Shall The Harp Then Be Silent.

Shall the Harp then be silent, when he who first gave
    To our country a name, is withdrawn from all eyes?
Shall a Minstrel of Erin stand mute by the grave,
    Where the first--where the last of her Patriots lies?

No--faint tho' the death-song may fall from his lips,
    Tho' his Harp, like his soul, may with shadows be crost,
Yet, yet shall it sound, mid a nation's eclipse,
    And proclaim to the world what a star hath been lost;--^[1]

What a union of all the affections and powers
    By which life is exalted, embellished, refined,
Was embraced in that spirit--whose centre was ours,
    While its mighty circumference circled mankind.

Oh, who that loves Erin, or who that can see,
    Thro' the waste of her annals, that epoch sublime--
Like a pyramid raised in the desert--where he
    And his glory stand out to the eyes of all time;

That one lucid interval, snatched from the gloom
    And the madness of ages, when filled with his soul,
A Nation o'erleaped the dark bounds of her doom,
    And for one sacred instant, touched Liberty's goal?

Who, that ever hath heard him--hath drank at the source
    Of that wonderful eloquence, all Erin's own,
In whose high-thoughted daring, the fire, and the force,
    And the yet untamed spring of her spirit are shown?

An eloquence rich, wheresoever its wave
    Wandered free and triumphant, with thoughts that shone thro',
As clear as the brook's "stone of lustre," and gave,
    With the flash of the gem, its solidity too.

Who, that ever approached him, when free from the crowd,
    In a home full of love, he delighted to tread
'Mong the trees which a nation had given, and which bowed,
    As if each brought a new civic crown for his head--

Is there one, who hath thus, thro' his orbit of life
    But at distance observed him--thro' glory, thro' blame,
In the calm of retreat, in the grandeur of strife,
    Whether shining or clouded, still high and the same,--

Oh no, not a heart, that e'er knew him, but mourns
    Deep, deep o'er the grave, where such glory is shrined--
O'er a monument Fame will preserve, 'mong the urns
    Of the wisest, the bravest, the best of mankind!

Thomas Moore

Thomas Moore was an Irish poet, singer, and songwriter, celebrated for his Irish Melodies, which are now considered a staple of Irish cultural heritage. Born on May 28, 1779, in Dublin, Ireland, Moore gained fame for his lyrical songs, many of which were set to traditional Irish tunes. Not only a poet, but he was also a staunch advocate of Irish nationalism, often incorporating themes of national identity and resistance into his work. Moore's influential collection 'Irish Melodies' became popular in both Ireland and Britain and helped to define the literary output of the era. He passed away on February 25, 1852, but his legacy in Irish literature and music endures.

Thomas Moore

How Lightly Mounts The Muse'S Wing. (Air--Anonymous.)

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

Little Man And Little Soul. A Ballad.

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

To The Fire-Fly.[1]

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

Awful Event.

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

English

Suggested Poems

Explore a curated selection of verses that share themes, styles, and emotional resonance with the poem you've just read.

Tis Gone, And For Ever.

'Tis gone, and for ever, the light we saw breaking,
    Like Heaven's first dawn o'er the sleep of the dead--
When Man, from the slumber of ages awaking,
    Looked upward, and blest the pure ray, ere it fled.
'Tis gone, and the gleams it has left of its burning
But deepen the long night of bondage and mourning,
That dark o'er the kingdoms of earth is returning,
    And darkest of all, hapless Erin, o'er thee.

For high was thy hope, when those glories were darting
    Around thee, thro' all the gross clouds of the world;
When Truth, from her fetters indignantly starting,
    At once, like a Sun-burst, her banner unfurled.^[1]
Oh! never shall earth see a moment so splendid!
Then, then--had one Hymn of Deliverance blended
The tongues of all nations--how sw...

Thomas Moore

Silence Is In Our Festal Halls.

^[1]


Silence is in our festal halls,--
    Sweet Son of Song! thy course is o'er;
In vain on thee sad Erin calls,
    Her minstrel's voice responds no more;--
All silent as the Eolian shell
    Sleeps at the close of some bright day,
When the sweet breeze that waked its swell
    At sunny morn hath died away.

Yet at our feasts thy spirit long
    Awakened by music's spell shall rise;
For, name so linked with deathless song
    Partakes its charm and never dies:
And even within the holy fane
    When music wafts the soul to heaven,
One thought to him whose earliest strain
    Was echoed there shall long be given.

But, where is now the cheerful day.
    The social night when by thy side
He who now weaves this part...

Thomas Moore

Dear Harp Of My Country.

Dear Harp of my Country! in darkness I found thee,
    The cold chain of silence had hung o'er thee long,^[1]
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 wakened thy fondest, thy liveliest thrill;
But, so oft hast thou echoed 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 touched by some hand less unworthy than mine;
If the pulse of the patriot, soldier, or lover,
    Have throbbed at our lay, 'tis thy glory alone;
I was but as ...

Thomas Moore

How Oft Has The Banshee Cried.

        How oft has the Banshee cried,
        How oft has death untied
        Bright links that Glory wove,
        Sweet bonds entwined by Love!
Peace to each manly soul that sleepeth;
Rest to each faithful eye that weepeth;
        Long may the fair and brave
        Sigh o'er the hero's grave.

        We're fallen upon gloomy days!^[1]
        Star after star decays,
        Every bright name, that shed
        Light o'er the land, is fled.
Dark falls the tear of him who mourneth
Lost joy, or hope that ne'er returneth;
        But brightly flows the tear,
        Wept o'er a hero's bier.

        Quenched are our beacon lights--
        Thou, of the Hundred Fights!^[2]
        Thou, on whose burning tongue
   ...

Thomas Moore

My Gentle Harp.

My gentle harp, once more I waken
    The sweetness of thy slumbering strain;
In tears our last farewell was taken,
    And now in tears we meet again.
No light of joy hath o'er thee broken,
    But, like those Harps whose heavenly skill
Of slavery, dark as thine, hath spoken,
    Thou hang'st upon the willows still.

And yet, since last thy chord resounded,
    An hour of peace and triumph came,
And many an ardent bosom bounded
    With hopes--that now art turned to shame.
Yet even then, while Peace was singing
    Her halcyon song o'er land and sea,
Tho' joy and hope to others bringing,
    She only brought new tears to thee.

Then, who can ask for notes of pleasure,
    My drooping Harp, from chords like thine?
Alas, the lark's gay morni...

Thomas Moore

Oh! Blame Not The Bard.[1]

Oh! blame not the bard, if he fly to the bowers,
    Where Pleasure lies, carelessly smiling at Fame;
He was born for much more, and in happier hours
    His soul might have burned with a holier flame.
The string, that now languishes loose o'er the lyre,
    Might have bent a proud bow to the warrior's dart;^[2]
And the lip, which now breathes but the song of desire,
    Might have poured the full tide of a patriot's heart.

But alas for his country!--her pride is gone by,
    And that spirit is broken, which never would bend;
O'er the ruin her children in secret must sigh,
    For 'tis treason to love her, and death to defend.
Unprized are her sons, till they've learned to betray;
    Undistinguished they live, if they shame not their sires;
And the torc...

Thomas Moore