Thomas Moore (1779–1852)

          IT is not the tear at this moment shed,

                When the cold turf has just been laid o’er him,

          That can tell how beloved was the friend that’s fled,

                Or how deep in our hearts we deplore him.

          ’Tis the tear, through many a long day wept,

                ’Tis life’s whole path o’ershaded;

          ’Tis the one remembrance, fondly kept,

                When all lighter griefs have faded.

          Thus his memory, like some holy light,

                Kept alive in our hearts, will improve them,

          For worth shall look fairer, and truth more bright,

                When we think how he lived but to love them.

          And as fresher flowers the sod perfume

                Where buried saints are lying,

          So our hearts shall borrow a sweetening bloom

                From the image he left there in dying!