Thomas Moore (1779–1852)

          OH! breathe not his name, let it sleep in the shade,

          Where cold and unhonour’d his relics are laid:

          Sad, silent, and dark, be the tears that we shed,

          As the night-dew that falls on the grass o’er his head.

          But the night-dew that falls, though in silence it weeps,

          Shall brighten with verdure the grave where he sleeps;

          And the tear that we shed, though in secret it rolls,

          Shall long keep his memory green in our souls.