CLXIII
THE MINSTREL BOY The Minstrel Boy to the war is gone,
In the ranks of death you’ll find him;
His father’s sword he has girded on,
And his wild harp slung behind him.
‘Land of song!’ said the warrior bard,
‘Tho’ all the world betrays thee,
One sword, at least, thy rights shall guard,
One faithful harp shall praise thee!’
The Minstrel fell!—but the foeman’s chain
Could not bring his proud soul under;
The harp he loved ne’er spoke again,
For he tore its chords asunder;
And said, ‘No chain shall sully thee,
Thou soul of love and bravery!
Thy songs were made for the pure and free,
They shall never sound in slavery.’
Thomas Moore.
CLXIV
A SONG OF THE IRISH Remember the glories of Brien the brave,
Tho’ the days of the hero are o’er,
Tho’ lost to Mononia, and cold in the grave,
He returns to Kincora no more!
That star of the field, which so often has pour’d
Its beam on the battle, is set;
But enough of its glory remains on each sword
To light us to victory yet!
Mononia! when Nature embellished the tint
Of thy fields and thy mountains so fair,
Did she ever intend that a tyrant should print
The footstep of slavery there?
No! Freedom, whose smile we shall never resign,
Go, tell our invaders the Danes,
That ’tis sweeter to bleed for an age at thy shrine
Than to sleep but a moment in chains.
Forget not our wounded companions, who stood
In the day of distress by our side;
While the moss of the valley grew red with their blood,
They stirred not, but conquered and died!
The sun that now blesses our arms with his light,
Saw them fall upon Ossory’s plain:
Oh! let him not blush when he leaves us to-night
To find that they fell there in vain!
Thomas Moore. CLXV
DEPARTED GLORY
The harp that once through Tara’s halls
The soul of music shed,
Now hangs as mute on Tara’s walls,
As if that soul were fled.—
So sleeps the pride of former days,
So glory’s thrill is o’er,
And hearts, that once beat high for praise,
Now feel that pulse no more.
No more to chiefs and ladies bright
The harp of Tara swells;
The chord alone, that breaks at night,
Its tale of ruin tells.
Thus Freedom now so seldom wakes,
The only throb she gives,
Is when some heart indignant breaks,
To show that still she lives.
Thomas Moore. CLXVI
THE CHOICE
O, where’s the slave so lowly,
Condemn’d to chains unholy,
Who, could he burst
His bonds at first,
Would pine beneath them slowly?
What soul, whose wrongs degrade it,
Would wait till time decay’d it,
When thus its wing
At once may spring
To the throne of Him who made it?
Farewell, Erin,—farewell, all,
Who live to weep our fall!
Less dear the laurel growing,
Alive, untouch’d and blowing,
Than that, whose braid
Is pluck’d to shade
The brows with victory glowing.
We tread the land that bore us,
Her green flag glitters o’er us,
The friends we’ve tried
Are by our side
And the foe we hate before us.
Farewell, Erin,—farewell, all,
Who live to weep our fall!
Thomas Moore. CLXVII
A SONG OF TRUE LOVE She is far from the land where her young hero sleeps,
And lovers are round her, sighing:
But coldly she turns from their gaze and weeps,
For her heart in the grave is lying.
She sings the wild song of her dear native plains,
Every note which he lov’d awaking;—
Ah! little they think who delight in her strains,
How the heart of the Minstrel is breaking.
He had liv’d for his love, for his country he died,
They were all that to life had entwin’d him;
Nor soon shall the tears of his country be dried,
Nor long will his love stay behind him.
O! make her a grave where the sunbeams rest,
When they promise a glorious morrow;
They’ll shine o’er her sleep, like a smile from the west,
From her own loved Island of Sorrow.
Thomas Moore. CLXVIII
TO ERIN
Erin, the tear and the smile in thine eyes,
Blend like the rainbow that hangs in thy skies!
Shining through sorrow’s stream,
Saddening through pleasure’s beam,
Thy suns with doubtful gleam,
Weep while they rise.
Erin, thy silent tear never shall cease,
Erin, thy languid smile ne’er shall increase,
Till, like the rainbow’s light,
Thy various tints unite,
And form in Heaven’s sight
One arch of peace!
Thomas Moore. CLXIX
THE MINSTREL TO HIS HARP Dear Harp of my country! in darkness I found thee,
The cold chain of silence had hung o’er thee long,
When proudly, my own Island Harp, I unbound thee,
And gave all thy chords to light, freedom, and song!
The warm lay of love and the light note of gladness
Have waken’d thy fondest, thy liveliest thrill;
But, so oft hast thou echo’d the deep sigh of sadness,
That even in thy mirth it will steal from thee still.
Dear Harp of my country! farewell to thy numbers,
This sweet wreath of song is the last we shall twine!
Go, sleep with the sunshine of Fame on thy slumbers,
Till touch’d by some hand less unworthy than mine;
If the pulse of the patriot, soldier, or lover,
Have throbb’d at thy lay, ’tis thy glory alone;
I was but as the wind, passing heedlessly over,
And all the wild sweetness I wak’d was thy own.
Thomas Moore.
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