Thomas Moore (1779–1852)

          FAIREST! put on a while

                These pinions of light I bring thee,

          And o’er thy own green isle

                In fancy let me wing thee.

          Never did Ariel’s plume,

                At golden sunset, hover

          O’er scenes so full of bloom

                As I shall waft thee over.

          Fields, where the Spring delays

                And fearlessly meets the ardour

          Of the warm Summer’s gaze,

                With only her tears to guard her;

          Rocks, through myrtle boughs

                In grace majestic frowning,

          Like some bold warrior’s brows

                That Love hath just been crowning.

          Islets, so freshly fair,

                That never hath bird come nigh them,

          But, from his course through air,

                He hath been won down by them; —

          Types, sweet maid, of thee,

                Whose look, whose blush inviting,

          Never did Love yet see

                From heaven, without alighting.

          Lakes, where the pearl lies hid,

                And caves, where the gem is sleeping,

          Bright as the tears thy lid

                Lets fall in lonely weepin.

          Glens, where Ocean comes,

                To ’scape the wild wind’s rancour;

          And harbours, worthiest homes

                Where Freedom’s fleet can anchor.

          Then, if, while scenes so grand,

                So beautiful, shine before thee,

          Pride for thy own dear land

                Should haply be stealing o’er thee,

          Oh, let grief come first,

                O’er pride itself victorious —

          Thinking how man hath curst

                What Heaven hath made so glorious.