The Poetical Works of Thomas Moore Collected by Himself. In Ten Volumes |
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| III, IV. |
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| VI, VII. |
 | VIII, IX. |
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THE IRISH SLAVE.
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 | The Poetical Works of Thomas Moore |  |
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THE IRISH SLAVE.
1827.
I heard, as I lay, a wailing sound,
“He is dead—he is dead,” the rumour flew;
And I rais'd my chain, and turn'd me round,
And ask'd, through the dungeon-window, “Who?”
“He is dead—he is dead,” the rumour flew;
And I rais'd my chain, and turn'd me round,
And ask'd, through the dungeon-window, “Who?”
I saw my livid tormentors pass;
Their grief 'twas bliss to hear and see!
For, never came joy to them, alas,
That didn't bring deadly bane to me.
Their grief 'twas bliss to hear and see!
For, never came joy to them, alas,
That didn't bring deadly bane to me.
Eager I look'd through the mist of night,
And ask'd, “What foe of my race hath died?
“Is it he—that Doubter of law and right,
“Whom nothing but wrong could e'er decide—
And ask'd, “What foe of my race hath died?
“Is it he—that Doubter of law and right,
“Whom nothing but wrong could e'er decide—
“Who, long as he sees but wealth to win,
“Hath never yet felt a qualm or doubt
“What suitors for justice he'd keep in,
“Or what suitors for freedom he'd shut out—
“Hath never yet felt a qualm or doubt
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“Or what suitors for freedom he'd shut out—
“Who, a clog for ever on Truth's advance,
“Hangs round her (like the Old Man of the Sea
“Round Sinbad's neck ), nor leaves a chance
“Of shaking him off—is't he? is't he?”
“Hangs round her (like the Old Man of the Sea
“Round Sinbad's neck ), nor leaves a chance
“Of shaking him off—is't he? is't he?”
Ghastly my grim tormentors smil'd,
And thrusting me back to my den of woe,
With a laughter even more fierce and wild
Than their funeral howling, answer'd “No.”
And thrusting me back to my den of woe,
With a laughter even more fierce and wild
Than their funeral howling, answer'd “No.”
But the cry still pierc'd my prison-gate,
And again I ask'd, “What scourge is gone?
“Is it he—that Chief, so coldly great,
“Whom Fame unwillingly shines upon—
And again I ask'd, “What scourge is gone?
“Is it he—that Chief, so coldly great,
“Whom Fame unwillingly shines upon—
“Whose name is one of the' ill-omen'd words
“They link with hate, on his native plains;
“And why?—they lent him hearts and swords,
“And he, in return, gave scoffs and chains!
“They link with hate, on his native plains;
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“And he, in return, gave scoffs and chains!
“Is it he? is it he?” I loud inquir'd,
When, hark!—there sounded a Royal knell;
And I knew what spirit had just expir'd,
And, slave as I was, my triumph fell.
When, hark!—there sounded a Royal knell;
And I knew what spirit had just expir'd,
And, slave as I was, my triumph fell.
He had pledg'd a hate unto me and mine,
He had left to the future nor hope nor choice,
But seal'd that hate with a Name Divine,
And he now was dead, and—I couldn't rejoice!
He had left to the future nor hope nor choice,
But seal'd that hate with a Name Divine,
And he now was dead, and—I couldn't rejoice!
He had fann'd afresh the burning brands
Of a bigotry waxing cold and dim;
He had arm'd anew my torturers' hands,
And them did I curse—but sigh'd for him.
Of a bigotry waxing cold and dim;
He had arm'd anew my torturers' hands,
And them did I curse—but sigh'd for him.
For, his was the error of head, not heart;
And—oh, how beyond the ambush'd foe,
Who to enmity adds the traitor's part,
And carries a smile, with a curse below!
And—oh, how beyond the ambush'd foe,
Who to enmity adds the traitor's part,
And carries a smile, with a curse below!
If ever a heart made bright amends
For the fatal fault of an erring head—
Go, learn his fame from the lips of friends,
In the orphan's tear be his glory read.
For the fatal fault of an erring head—
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In the orphan's tear be his glory read.
A Prince without pride, a man without guile,
To the last unchanging, warm, sincere,
For Worth he had ever a hand and smile,
And for Misery ever his purse and tear.
To the last unchanging, warm, sincere,
For Worth he had ever a hand and smile,
And for Misery ever his purse and tear.
Touch'd to the heart by that solemn toll,
I calmly sunk in my chains again;
While, still as I said “Heaven rest his soul!”
My mates of the dungeon sigh'd “Amen!”
I calmly sunk in my chains again;
While, still as I said “Heaven rest his soul!”
My mates of the dungeon sigh'd “Amen!”
January, 1827.
| The Poetical Works of Thomas Moore | |