Thomas Moore

(28 May 1779 – 25 February 1852 / Dublin)

Where Is The Slave - Poem by Thomas Moore

Oh, where's the slave so lowly,
Condemn'd to chains unholy,
Who, could he burst
His bonds at first,
Would pine beneath them slowly?
What soul, whose wrongs degrade it,
Would wait till time decay'd it,
When thus its wing
At once may spring
To the throne of Him who made it?

Farewell, Erin, -- farewell, all,
Who live to weep our fall!

Less dear the laurel growing,
Alive, untouch'd and blowing,
Than that whose braid
Is pluckd to shade
The brows with victory glowing.
We tread the land that bore us,
Her green flag glitters o'er us,
The friends we've tried
Are by our side,
And the foe we hate before us.

Farewell, Erin, -- farewell, all,
Who live to weep our fall!


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Read poems about / on: farewell, hate, spring, green, time, friend



Poem Submitted: Friday, January 3, 2003



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