Poet's Corner.

New Zealand Tablet, Volume VII, Issue 329, 8 August 1879, Page 9

Poet's Corner.

MOORE.

(From Denis Florence McCarthy's Centennial Ode.) He sings the heroic tales of old W hen Ireland yet was free, Of many a fight and foray bold, And raid beyond the sea. Of all the famous deeds of Fiu, And all the wiles of Maev, Now thunders 'mid the battle's din, Now sobs beside the wave. That wave empurpled by the sword The hero used too well, When great Cuchullin held the ford, And fair Ferdiah fell. And now his prophet eye is cast As o'er a boundless plain ; He sees the future as the past, And blends them in the strain. The " Red-Branch Knights," their flags unfold When danger's front appears, The Sunburst" breaks through clouds of gold To glorify their spears. But ah ! a darker hour drew nigh, The hour of Erin's woe, When she, though destined not to die Lay prostrate 'neath the foe. When broke were all the arms she bore, And bravely bore in vain, Till even her harp could sound no more Beneath the victor's chain. Ah ! dire constraint ; ah ! cruel wrong I To fetter thus its chord, But well they knew that Ireland's song Was keener than her sword. That song would pierce where sword would fail, And o'er the battle's din The sweet sad music of the Gael A peaceful victory win. Long was the trance, but sweet and low The harp breathed out again Its speechless wail, its worldlcss woe In Carolan's witching strain. Until at last the gift of words, Denied to it so long, Poured o'er the now enfranchised chords The articulate light of song ; Poured the bright light from Genius won That woke the harps wild lays — Even as that statue which the sun Made vocal with his rays. Thus Ossian, in disparted dream, Outpoured the varied lay, But now in one united stream His rapture finds its way :—: — " Yes, in thy hands, illustrious son, The harp shall speak once more, Itsjswect lament shall rippling run From listening shore to shore. Till mighty lands shall lie unknown Far in the fabled West, And giant isles of vordnie thiown Upon the South Hca"s btcast. And plains where rushing liveis flow — Fit emblems of tho fue — Shall learn to know of Ireland's woe, And Ireland';, weal through thec." ***** Glory to Moore, eternal be the glory That here we crown and consecrate to-day, Glory to Moore, for he has sung our story In strains whose sweetness ne'er can pass away. 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 her 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 <?reen 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 eingeth o'er his nest. And so we rank him with the great departed, The kings of song who rule us from their urns, The soul's inspired, the nature's 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 hath 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 whereso'er the exiltd race has 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.