Silence is in our festal halls -- <br />Sweet son of song! thy course is o'er; <br />In vain on thee sad Erin calls, <br />Her minstrel's voice responds no more; -- <br />All silent as the Eolian shell <br />Sleeps at the close of some bright day, <br />When the sweet breeze, that waked its swell <br />At sunny morn, hath died away. <br /> <br />Yet, at our feasts, thy spirit long, <br />Awaked by music's spell, shall rise; <br />For, name so link'd with deathless song <br />Partakes its charm and never dies; <br />And even within the holy fane, <br />When music wafts the soul to heaven, <br />One thought to him, whose earliest strain <br />Was echoed there, shall long be given. <br /> <br />But where is now the cheerful day, <br />The social night, when by thy side, <br />He who now weaves this parting lay <br />His skilless voice with thine allied; <br />And sung those songs whose every tone, <br />When bard and minstrel long have past, <br />Shall still, in sweetness all their own, <br />Embalm'd by fame, undying last. <br /> <br />Yes, Erin, shine alone the fame -- <br />Or, if thy bard have shared the crown, <br />From thee the borrow'd glory came, <br />And at thy feet is now laid down. <br />Enough, if Freedom still inspire, <br />His latest song, and still there be, <br />As evening closes round his lyre, <br />One ray upon its chords from thee.<br /><br />Thomas Moore<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/silence-is-in-our-festal-halls/
