A Sigh for Knockmany


Take proud ambition, take thy fill
Of pleasures won through toil or crime
Go, learning, climb thy rugged hill
And give thy name to future time
Philosophy, be keen to see
Whatever is just, or false, or vain
Take each thy meed, but oh, give me
To range my mountain glens again

Pure was the breeze that fanned my cheek
As over Knockmany’s brow I went
When every lovely dell could speak
In airy music, vision-sent
False world, I hate thy cares and thee
I hate the treacherous haunts of men
Give back, my early heart to me
Give back to me, my mountain glen

How light my youthful visions shone
When spanned by fancy’s radiant form
But now her glittering bow is gone
And leaves me but the cloud and storm
With wasted form and cheek all pale
With heart long seared by grief and pain
Dunroe, I’ll seek thy native gale
I’ll tread my mountain glens again

Thy breeze once more may fan my blood,
The valleys all are lovely still
And I may stand as once I stood
In lonely musings on thy hill
But ah, the spell is gone; No art
in crowded town, or native plain
Can teach a crushed and breaking heart
To pipe the songs of youth again


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