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

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

A Warning.

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

Guess, Guess.

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

A Dream Of Antiquity.

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

When Love Was A Child (Swedish Air.)

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

Erin, Oh Erin.

Like the bright lamp, that shone in Kildare's holy fane,^[1]
    And burn'd thro' long ages of darkness and storm,
Is the heart that sorrows have frowned on in vain,
    Whose spirit outlives them, unfading and warm.
Erin, oh Erin, thus bright thro' the tears
Of a long night of bondage, thy spirit appears.

The nations have fallen, and thou still art young,
    Thy sun is but rising, when others are set;
And tho' slavery's cloud o'er thy morning hath hung,
    The full noon of freedom shall beam round thee yet.
Erin, oh Erin, tho' long in the shade,
Thy star will shine out when the proudest shall fade.

Unchilled by the rain, and unwaked by the wind,
    The lily lies sleeping thro' winter's cold hour,
Till Spring's light touch her fetters unbind,

Thomas Moore

The Irish Slave.

^[1]


I heard as I lay, a wailing sound,
    "He is dead--he is dead," the rumor flew;
And I raised my chain and turned me round,
    And askt, thro' the dungeon-window, "Who?"

I saw my livid tormentors pass;
    Their grief 'twas bliss to hear and see!
For never came joy to them alas!
    That didn't bring deadly bane to me.

Eager I lookt thro' the mist of night,
    And askt, "What foe of my race hath died?
"Is it he--that Doubter of law and right,
    "Whom nothing but wrong could e'er decide--

"Who, long as he sees but wealth to win,
    "Hath never yet felt a qualm or doubt
"What suitors for justice he'd keep in,
    "Or what suitors for freedom he'd shut out--

"Who, a clog for ever on Truth's advance,

Thomas Moore

Weep On, Weep On.

Weep on, weep on, your hour is past;
    Your dreams of pride are o'er;
The fatal chain is round you cast,
    And you are men no more.
In vain the hero's heart hath bled;
    The sage's tongue hath warned in vain;--
Oh, Freedom! once thy flame hath fled,
    It never lights again.

Weep on--perhaps in after days,
    They'll learn to love your name;
When many a deed may wake in praise
    That long hath slept in blame.
And when they tread the ruined isle,
    Where rest, at length, the lord and slave,
They'll wondering ask, how hands so vile
    Could conquer hearts so brave?

"'Twas fate," they'll say, "a wayward fate
    "Your web of discord wove;
"And while your tyrants joined in hate,
    "You never joined in love.
"But heart...

Thomas Moore

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--
Lik...

Thomas Moore

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