Oh! blame not the bard, if he fly to the bowers <br />Where Pleasure lies, carelessly smiling at Fame; <br />He was born for much more, and in happier hours <br />His soul might have burn'd with a holier flame. <br />The string, that now languishes loose o'er the lyre, <br />Might have bent a proud bow to the warrior's dart; <br />And the lip, which now breathes but the song of desire <br />Might have pour'd the full tide of a patriot's heart. <br /> <br />But alas for his country! -- her pride is gone by, <br />And that spirit is broken which never would bend; <br />O'er the ruin her children in secret must sigh, <br />For 'tis treason to love her, and death to defend. <br />Unprized are her sons, till they've learn'd to betray; <br />Undistinguish'd they live, if they shame not their sires; <br />And the torch, that would light them through dignity's way, <br />Must be caught from the pile where their country expires. <br /> <br />Then blame not the bard, if in pleasure's soft dream <br />He should try to forget what he never can heal: <br />Oh! give but a hope -- let a vista but gleam <br />Through the gloom of his country, and mark how he'll feel! <br />That instant, his heart at her shrine would lay down <br />Every passion it nursed, every bliss it adored; <br />While the myrtle, now idly entwined with his crown, <br />Like the wreath of Harmodius, should cover his sword. <br /> <br />But though glory be gone, and though hope fade away, <br />Thy name, loved Erin, shall live in his songs; <br />Not even in the hour when his heart is most gay <br />Will he lose the remembrance of thee and thy wrongs. <br />The stranger shall hear thy lament on his plains; <br />The sign of thy harp shall be sent o'er the deep, <br />Till thy masters themselves, as they rivet thy chains, <br />Shall pause at the song of their captive, and weep!<br /><br />Thomas Moore<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/oh-blame-not-the-bard/
