The Irish Peasant To His Mistress by Thomas Moore

Through grief and through danger thy smile hath cheer’d my way,
Till hope seem’d to bud from each thorn that round me lay;
The darker our fortune, the brighter our pure love burn’d,
Till shame into glory, till fear into zeal was turn’d;
Yes, slave as I was, in thy arms my spirit felt free,
And bless’d even the sorrows that made me more dear to thee.

Thy rival was honour’d, while thou wert wrong’d and scorn’d,
Thy crown was of briers, while gold her brows adorn’d;
She woo’d me to temples, while thou lay’st hid in caves,
Her friends were all masters, while thine, alas! were slaves;
Yet cold in the earth, at thy feet, I would rather be,
Then wed what I loved not, or turn one thought from thee.

They slander thee sorely, who say thy vows are frail —
Hadst thou been a false one, thy cheek had look’d less pale.
They say, too, so long thou hast worn those lingering chains —
That deep in thy heart they have printed their servile stains —
Oh! foul is the slander — no chain could that soul subdue —
Where shineth thy spirit, there liberty shineth too!

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