While History's Muse The Memorial Was Keeping

By Thomas Moore

While History's Muse the memorial was keeping
Of all that the dark hand of Destiny weaves,
Beside her the Genius of Erin stood weeping.
For her's was the story that blotted the leaves.
But oh! how the tear in her eyelids grew bright,
When, after whole pages of sorrow and shame,
She saw History write,
With a pencil of light,
That illum'd the whole volume, her Wellington's name!

Hail, Star of my Isle! said the Spirit, all sparkling
With beams, such as burst from her own dewy skies;
Through ages of sorrow, deserted and darkling,
I've watched for some glory like thine to arise.
For though Heroes I've numbered, unblest was their lot,
And unhallow'd they sleep in the cross-ways of fame.
But, oh! there is not
One dishonouring blot
On the wreath that encircles my Wellington's name!

And still the last crown of thy toils is remaining,
The grandest, the purest, e'en thou hast yet known;
Tho' proud was thy task, other nations unchaining,
Far prouder to heal the deep wounds of thy own.
At the foot of that throne, for whose weal thou hast stood,
Go plead for the land that first cradled thy fame --
And, bright o'er the flood
Of her fears and her blood,
Let the rainbow of Hope be her Wellington's name!