Silence Is In Our Festal Halls.

A poem by Thomas Moore


Silence is in our festal halls,--
Sweet Son of Song! thy course is o'er;
In vain on thee sad Erin calls,
Her minstrel's voice responds no more;--
All silent as the Eolian shell
Sleeps at the close of some bright day,
When the sweet breeze that waked its swell
At sunny morn hath died away.

Yet at our feasts thy spirit long
Awakened by music's spell shall rise;
For, name so linked with deathless song
Partakes its charm and never dies:
And even within the holy fane
When music wafts the soul to heaven,
One thought to him whose earliest strain
Was echoed there shall long be given.

But, where is now the cheerful day.
The social night when by thy side
He who now weaves this parting lay
His skilless voice with thine allied;
And sung those songs whose every tone,
When bard and minstrel long have past,
Shall still in sweetness all their own
Embalmed by fame, undying last.

Yes, Erin, thine alone the fame,--
Or, if thy bard have shared the crown,
From thee the borrowed glory came,
And at thy feet is now laid down.
Enough, if Freedom still inspire
His latest song and still there be.
As evening closes round his lyre,
One ray upon its chords from thee.

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