Thomas Moore (1779–1852)

          ’TWAS one of those dreams, that by music are brought,

          Like a bright summer haze, o’er the poet’s warm thought —

          When, lost in the future, his soul wanders on,

          And all of this life, but its sweetness, is gone.

          The wild notes he heard o’er the water were those

          He had taught to sing Erin’s dark bondage and woes,

          And the breath of the bugle now wafted them o’er

          From Dinis’ green isle, to Glena’s wooded shore.

          He listen’d — while, high o’er the eagle’s rude nest,

          The lingering sounds on their way loved to rest;

          And the echoes sung back from their full mountain quire,

          As if loath to let song to enchanting expire.

          It seem’d as if every sweet note that died here

          Was again brought to life in some airier sphere,

          Some heaven in those hills, where the soul of the strain

          That had ceased upon earth was awaking again!

          Oh forgive, if, while listening to music, whose breath

          Seem’d to circle his name with a charm against death,

          He should feel a proud spirit within him proclaim,

          "Even so shalt thou live in the echoes of Fame:

          "Even so, though thy memory should now die away,

          ’Twill be caught up again in some happier day,

          And the hearts and the voices of Erin prolong,

          Through the answering Future, thy name and thy song."