Thomas Moore (1779–1852)

        WHEN he, who adores thee, has left but the name

                Of his fault and his sorrows behind,

          Oh! say wilt thou weep, when they darken the fame

                Of a life that for thee was resign’d?

          Yes, weep, and however my foes may condemn,

                Thy tears shall efface their decree;

          For Heaven can witness, though guilty to them,

                I have been but too faithful to thee.

          With thee were the dreams of my earliest love;

                Every thought of my reason was thine;

          In my last humble prayer to the Spirit above,

                Thy name shall be mingled with mine.

          Oh! blest are the lovers and friends who shall live

                The days of thy glory to see;

          But the next dearest blessing that Heaven can give

                Is the pride of thus dying for thee.