambled, with my Anna's converse bless'd,
When Nature's sylvan music fill'd the gale.
How sweet, to her my love's impassion'd voice
By Echo gently whisper'd from the shade —
To view that form (which made my soul rejoice)
In the white robe of Innocence array'd!
Now, low she lies in the oblivious grave,
Whilst, here, the lovely bow'ry scenes remain —
Thus, Time and Death our comforts oft bereave,
And render earthly expectations vain.
Hark! how the dove, with wild melodious tone,
Pours tender plaints in the responding grove;
Thus would my soul my darling's loss bemoan;
Whilst from my eyes descend the tears of love.
Ah! Fancy, bear me from this mournful state,
And lead me back, with retrospective light,
To where, with patriotic zeal elate,
Our independent soldiers met my sight.
Then, when the love of Freedom was no crime,
On yonder mead, along the river's side,
I've seen our Volunteers, with port sublime,
Wield their bright arms, with Valour's noble pride.
Lost is that martial spirit, now — no more
The mass of gen'rous brethren guard our Isle:
Yet Providence may social love restore,
And o'er our land Fraternal Friendship smile.
Adieu! ye solitary shades, adieu!
Ireland's green laurel creeps along the ground,
In your dark maze — and where the moss-rose grew,
The night-shade and unpleasant fern abound.
Yet may your laurels, glist'ning in the light,
Crown Ireland's sons — your bow'rs may yet contain
True lovers, who shall here their hands unite;
Then shall my patriot-muse no more complain.