_Thomas Moore._ CLXVIII TO ERIN 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! _Thomas Moore._ CLXIX THE MINSTREL TO HIS HARP Dear Harp of my country! in darkness I found thee, The cold chain of silence had hung o’er thee long, When proudly, my own Island Harp, I unbound thee, And gave all thy chords to light, freedom, and song! The warm lay of love and the light note of gladness Have waken’d thy fondest, thy liveliest thrill; But, so oft hast thou echo’d the deep sigh of sadness, That even in thy mirth it will steal from thee still. Dear Harp of my country! farewell to thy numbers, This sweet wreath of song is the last we shall twine! Go, sleep with the sunshine of Fame on thy slumbers, Till touch’d by some hand less unworthy than mine; If the pulse of the patriot, soldier, or lover, Have throbb’d at thy lay, ’tis thy glory alone; I was but as the wind, passing heedlessly over, And all the wild sweetness I wak’d was thy own. _Thomas Moore._ TONNA CLXX THE MAIDEN CITY Where Foyle her swelling waters Rolls northward to the main, Here, Queen of Erin’s daughters, Fair Derry fixed her reign: A holy temple crowned her, And commerce graced her street, A rampart wall was round her, The river at her feet: And here she sat alone, boys, And looking from the hill, Vow’d the Maiden on her throne, boys, Would be a Maiden still. From Antrim crossing over, In famous eighty-eight, A plumed and belted lover Came to the Ferry Gate; She summoned to defend her Our sires--a beardless race-- They shouted, ‘No surrender!’ And slamm’d it in his face. Then in a quiet tone, boys, They told him ’twas their will That the Maiden on her throne, boys, Should be a Maiden still. Next, crushing all before him, A kingly wooer came (The royal banner o’er him Blushed crimson-deep for shame); He showed the Pope’s commission, Nor dreamed to be refused, She pitied his condition, But begged to stand excused. In short, the fact is known, boys, She chased him from the hill, For the Maiden on her throne, boys, Would be a Maiden still.