Thomas Moore (1779–1852)

          THE dream of those days when first I sung thee is o’er

          Thy triumph hath stain’d the charm thy sorrows then wore;

          And even the light which Hope once shed o’er thy chains,

          Alas, not a gleam to grace thy freedom remains.

          Say, is it that slavery sunk so deep in thy heart,

          That still the dark brand is there, though chainless thou art;

          And Freedom’s sweet fruit, for which thy spirit long burn’d,

          Now, reaching at last thy lip, to ashes hath turn’d?

          Up Liberty’s steep by Truth and Eloquence led,

          With eyes on her temple fix’d, how proud was thy tread!

          Ah, better thou ne’er hadst lived that summit to gain,

          Denied in the porch, than thus dishonour the fane.