Maxioms by Thomas Campbell
Who hath not own'd, with rapture-smitten frame,
The power of grace, the magic of a name.
Who hath not own'd, with rapture-smitten frame,
The power of grace, the magic of a name.
On the green banks of Shannon, when Sheelah was nigh,
No blithe Irish lad was so happy as I;
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On the green banks of Shannon, when Sheelah was nigh,
No blithe Irish lad was so happy as I;
No harp like my own could so cheerily play,
And wherever I went was my poor dog Tray.
Hope for a season bade the world farewell,
And Freedom shrieked as Kosciusko fell!
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Hope for a season bade the world farewell,
And Freedom shrieked as Kosciusko fell!
. . . .
O'er Prague's proud arch the fires of ruin glow.
Oh, leave this barren spot to me!
Spare, woodman, space the beechen tree!
Oh, leave this barren spot to me!
Spare, woodman, space the beechen tree!
