MOORE

New Zealand Tablet, 14 November 1918, Page 13

MOORE

For this thrice happy bard, of old Unnumbered forces, sky-controll'd, Breathed thro' man's breast, to fold in flame The unfading halo round his name! In ages inaccessible, What countless sword-lights flashed and fell: What black keels cut the scudding brine: What broad arms bent yew, larch, and pine: What flying fingers, thro' harp strings, Moved the hot hearts of countless kings, Where stars of battle, iron-browed, Led on -iach darkening thunder-cloud— To build this music that confines The measure of his lyric lines! What passionate lips in rapture met While glowing eyes, with conquest wet, Spake things which never can be said— Long centuries ago and dead ; ■ While dipp'd in many a dreamy trance, The bards, for his inheritance, Took all earth's passion, hope and wrong, And wove them into sobbing song ! Our Land, deep in her loving breast Treasured them where she held her best. By fairy thorn and dateless cairn Deep-set in sweeping mountain fern ; By many a happy hearth at night That fills the room with fairy light, Where gossip Memory rakes and fans Some slackening legend of the Clans; By tower and cross, where shamrocks wave Daylong o'er many a hero's grave; By lonely mere and mountain, crowned With words of old historic sound—These were reserved for him, to tell The glories that he loved so well! Yet if were wanting these, to make Men love him for the Old Land's sake, Our hearts would hold his verses dear Thro' lips we both have loved to hear, When his sweet melodies take birth From the best bosom on this earth. And yet —what lucent song could bear Such music as one thought of her ! —John Kane, LL.D.