"Le printemps--le printemps!"--_Berenger_.
'Twas a sunny holiday,
Scene, Killarney--time, last May;
In the fields the rustic throng,
Every linnet in full song,
Not a cloud to threaten rain,
As I walk'd with lovely Jane.
While we wander'd round the bay,
Came the gayest of the gay,
Pouring from a painted barge,
Anchor'd by the flowery marge;
Sporting round its cliffs and caves:--
Ireland is the land of slaves!
Next we met an infant group,
Never was a happier troop;
Dancing o'er the primrose plain.
"Joyous infancy!" said Jane;
"Free from care as winds and waves."
--"No, my darling, _these_ are slaves!"
On we walk'd--a garden shade
Show'd us matron, man, and maid,
Laughing, talking, _all_ coquetting,
"Here," said Jane, "I see no fretting:
Mammon makes but fools or knaves."
--"No, my darling, _these_ are slaves!"
On we walk'd--we saw a dome,
Fill'd with furious dupes of Rome,
Ranting of the sword and chain.
"Let us run away," said Jane:
"How that horrid rebel raves!"
--"No, my darling, _these_ are slaves!"
As we ran, a monster-crowd
Stopp'd us, uttering vengeance loud;
Giving nobles to the halter,
Cursing England's throne and altar,
Brandishing their pikes and staves.
"Love," said Jane, "are all _these_ slaves?"
[Greek: Aion]
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