The Complete Poems of Sir Thomas Moore Part 76

SHALL THE HARP THEN BE SILENT.

Shall the Harp then be silent, when he who first gave To our country a name, is withdrawn from all eyes?

Shall a Minstrel of Erin stand mute by the grave, Where the first--where the last of her Patriots lies?

No--faint tho' the death-song may fall from his lips, Tho' his Harp, like his soul, may with shadows be crost, Yet, yet shall it sound, mid a nation's eclipse, And proclaim to the world what a star hath been lost;--[1]

What a union of all the affections and powers By which life is exalted, embellished, refined, Was embraced in that spirit--whose centre was ours, While its mighty circ.u.mference circled mankind.

Oh, who that loves Erin, or who that can see, Thro' the waste of her annals, that epoch sublime-- Like a pyramid raised in the desert--where he And his glory stand out to the eyes of all time;

That _one_ lucid interval, s.n.a.t.c.hed from the gloom And the madness of ages, when filled with his soul, A Nation o'erleaped the dark bounds of her doom, And for _one_ sacred instant, touched Liberty's goal?

Who, that ever hath heard him--hath drank at the source Of that wonderful eloquence, all Erin's own, In whose high-thoughted daring, the fire, and the force, And the yet untamed spring of her spirit are shown?

An eloquence rich, wheresoever its wave Wandered free and triumphant, with thoughts that shone thro', As clear as the brook's "stone of l.u.s.tre," and gave, With the flash of the gem, its solidity too.

Who, that ever approached him, when free from the crowd, In a home full of love, he delighted to tread 'Mong the trees which a nation had given, and which bowed, As if each brought a new civic crown for his head--

Is there one, who hath thus, thro' his...o...b..t of life But at distance observed him--thro' glory, thro' blame, In the calm of retreat, in the grandeur of strife, Whether s.h.i.+ning or clouded, still high and the same,--

Oh no, not a heart, that e'er knew him, but mourns Deep, deep o'er the grave, where such glory is shrined-- O'er a monument Fame will preserve, 'mong the urns Of the wisest, the bravest, the best of mankind!

[1] These lines were written on the death of our great patriot, Grattan, in the year 1820. It is only the two first verses that are either intended or fitted to be sung.

OH, THE SIGHT ENTRANCING.

Oh, the sight entrancing, When morning's beam is glancing, O'er files arrayed With helm and blade, And plumes, in the gay wind dancing!

When hearts are all high beating, And the trumpet's voice repeating That song, whose breath May lead to death, But never to retreating.

Oh the sight entrancing, When morning's beam is glancing O'er files arrayed With helm and blade, And plumes, in the gay wind dancing.

Yet, 'tis not helm or feather-- For ask yon despot, whether His plumed bands Could bring such hands And hearts as ours together.

Leave pomps to those who need 'em-- Give man but heart and freedom, And proud he braves The gaudiest slaves That crawl where monarchs lead 'em.

The sword may pierce the beaver, Stone walls in time may sever, 'Tis mind alone, Worth steel and stone, That keeps men free for ever.

Oh that sight entrancing, When the morning's beam is glancing, O'er files arrayed With helm and blade, And in Freedom's cause advancing!

SWEET INNISFALLEN.

Sweet Innisfallen, fare thee well, May calm and suns.h.i.+ne long be thine!

How fair thou art let others tell,-- To _feel_ how fair shall long be mine.

Sweet Innisfallen, long shall dwell In memory's dream that sunny smile, Which o'er thee on that evening fell, When first I saw thy fairy isle.

'Twas light, indeed, too blest for one, Who had to turn to paths of care-- Through crowded haunts again to run, And leave thee bright and silent there;

No more unto thy sh.o.r.es to come, But, on the world's rude ocean tost, Dream of thee sometimes, as a home Of suns.h.i.+ne he had seen and lost.

Far better in thy weeping hours To part from thee, as I do now, When mist is o'er thy blooming bowers, Like sorrow's veil on beauty's brow.

For, though unrivalled still thy grace, Thou dost not look, as then, _too_ blest, But thus in shadow, seem'st a place Where erring man might hope to rest--

Might hope to rest, and find in thee A gloom like Eden's on the day He left its shade, when every tree, Like thine, hung weeping o'er his way.

Weeping or smiling, lovely isle!

And all the lovelier for thy tears-- For tho' but rare thy sunny smile, 'Tis heaven's own glance when it appears.

Like feeling hearts, whose joys are few, But, when _indeed_ they come divine-- The brightest light the sun e'er threw Is lifeless to one gleam of thine!

'TWAS ONE OF THOSE DREAMS.[1]

'Twas one of those dreams, that by music are brought, Like a bright summer haze, o'er the poet's warm thought-- When, lost in the future, his soul wanders on, And all of this life, but its sweetness, is gone.

The wild notes he heard o'er the water were those He had taught to sing Erin's dark bondage and woes, And the breath of the bugle now wafted them o'er From Dinis' green isle, to Glena's wooded sh.o.r.e.

He listened--while, high o'er the eagle's rude nest, The lingering sounds on their way loved to rest; And the echoes sung back from their full mountain choir, As if loath to let song so enchanting expire.

It seemed as if every sweet note, that died here, Was again brought to life in some airier sphere, Some heaven in those hills, where the soul of the strain They had ceased upon earth was awaking again!

Oh forgive, if, while listening to music, whose breath Seemed to circle his name with a charm against death, He should feel a proud Spirit within him proclaim, "Even so shalt thou live in the echoes of Fame:

"Even so, tho' thy memory should now die away, 'Twill be caught up again in some happier day, And the hearts and the voices of Erin prolong, Through the answering Future, thy name and thy song."

[1] Written during a visit to Lord Kenmare, at Killarney.