Brosna's Banks

Yes, yes, I idled many an hour,
(O, would that I could idle now,
In wooing back the withered tiower
Of health into my wasted brow!)
But from my life's o'ershadowing close,
My unimpassioned spirit ranks
Among its happiest moments those
I idled on the Brosua's banks.

For there upon my boyhood broke
The dreamy voice of nature first;
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
A grave upon the Brosua'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;
And still my country's cheek is wet,
The still unbroken fetter clanks,
And I may not forsake her yet
To die upon the Brosua's banks.

Yet idle as those visions seem,
They were a strange and faithful guide,
"When Heaven itself had scarce a gleam
To light my darkened life beside;
And if from grosser gnilt escaped
I feel no dying dread, the thanks
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 laud be cast,
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.