Lives there a poet, old or young

Lives there a poet, old or young,
Who has not sung my praise ?
For ever silent be his tongue,
Forgotten be his lays !
I have a father dark and stern,
A daughter bright and gay ;
I weep upon his funeral urn,
I die beneath her sway.
And yet that father binds me fast,
Hushing my low sweet voice ;
That daughter sets me free at last,
And bids me still rejoice.
Deceitful I am said to be,
A thing of treacherous smiles,
And many meet their end in me,
Wreck'd by my sunny wiles.

Yet health and cure 't is mine to give
To many a sickly frame ;
Usurps my well-known name.
I'm born beneath the cold hard ground,
Yet life and joy I bring,
With song and mirth to all around,
Upon my emerald wing.
I help to measure Time's swift flight ;
Tide has to do with me ;
In guns and traps behold my might :
O say what can I be ?