Glory to Moore, for he has sighed our sorrow
In such a wail of melody divine,
That even from grief a passing joy we borrow,
And linger long o’er each lamenting line.
Glory to Moore, that in his songs of gladness
Which neither change nor time can e’er destroy,
Though mingled oft with some faint sigh of sadness,
He sings his country’s rapture and its joy.
What wit like his flings out electric flashes
That make the numbers sparkle as they run:
Wit that revives dull history’s Dead-sea ashes,
And makes the ripe fruit glisten in the sun?
What fancy full of loveliness and lightness
Has spread like his as at some dazzling feast,
The fruits and flowers, the beauty and the brightness,
And all the golden glories of the East?
Perpetual blooms his bower of summer roses,
No winter comes to turn his green leaves sere,
Beside his song-stream where the swan reposes
The bulbul sings as by the Bendemeer.
But back returning from his flight with Peris,
Above his native fields he sings his best,
Like to the lark whose rapture never wearies,
When poised in air he singeth o’er his nest.
And so we rank him with the great departed,
The kings of song who rule us from their urns,
The souls inspired, the natures noble hearted,
And place him proudly by the side of Burns.
And as not only by the Calton Mountain,
Is Scotland’s bard remembered and revered,
But whereso’er, like some o’erflowing fountain,
Its hardy race a prosperous path has cleared.
There ’mid the roar of newly-rising cities,
His glorious name is heard on every tongue,
There to the music of immortal ditties,
His lays of love, his patriot songs are sung.
So not alone beside that bay of beauty
That guards the portals of his native town
Where like two watchful sentinels on duty,
Howth and Killiney from their heights look down.
But wheresoe’er the exiled race hath drifted,
By what far sea, what mighty stream beside,
There shall to-day the poet’s name be lifted,
And Moore proclaimed its glory and its pride:
There shall his name be held in fond memento,
There shall his songs resound for evermore,
Whether beside the golden Sacramento,
Or where Niagara’s thunder shakes the shore.
For all that’s bright indeed must fade and perish,
And all that’s sweet when sweetest not endure,
Before the world shall cease to love and cherish
The wit and song, the name and fame of Moore.
night brings forth the morn—
Of the cloud is lightning born;
From out the darkest earth the brightest roses grow.
Bright sparks from black flints fly,
And from out a leaden sky
Comes the silvery-footed Spirit of the Snow.