The Complete Poems of Sir Thomas Moore Part 58

IRISH MELODIES

GO WHERE GLORY WAITS THEE.

Go where glory waits thee, But while fame elates thee, Oh! still remember me.

When the praise thou meetest To thine ear is sweetest, Oh! then remember me.

Other arms may press thee, Dearer friends caress thee, All the joys that bless thee, Sweeter far may be; But when friends are nearest, And when joys are dearest, Oh! then remember me!

When, at eve, thou rovest By the star thou lovest, Oh! then remember me.

Think, when home returning, Bright we've seen it burning, Oh! thus remember me.

Oft as summer closes, When thine eye reposes On its lingering roses, Once so loved by thee, Think of her who wove them, Her who made thee love them, Oh! then, remember me.

When, around thee dying, Autumn leaves are lying, Oh! then remember me.

And, at night, when gazing On the gay hearth blazing, Oh! still remember me.

Then should music, stealing All the soul of feeling, To thy heart appealing, Draw one tear from thee; Then let memory bring thee Strains I used to sing thee,-- Oh! then remember me.

WAR SONG.

REMEMBER THE GLORIES OF BRIEN THE BRAVE.[1]

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,[2]

He returns to Kinkora no more.[3]

That star of the field, which so often hath poured 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[4]

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.

That sun which 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.

[1] Brien Boromhe, the great monarch of Ireland, who was killed at the battle of Clontarf, in the beginning of the 11th century, after having defeated the Danes in twenty-five engagements.

[2] Munster.

[3] The palace of Brien.

[4] This alludes to an interesting circ.u.mstance related of the Dalgais, the favorite troops of Brien, when they were interrupted in their return from the battle of Clontarf, by Fitzpatrick, prince of Ossory. The wounded men entreated that they might be allowed to fight with the rest,--"_Let stakes_[they said] _be stuck in the ground, and suffer each of us to be tied to and supported by one of these stakes, to be placed in his rank by the side of a sound man_." "Between seven and eight hundred men (adds O'Halloran) pale, emaciated, and supported in this manner, appeared mixed with the foremost of the troops;--never was such another sight exhibited."--_"History of Ireland_," book xii. chap i.

ERIN! THE TEAR AND THE SMILE IN THINE EYES.

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!

OH! BREATHE NOT HIS NAME.

Oh! breathe not his name, let it sleep in the shade, Where cold and unhonored his relics are laid: Sad, silent, and dark, be the tears that we shed, As the night-dew that falls on the gra.s.s o'er his head.

But the night-dew that falls, tho' in silence it weeps, Shall brighten with verdure the grave where he sleeps; And the tear that we shed, tho' in secret it rolls, Shall long keep his memory green in our souls.

WHEN HE, WHO ADORES THEE.

When he, who adores thee, has left but the name Of his fault and his sorrows behind, Oh! say wilt thou weep, when they darken the fame Of a life that for thee was resigned?

Yes, weep, and however my foes may condemn, Thy tears shall efface their decree; For Heaven can witness, tho' guilty to them, I have been but too faithful to thee.

With thee were the dreams of my earliest love; Every thought of my reason was thine; In my last humble prayer to the Spirit above, Thy name shall be mingled with mine.

Oh! blest are the lovers and friend who shall live The days of thy glory to see; But the next dearest blessing that Heaven can give Is the pride of thus dying for thee.