After A Lecture On Moore

Shine soft, ye trembling tears of light     That strew the mourning skies;     Hushed in the silent dews of night     The harp of Erin lies.     What though her thousand years have past     Of poets, saints, and kings, -     Her echoes only hear the last     That swept those golden strings.     Fling o'er his mound, ye star-lit bowers,     The balmiest wreaths ye wear,     Whose breath has lent your earth-born flowers     Heaven's own ambrosial air.     Breathe, bird of night, thy softest tone,     By shadowy grove and rill;     Thy song will soothe us while we own     That his was sweeter still.     Stay, pitying Time, thy foot for him     Who gave thee swifter wings,     Nor let thine envious shadow dim     The light his glory flings.     If in his cheek unholy blood     Burned for one youthful hour,     'T was but the flushing of the bud     That blooms a milk-white flower.     Take him, kind mother, to thy breast,     Who loved thy smiles so well,     And spread thy mantle o'er his rest     Of rose and asphodel.     The bark has sailed the midnight sea,     The sea without a shore,     That waved its parting sign to thee, -     "A health to thee, Tom Moore!"     And thine, long lingering on the strand,     Its bright-hued streamers furled,     Was loosed by age, with trembling hand,     To seek the silent world.     Not silent! no, the radiant stars     Still singing as they shine,     Unheard through earth's imprisoning bars,     Have voices sweet as thine.     Wake, then, in happier realms above,     The songs of bygone years,     Till angels learn those airs of love     That ravished mortal ears!