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May 28, 1879
A LORD of lyric song was born | |
| A hundred years ago to-day; | |
| Loved of that race that long has worn | |
| The shamrock for the bay. | |
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| He sung of wine, and sung of flowers, | 5 |
| Of woman’s smile, and woman’s tear, | |
| Light songs that suit our lighter hours, | |
| But O, how bright and dear! | |
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| Who will may build the epic verse, | |
| And, Atlas-like, its weight sustain; | 10 |
| Or solemn tragedies rehearse | |
| In high, heroic strain. | |
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| So be it. But when all is done, | |
| The heart demands for happy days | |
| The lyrics of Anacreon, | 15 |
| And Sappho’s tender lays. | |
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| Soft souls with these are satisfied. | |
| He loved them, but exacted more, | |
| For his the lash that Horace plied, | |
| The sword Harmodius wore. | 20 |
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| Where art thou, Brian, and thy knights, | |
| So dreaded by the flying Dane? | |
| And thou, Con of the Hundred Fights? | |
| Your spirits are not slain! | |
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| Strike for us, as ye did of yore, | 25 |
| Be with us, we shall conquer still, | |
| Though Irish kings are crowned no more | |
| On Tara’s holy hill. | |
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| Perhaps he was not hero born, | |
| Like those he sung—Heaven only knows; | 30 |
| He had the rose without the thorn, | |
| But he deserved the rose. | |
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| For underneath its odorous light | |
| His heart was warm, his soul was strong; | |
| He kept his love of Country bright, | 35 |
| And sung her sweetest song. | |
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| Therefore her sons have gathered here | |
| To honor him, as few before, | |
| And blazon on his hundredth year | |
| The fame of Thomas Moore. | 40 |
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