A Book of Irish Verse. Various

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СКАЧАТЬ style="font-size:15px;">       Then in the stilly night,

       Ere slumber's chain hath bound me,

       Sad memory brings the light

       Of other days around me.

       When I remember all

       The friends so linked together

       I've seen around me fall

       Like leaves in wintry weather,

       I feel like one

       Who treads alone

       Some banquet-hall deserted,

       Whose lights are fled,

       Whose garlands dead,

       And all but he departed.

       Then in the stilly night,

       Ere slumber's chain hath bound me,

       Sad Memory brings the light

       Of other days around me.

      Thomas Moore

AT THE MID HOUR OF NIGHT

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      At the mid hour of night, when stars are weeping, I fly

       To the lone vale we loved, when life shone warm in thine eye;

       And I think oft, if spirits can steal from the regions of air

       To revisit past scenes of delight, thou wilt come to me there,

       And tell me our love is remembered even in the sky!

      Then I sing the wild song it once was rapture to hear

       When our voices, commingling, breathed like one on the ear;

       And as Echo far off through the vale my sad orison rolls,

       I think, O my love! 'tis thy voice from the kingdom of souls

       Faintly answering still the notes that once were so dear.

      Thomas Moore

THE BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE

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      Not a drum was heard, not a funeral-note,

       As his corse to the rampart we hurried;

       Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot

       O'er the grave where our hero we buried.

       We buried him darkly at dead of night,

       The sods with our bayonets turning,

       By the struggling moonbeam's misty light,

       And the lantern dimly burning.

      No useless coffin enclosed his breast,

       Not in sheet or in shroud we wound him;

       But he lay like a warrior taking his rest,

       With his martial cloak around him.

      Few and short were the prayers we said,

       And we spoke not a word of sorrow;

       But we steadfastly gazed on the face that was dead,

       And we bitterly thought of the morrow.

      We thought as we hollow'd his narrow bed,

       And smooth'd down his lonely pillow,

       That the foe and the stranger would tread o'er his head,

       And we far away on the billow!

      Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that's gone,

       And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him—

       But little he'll reck, if they let him sleep on

       In the grave where a Briton has laid him.

       But half of our heavy task was done,

       When the clock struck the hour for retiring;

       And we heard the distant and random gun

       That the foe was sullenly firing.

      Slowly and sadly we laid him down,

       From the field of his fame fresh and gory;

       We carved not a line, and we raised not a stone—

       But we left him alone in his glory.

       Rev. Charles Wolfe

THE CONVICT OF CLONMELL

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      From the Irish

      How hard is my fortune,

       And vain my repining!

       The strong rope of fate

       For this young neck is twining.

       My strength is departed;

       My cheek sunk and sallow;

       While I languish in chains,

       In the gaol of Cluanmeala.

       No boy in the village

       Was ever yet milder,

       I'd play with a child,

       And my sport would be wilder.

       I'd dance without tiring

       From morning till even,

       And the goal-ball I'd strike

       To the lightning of Heaven.

      At my bed-foot decaying,

       My hurlbat is lying,

       Through the boys of the village

       My goal-ball is flying;

       My horse 'mong the neighbours

       Neglected may fallow—

       While I pine in my chains,

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