The Complete Poems of Sir Thomas Moore Part 81

Fellow-laborers in life, let them slumber in death, Side by side, as becomes the reposing brave,-- That sword which he loved still unbroke in its sheath, And himself unsubdued in his grave.

Yet pause--for, in fancy, a still voice I hear, As if breathed from his brave heart's remains;-- Faint echo of that which, in Slavery's ear, Once sounded the war-word, "Burst your chains!"

And it cries from the grave where the hero lies deep, "Tho' the day of your Chieftain for ever hath set, "Oh leave not his sword thus inglorious to sleep,-- "It hath victory's life in it yet!"

"Should some alien, unworthy such weapon to wield, "Dare to touch thee, my own gallant sword, "Then rest in thy sheath, like a talisman sealed, Or return to the grave of thy chainless lord.

But, if grasped by a hand that hath learned the proud use Of a falchion, like thee, on the battle-plain,-- Then, at Liberty's summons, like lightning let loose, Leap forth from thy dark sheath again!"

[1] It was the custom of the ancient Irish, in the manner of the Scythians, to bury the favorite swords of their heroes along with them.

OH, COULD WE DO WITH THIS WORLD OF OURS.

Oh, could we do with this world of ours As thou dost with thy garden bowers, Reject the weeds and keep the flowers, What a heaven on earth we'd make it!

So bright a dwelling should be our own, So warranted free from sigh or frown, That angels soon would be coming down, By the week or month to take it.

Like those gay flies that wing thro' air, And in themselves a l.u.s.tre bear, A stock of light, still ready there, Whenever they wish to use it; So, in this world I'd make for thee, Our hearts should all like fire-flies be, And the flash of wit or poesy Break forth whenever we choose it.

While every joy that glads our sphere Hath still some shadow hovering near, In this new world of ours, my dear, Such shadows will all be omitted:-- Unless they're like that graceful one, Which, when thou'rt dancing in the sun.

Still near thee, leaves a charm upon Each spot where it hath flitted.

THE WINE-CUP IS CIRCLING.

The wine-cup is circling in Almhin's hall,[1]

And its Chief, mid his heroes reclining, Looks up with a sigh, to the trophied wall, Where his sword hangs idly s.h.i.+ning.

When, hark! that shout From the vale without,-- "Arm ye quick, the Dane, the Dane is nigh!"

Every Chief starts up From his foaming cup, And "To battle, to battle!" is the Finian's cry.

The minstrels have seized their harps of gold, And they sing such thrilling numbers, 'Tis like the voice of the Brave, of old, Breaking forth from the place of slumbers!

Spear to buckler rang, As the minstrels sang, And the Sun-burst[2] o'er them floated wide; While remembering the yoke Which their father's broke, "On for liberty, for liberty!" the Finians cried.

Like clouds of the night the Northmen came, O'er the valley of Almhin lowering; While onward moved, in the light of its fame, That banner of Erin, towering.

With the mingling shock Rung cliff and rock, While, rank on rank, the invaders die: And the shout, that last, O'er the dying past, Was "victory! victory!"--the Finian's cry.

[1] The Palace of Fin Mac-c.u.mhal (the Fingal of Macpherson) in Leinster.

It was built on the top of the hill, which has retained from thence the name of the Hill of Allen, in the county of Kildare. The Finians, or Fenii, were the celebrated National Militia of Ireland, which this chief commanded. The introduction of the Danes in the above song is an anachronism common to most of the Finian and Ossianic legends.

[2] The name given to the banner of the Irish.

THE DREAM OF THOSE DAYS.

The dream of those days when first I sung thee is o'er, Thy triumph hath stained the charm thy sorrows then wore; And even of the light which Hope once shed o'er thy chains, Alas, not a gleam to grace thy freedom remains.

Say, is it that slavery sunk so deep in thy heart, That still the dark brand is there, though chainless thou art; And Freedom's sweet fruit, for which thy spirit long burned, Now, reaching at last thy lip, to ashes hath turned?

Up Liberty's steep by Truth and Eloquence led, With eyes on her temple fixt, how proud was thy tread!

Ah, better thou ne'er hadst lived that summit to gain Or died in the porch than thus dishonor the fane.

FROM THIS HOUR THE PLEDGE IS GIVEN.

From this hour the pledge is given, From this hour my soul is thine: Come what will, from earth or heaven, Weal or woe, thy fate be mine.

When the proud and great stood by thee, None dared thy rights to spurn; And if now they're false and fly thee, Shall I, too, basely turn?

No;--whate'er the fires that try thee, In the same this heart shall burn.

Tho' the sea, where thou embarkest, Offers now no friendly sh.o.r.e, Light may come where all looks darkest, Hope hath life when life seems o'er.

And, of those past ages dreaming, When glory decked thy brow, Oft I fondly think, tho' seeming So fallen and clouded now, Thou'lt again break forth, all beaming,-- None so bright, so blest as thou!

SILENCE IS IN OUR FESTAL HALLS.[1]

Silence is in our festal halls,-- Sweet Son of Song! thy course is o'er; In vain on thee sad Erin calls, Her minstrel's voice responds no more;-- All silent as the Eolian sh.e.l.l Sleeps at the close of some bright day, When the sweet breeze that waked its swell At sunny morn hath died away.

Yet at our feasts thy spirit long Awakened by music's spell shall rise; For, name so linked with deathless song Partakes its charm and never dies: And even within the holy fane When music wafts the soul to heaven, One thought to him whose earliest strain Was echoed there shall long be given.

But, where is now the cheerful day.

The social night when by thy side He who now weaves this parting lay His skilless voice with thine allied; And sung those songs whose every tone, When bard and minstrel long have past, Shall still in sweetness all their own Embalmed by fame, undying last.

Yes, Erin, thine alone the fame,-- Or, if thy bard have shared the crown, From thee the borrowed glory came, And at thy feet is now laid down.

Enough, if Freedom still inspire His latest song and still there be.

As evening closes round his lyre, One ray upon its chords from thee.