Thomas Moore ( )


From Irish Melodies. 39. The Princes Day


          THOUGH dark are our sorrows, today well forget them,
                And smile through our tears, like a sunbeam in showers:
          There never were hearts, if our rulers would let them,
                More formd to be grateful and blest than ours.
                    But just when the chain,
                    Has ceased to pain,
                And hope has enwreathed it round with flowers,
                    There comes a new link,
                    Our spirits to sink 
          Oh! the joy that we taste, like the light of the poles,
                Is a flash amid darkness, too brilliant to stay;
          But, though twere the last little spark in our souls,
                We must light it up now, on our Princes Day.

          Contempt on the minion who calls you disloyal!
                Though fierce to your foe, to your friends you are true;
          And the tribute most high to a head that is royal,
                Is love from a heart that loves liberty too.
                    While cowards, who blight
                    Your fame, your right,
                Would shrink from the blaze of the battle array,
                    The Standard of Green
                    In front would be seen 
          Oh, my life on your faith! were you summond this minute,
                Youd cast every bitter remembrance away,
          And show what the arm of old Erin has in it,
                When roused by the foe, on her Princes Day.

          He loves the Green Isle, and his love is recorded
                In hearts which have sufferd too much to forget;
          And hope shall be crownd, and attachment rewarded,
                And Erins gay jubilee shine out yet.
                    The gem may be broke
                    By many a stroke,
                But nothing can cloud its native ray;
                    Each fragment will cast
                    A light to the last 
          And thus, Erin, my country, though broken thou art,
                Theres lustre wiithin thee, that neer will decay;
          A spirit which beams through each suffering part,
                And now smiles at all pain on the Princes Day.



Thomas Moore's other poems:
  1. From Irish Melodies. 61. Id Mourn the Hopes
  2. From The Odes of Anacreon. Ode 3
  3. From Irish Melodies. 10. Rich and Rare Were the Gems She Wore
  4. From Irish Melodies. 92. ODonohues Mistress
  5. From The Odes of Anacreon. Ode 55


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