The Complete Poems of Sir Thomas Moore Part 62

If the fame of our fathers, bequeathed with their rights, Give to country its charm, and to home its delights, If deceit be a wound, and suspicion a stain, Then, ye men of Iberia; our cause is the same!

And oh! may his tomb want a tear and a name, Who would ask for a n.o.bler, a holier death, Than to turn his last sigh into victory's breath, For the Shamrock of Erin and Olive of Spain!

Ye Blakes and O'Donnels, whose fathers resigned The green hills of their youth, among strangers to find That repose which, at home, they had sighed for in vain, Join, join in our hope that the flame, which you light, May be felt yet in Erin, as calm, and as bright, And forgive even Albion while blus.h.i.+ng she draws, Like a truant, her sword, in the long-slighted cause Of the Shamrock of Erin and Olive of Spain!

G.o.d prosper the cause!--oh, it cannot but thrive, While the pulse of one patriot heart is alive.

Its devotion to feel, and its rights to maintain; Then, how sainted by sorrow, its martyrs will die!

The finger of Glory shall point where they lie; While, far from the footstep of coward or slave.

The young spirit of Freedom shall shelter their grave Beneath Shamrocks of Erin and Olives of Spain!

BELIEVE ME IF ALL THOSE ENDEARING YOUNG CHARMS.

Believe me, if all those endearing young charms, Which I gaze on so fondly today, Were to change by to-morrow, and fleet in my arms, Like fairy-gifts fading away, Thou wouldst still be adored, as this moment thou art.

Let thy loveliness fade as it will.

And around the dear ruin each wish of my heart Would entwine itself verdantly still.

It is not while beauty and youth are thine own, And thy cheeks unprofaned by a tear, That the fervor and faith of a soul can be known, To which time will but make thee more dear; No, the heart that has truly loved never forgets, But as truly loves on to the close, As the sun-flower turns on her G.o.d, when he sets, The same look which she turned when he rose.

ERIN, OH ERIN.

Like the bright lamp, that shone in Kildare's holy fane,[1]

And burn'd thro' long ages of darkness and storm, Is the heart that sorrows have frowned on in vain, Whose spirit outlives them, unfading and warm.

Erin, oh Erin, thus bright thro' the tears Of a long night of bondage, thy spirit appears.

The nations have fallen, and thou still art young, Thy sun is but rising, when others are set; And tho' slavery's cloud o'er thy morning hath hung, The full noon of freedom shall beam round thee yet.

Erin, oh Erin, tho' long in the shade, Thy star will s.h.i.+ne out when the proudest shall fade.

Unchilled by the rain, and unwaked by the wind, The lily lies sleeping thro' winter's cold hour, Till Spring's light touch her fetters unbind, And daylight and liberty bless the young flower.

Thus Erin, oh Erin, _thy_ winter is past, And the hope that lived thro' it shall blossom at last.

[1] The inextinguishable fire of St. Bridget, at Kildare, which Giraldus mentions.

DRINK TO HER.

Drink to her, who long, Hath waked the poet's sigh.

The girl, who gave to song What gold could never buy.

Oh! woman's heart was made For minstrel hands alone; By other fingers played, It yields not half the tone.

Then here's to her, who long Hath waked the poet's sigh, The girl who gave to song What gold could never buy.

At Beauty's door of gla.s.s, When Wealth and Wit once stood, They asked her '_which_ might pa.s.s?"

She answered, "he, who could."

With golden key Wealth thought To pa.s.s--but 'twould not do: While Wit a diamond brought, Which cut his bright way through.

So here's to her, who long Hath waked the poet's sigh, The girl, who gave to song What gold could never buy.

The love that seeks a home Where wealth or grandeur s.h.i.+nes, Is like the gloomy gnome, That dwells in dark gold mines.

But oh! the poet's love Can boast a brighter sphere; Its native home's above, Tho' woman keeps it here.

Then drink to her, who long Hath waked the poet's sigh, The girl, who gave to song What gold could never buy.

OH! BLAME NOT THE BARD.[1]

Oh! blame not the bard, if he fly to the bowers, Where Pleasure lies, carelessly smiling at Fame; He was born for much more, and in happier hours His soul might have burned with a holier flame.

The string, that now languishes loose o'er the lyre, Might have bent a proud bow to the warrior's dart;[2]

And the lip, which now breathes but the song of desire, Might have poured the full tide of a patriot's heart.

But alas for his country!--her pride is gone by, And that spirit is broken, which never would bend; O'er the ruin her children in secret must sigh, For 'tis treason to love her, and death to defend.

Unprized are her sons, till they've learned to betray; Undistinguished they live, if they shame not their sires; And the torch, that would light them thro' dignity's way, Must be caught from the pile, where their country expires.

Then blame not the bard, if in pleasure's soft dream, He should try to forget, what he never can heal: Oh! give but a hope--let a vista but gleam Thro' the gloom of his country, and mark how he'll feel!

That instant, his heart at her shrine would lay down Every pa.s.sion it nurst, every bliss it adored; While the myrtle, now idly entwined with his crown, Like the wreath of Harmodius, should cover his sword.

But tho' glory be gone, and tho' hope fade away, Thy name, loved Erin, shall live in his songs; Not even in the hour, when his heart is most gay, Will he lose the remembrance of thee and thy wrongs.

The stranger shall hear thy lament on his plains; The sigh of thy harp shall be sent o'er the deep, Till thy masters themselves, as they rivet thy chains, Shall pause at the song of their captive, and weep!

[1] We may suppose this apology to have been uttered by one of those wandering bards, whom Spenser so severely, and perhaps, truly, describes in his State of Ireland, and whose poems, he tells us, "were sprinkled with some pretty flowers of their natural device, which have good grace and comeliness unto them, the which it is great pity to see abused to the gracing of wickedness and vice, which, with good usage, would serve to adorn and beautify virtue."

[2] It is conjectured by Wormius, that the name of Ireland is derived from Yr, the Runic for a _bow_ in the use of which weapon the Irish were once very expert. This derivation is certainly more creditable to us than the following: "So that Ireland, called the land of _Ire_, from the constant broils therein for 400 years, was now become the land of concord."

_Lloyd's "State Worthies_," art. _The Lord Grandison_.

WHILE GAZING ON THE MOON'S LIGHT.