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 sweetbell ringing,
Call my spirit from this stormy world?
Sadly, O Moyel! 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 its dawning delay!
When will that day-star, mildly springing,
Warm our isle heaven, its sweet bell ringing,
Call my spirit to the feilds above?
- Thomas Moore -