The Song of
Fionnuala
Thomas Moore
Silent O
Moyle, be the roar of thy water,
Break not,
ye breezes, your chain of repose,
While,
murmuring mournfully, Lir's lonely daughter,
Tells to
the night-star her tale of woes.
When shall
the swan, her death-note singing,
Sleep,
with wings in darkness furled?
When will
heaven, its sweet bells ringing,
Call my
spirit from this stormy world?
Sadly, O
Moyle, to thy winter-wave weeping,
Fate bids
me languish long ages away;
Yet still
in her darkness doth Erin lie sleeping,
Still doth
the pure light in its dawning delay.
When will
that day-star, mildly springing,
Warm our
isle with peace and love?
When will
heaven, its sweet bells ringing,
Call my
spirit to the fields above?
RETURN TO
THE FIRST
BLOOMSDAY
BLOOMSDAY IN MANLY