| |
| YES, yes, I idled many an hour, | |
| (O, would that I could idle now, | |
| In wooing back the withered flower | |
| Of health into my wasted brow!) | |
| But from my life’s o’ershadowing close, | 5 |
| My unimpassioned spirit ranks | |
| Among its happiest moments those | |
| I idled on the Brosna’s banks. | |
| |
| For there upon my boyhood broke | |
| The dreamy voice of nature first; | 10 |
| And every word the vision spoke | |
| How deeply has my spirit nursed! | |
| A woman’s love, a lyre, or pen, | |
| A rescued land, a nation’s thanks, | |
| A friendship with the world, and then | 15 |
| A grave upon the Brosna’s banks. | |
| |
| For these I sued and sought and strove, | |
| But now my youthful days are gone, | |
| In vain, in vain,—for woman’s love | |
| Is still a blessing to be won; | 20 |
| And still my country’s cheek is wet, | |
| The still unbroken fetter clanks, | |
| And I may not forsake her yet | |
| To die upon the Brosna’s banks. | |
| |
| Yet idle as those visions seem, | 25 |
| They were a strange and faithful guide, | |
| When Heaven itself had scarce a gleam | |
| To light my darkened life beside; | |
| And if from grosser guilt escaped | |
| I feel no dying dread, the thanks | 30 |
| Are due unto the Power that shaped | |
| My visions on the Brosna’s banks. | |
| |
| And love, I feel, will come at last, | |
| Albeit too late to comfort me; | |
| And fetters from the land be cast, | 35 |
| Though I may not survive to see. | |
| If then the gifted, good, and brave | |
| Admit me to their glorious ranks, | |
| My memory may, though not my grave, | |
| Be green upon the Brosna’s banks. | 40 |
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