Poems (Denver)/The Irish Girl
THE IRISH GIRL.
She stands upon the sea-washed shore, While folded o'er her breast, Her hands are clasped as if to keep Her yearning heart at rest. So stands she, and her eyes are turned Towards Erin's island-home, While thought flies faster than the wind Drives on the flying foam.
The waves are sliding to her feet, But that she heedeth not; The present in the mighty past Lies buried and forgot. Affection's tides are filling fast Her bosom to the brim, And in their depths all lesser things Are overwhelmed and dim.
Erin! Mavourneen! bears the breeze No message from thy shore?—With warm remembrances of thee Her heart is running o'er.Erin go bragh! Thy shamrock green Is like thy children's hearts, Thro' whatsoever ills they pass, Their courage ne'er departs.
Sweet girl of Erin! in the far, Far depths of memory, There are a thousand glorious shapes Made visible to thee,And to thy still and listening heart Each hath a different tone, A language breathing forth a sound Peculiarly its own.
The past is like a mighty harp All silent and unstrung, Whose sleeping strings no voice of love Or agony hath rung, But draw the wires, and o'er the chords Let memory's fingers fly, And all affection's countless throngs Come up before the eye.
Look round on this green land of ours, And say, hast thou not known On its broad breast, a spot of earth As lovely as thine own? Not one, whose wondrous beauty can With Brill's pride compare, Where bright Killarney folds her arms, Round Innisfallen fair?
"Mavourneen!" still the moan I hear Of yearning and regret; Howe'er the tides of life may turn She never can forget. Around the fair and emerald isle Her young affections cling, Made stronger with the lapse of years, Yet green as in their spring.