Томас Мур (Thomas Moore)

From “Irish Melodies”. 39. The Prince’s Day

          THOUGH dark are our sorrows, today we’ll forget them,
                And smile through our tears, like a sunbeam in showers:
          There never were hearts, if our rulers would let them,
                More form’d 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 Prince’s 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 summon’d this minute,
                You’d cast every bitter remembrance away,
          And show what the arm of old Erin has in it,
                When roused by the foe, on her Prince’s Day.

          He loves the Green Isle, and his love is recorded
                In hearts which have suffer’d too much to forget;
          And hope shall be crown’d, and attachment rewarded,
                And Erin’s 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,
                There’s lustre wiithin thee, that ne’er will decay;
          A spirit which beams through each suffering part,
                And now smiles at all pain on the Prince’s Day.

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