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Thomas Moore - The Irish Peasant to his Mistress
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Through grief and through danger thy smile hath cheer`d my way, 
Till hope seem`d to bud from each thorn that round me lay; 
The darker our fortune, the brighter our pure love burn`d, 
Till shame into glory, till fear into zeal was turn`d; 
Yes, slave as I was, in thy arms my spirit felt free, 
And bless`d even the sorrows that made me more dear to thee. 

Thy rival was honour`d, while thou wert wrong`d and scorn`d, 
Thy crown was of briers, while gold her brows adorn`d; 
She woo`d me to temples, while thou lay`st hid in caves, 
Her friends were all masters, while thine, alas! were slaves; 
Yet cold in the earth, at thy feet, I would rather be, 
Then wed what I loved not, or turn one thought from thee. 

They slander thee sorely, who say thy vows are frail — 
Hadst thou been a false one, thy cheek had look`d less pale. 
They say, too, so long thou hast worn those lingering chains — 
That deep in thy heart they have printed their servile stains — 
Oh! foul is the slander — no chain could that soul subdue — 
Where shineth thy spirit, there liberty shineth too!
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