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Thomas Moore - Shall the Harp Then Be Silent
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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   To our country a name, is withdrawn from all eyes?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 though the death-song may fall from his lips, 
   Though 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; —

What a union of all the affections and powers 
   By which life is exalted, embellish`d, 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, 
   Through 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, snatch`d from the gloom 
   And the madness of ages, when fill`d with his soul, 
A Nation o`erleap`d the dark bounds of her doom, 
   And for one sacred instant, touch`d Liberty`s goal? 

Who, that ever hath heard him — hath drunk 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 
   Wander`d free and triumphant, with thoughts that shone through 
As clear as the brook`s "stone of lustre," and gave, 
   With the flash of the gem, its solidity too. 

Who, what ever approach`d him, when free from the crowd, 
   In a home full of love, he delighted to read 
`Mong the trees which a nation had given, and which bow`d, 
   As if each brought a new civic crown for his head —

Is there one, who hath thus, through his orbit of life 
   But at distance observed him — through glory, through 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!
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