Thomas Moore ( )


From Irish Melodies. 68. Where Is the Slave


          OH, wheres the slave so lowly,
          Condemnd 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 decayd 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, untouchd and blowing,
                Than that whose braid
                Is pluckd to shade
          The brows with victory glowing.
          We tread the land that bore us,
          Her green flag glitters oer us,
                The friends weve tried
                Are by our side,
          And the foe we hate before us.

          Farewell, Erin,  farewell, all,
          Who live to weep our fall!



Thomas Moore's other poems:
  1. From The Odes of Anacreon. Ode 46
  2. From The Odes of Anacreon. Ode 60
  3. From The Odes of Anacreon. Ode 19
  4. From The Odes of Anacreon. Ode 9
  5. From The Odes of Anacreon. Ode 50


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