| Arthur Quiller-Couch, ed. 1919. The Oxford Book of English Verse: 1250–1900. |
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| Thomas Moore. 1779–1852 |
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| 583. 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, | 5 |
| And bless'd even the sorrows that made me more dear to thee. | |
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| 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, whilst thou lay'st hid in caves; | |
| Her friends were all masters, while thine, alas! were slaves; | 10 |
| Yet cold in the earth, at thy feet, I would rather be | |
| Than wed what I loved not, or turn one thought from thee. | |
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| 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, | 15 |
| That deep in thy heart they have printed their servile stains: | |
| O, foul is the slander!—no chain could that soul subdue— | |
| Where shineth thy spirit, there Liberty shineth too! | |
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