Arthur Quiller-Couch, ed. 1919. The Oxford Book of English Verse: 1250–1900.
Thomas Moore. 17791852583. The Irish Peasant to His Mistress
THROUGH grief and through danger thy smile hath cheer’d my way, | |
Till hope seem’d to bud from each thorn that round me lay; | |
The darker our fortune, the brighter our pure love burn’d, | |
Till shame into glory, till fear into zeal was turn’d: | |
Yes, slave as I was, in thy arms my spirit felt free, | 5 |
And bless’d even the sorrows that made me more dear to thee. | |
Thy rival was honour’d, while thou wert wrong’d and scorn’d; | |
Thy crown was of briers, while gold her brows adorn’d; | |
She woo’d me to temples, whilst thou lay’st hid in caves; | |
Her friends were all masters, while thine, alas! were slaves; | 10 |
Yet cold in the earth, at thy feet, I would rather be | |
Than wed what I loved not, or turn one thought from thee. | |
They slander thee sorely, who say thy vows are frail— | |
Hadst thou been a false one, thy cheek had look’d less pale! | |
They say, too, so long thou hast worn those lingering chains, | 15 |
That deep in thy heart they have printed their servile stains: | |
O, foul is the slander!—no chain could that soul subdue— | |
Where shineth thy spirit, there Liberty shineth too! |