Poems (Frances Elizabeth Browne)/A sketch of Connemara
A SKETCH OF CONNEMARA,A ROMANTIC DISTRICT IN THE WEST OF IRELAND.
Come, my friends, in fancy climbBinnabola's heights sublime!See their frowning summits vie,Proudly towering to the sky.Now behold yon darkening cloudTheir stately majesty enshroud;Now dispersed and chased awayBy the sun's enlivening ray,Soon emerging to the view,Clothed with every varied hue,Chameleon tints of green and blue.
Now turn we where fair Clifden stands,And many a pleasing scene commands; But no description can conveyHow picturesque her church and bay;Nor can we greater justice doHer castle and its beauties, too.But come, all ye who love the roarWhere wild, impetuous torrents pour;See that frail bridge sustain the shockOf waters dashed from rock to rock.Collecting from the neighbouring hills,The flood the very arches fills,And, foaming down the craggy steep,Forms eddying whirlpools vast and deep.Yet here the daring trout can leap,And, darting through the foam and spray,Unharmed, pursue their venturous way.But see, in treacherous mazes set,Yon fisher throws the wily net,And cautiously conceals the snareBeneath the rock, with jealous care,Just where the angry waters boil,And thus secures the finny spoil.
To Roundstone now our way we take,O'er mountain moor and lonely lake,Where the wild-fowl rear their broods,In these romantic solitudes.O, that the food earth, sea, and skyFor man's subsistence here supplyBy starving thousands were enjoyed,Who of those comforts are devoid!O, that these vast unpeopled plains,Where so much native beauty reigns,—Neglected spots of Erin's isle,—Were decked with culture's cheerful smile!But I must hasten to concludeMy ramble through these regions rude,Lest I my kind friends' patience tire,A prospect which I don't admire.But should they on some future dayAgain desire with me to stray,Perchance my humble Muse once moreMay Connemara's wilds explore.