Thomas Moore (1779–1852)

          WHILE History’s Muse the memorial was keeping

                Of all that the dark hand of Destiny weaves,

          Beside her the Genius of Erin stood weeping,

                For hers was the story that blotted the leaves.

          But oh! how the tear in her eyelids grew bright,

          When, after whole pages of sorrow and shame,

                          She saw History write,

                          With a pencil of light

          That illumed the whole volume, her Wellington’s name.

          "Yet still the last crown of thy toils is remaining,

                The grandest, the purest, even thou hast yet known;

          Though proud was thy task, other nations unchaining,

                Far prouder to heal the deep wounds of thy own.

          At the foot of that throne, for whose weal thou hast stood,

          Go, plead for the land that first cradled thy fame,

                          And, bright o’er the flood

                          Of her tears, and her blood,

          Let the rainbow of Hope be her Wellington’s name."