The Parting Before The Battle.

HE.

On to the field, our doom is sealed,
    To conquer or be slaves:
This sun shall see our nation free,
    Or set upon our graves.

SHE.

Farewell, oh farewell, my love,
    May heaven thy guardian be,
And send bright angels from above
    To bring thee back to me.

HE.

On to the field, the battle-field,
    Where freedom's standard waves,
This sun shall see our tyrant yield,
    Or shine upon our graves.

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

Translations From Catullus. Carm. 29.

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

Anacreontic.

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

The Garland I Send Thee.

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

Tory Pledges.

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

English

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Before The Battle.

By the hope within us springing,
    Herald of to-morrow's strife;
By that sun, whose light is bringing
    Chains or freedom, death or life--
    Oh! remember life can be
No charm for him, who lives not free!
    Like the day-star in the wave,
    Sinks a hero in his grave,
Midst the dew-fall of a nation's tears.

    Happy is he o'er whose decline
    The smiles of home may soothing shine
And light him down the steep of years:--
    But oh, how blest they sink to rest,
    Who close their eyes on victory's breast!

O'er his watch-fire's fading embers
    Now the foeman's cheek turns white,
When his heart that field remembers,
    Where we tamed his tyrant might.
Never let him bind again
A chain; like that we broke from then.
   ...

Thomas Moore

After The Battle.

Night closed around the conqueror's way,
    And lightnings showed the distant hill,
Where those who lost that dreadful day,
    Stood few and faint, but fearless still.
The soldier's hope, the patriot's zeal,
    For ever dimmed, for ever crost--
Oh! who shall say what heroes feel,
    When all but life and honor's lost?

The last sad hour of freedom's dream,
    And valor's task, moved slowly by,
While mute they watcht, till morning's beam
    Should rise and give them light to die.
There's yet a world, where souls are free,
    Where tyrants taint not nature's bliss;--
If death that world's bright opening be,
    Oh! who would live a slave in this?

Thomas Moore

Peace And Glory.

WRITTEN ON THE APPROACH OF WAR.


Where is now the smile, that lightened
Every hero's couch of rest?
Where is now the hope, that brightened
Honor's eye and Pity's breast?
Have we lost the wreath we braided
For our weary warrior men?
Is the faithless olive faded?
Must the bay be plucked again?

Passing hour of sunny weather,
Lovely, in your light awhile,
Peace and Glory, wed together,
Wandered through our blessed isle.
And the eyes of Peace would glisten,
Dewy as a morning sun,
When the timid maid would listen
To the deeds her chief had done.

Is their hour of dalliance over?
Must the maiden's trembling feet
Waft her from her warlike lover
To the desert's still retreat?
Fare you well! with sighs we banish
Nymph ...

Thomas Moore

Song Of The Battle Eve.

TIME--THE NINTH CENTURY.


To-morrow, comrade, we
On the battle-plain must be,
    There to conquer, or both lie low!
The morning star is up,--
But there's wine still in the cup,
    And we'll take another quaff, ere we go, boy, go;
    We'll take another quaff, ere we go.

'Tis true, in manliest eyes
A passing tear will rise,
    When we think of the friends we leave lone;
But what can wailing do?
See, our goblet's weeping too!
    With its tears we'll chase away our own, boy, our own;
    With its tears we'll chase away our own.

But daylight's stealing on;--
The last that o'er us shone
    Saw our children around us play;
The next--ah! where shall we
And those rosy urchins be?
    But--no matter--grasp thy sword and a...

Thomas Moore

From Life Without Freedom.

From life without freedom, say, who would not fly?
For one day of freedom, oh! who would not die?
Hark!--hark! 'tis the trumpet! the call of the brave,
The death-song of tyrants, the dirge of the slave.
Our country lies bleeding--haste, haste to her aid;
One arm that defends is worth hosts that invade.

In death's kindly bosom our last hope remains--
The dead fear no tyrants, the grave has no chains.
On, on to the combat! the heroes that bleed
For virtue and mankind are heroes indeed.
And oh, even if Freedom from this world be driven,
Despair not--at least we shall find her in heaven.

Thomas Moore

Where Is The Slave.

Oh, where's the slave so lowly,
Condemned 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 decayed 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, untouched and blowing,
    Than that, whose braid
    Is plucked 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