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.