Thomas Moore.
By Thomas Frederick Young
The land of poetry and mirth,
Of orators and statesmen, too,
To one more genial, ne'er gave birth,
Than when, gay Moore, it brought forth you.
The land of Goldsmith, Wolfe and Burke,
May well, with gladness, sound thy name,
And honor thee, whose life and work
Produc'd a bright and joyous flame.
Thy lively genius, sparkling, free,
Emitted rays, which sparkle yet,
And gladden hearts across the sea,
When tears of pain their eyelids wet.
Mild Goldsmith sang with taste, and well,
And so did Wolfe, his plaintive ode,
But thou, alone, possess'd the spell,
That served to ease thy country's load.
O'Connell work'd with wondrous skill,
With silv'ry tongue, and prudent head,
With patriotic heart and will,
To ease Oppression's crushing tread.
He did remove th' oppressor's weight,
Or made it rest more lightly there,
But still there crowded in the gate
The ills of life we all must share.
Great Burke, with comprehensive mind,
Pour'd forth his thoughts, too lofty far,
To glad his humble, simple kind,
Who could not reach the lowest bar.
But thou brought forth thy tuneful lyre,
And swept it with a skilful hand,
And hearts, with joy and hope afire,
Arose to bless thee, thro' the land.
Thy songs of love, religion, fame,
Resounded from each hill and dale,
And fann'd the patriotic flame,
In beautiful Avoca's vale.
They reach'd us here, we have them now,
And treasure them, both rich and poor;
And here's a green wreath for thy brow,
Of Irish shamrocks, Thomas Moore.
In fadeless verdure may it stay,
And long thy gifted head entwine,
For time will mark full many a day,
Till head and heart shall live, like thine.