St Vincent Seminary - Symposium Yearbook (Latrobe, PA)

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fl illllllllllllii E c ' ,l QW Glimpses o Erm s National Bard THOMAS S REILLY A B Books are more than books they are life and everg heart and core of ages past -Amy Lowell ' HERE is a nation and a people of today who characterize their national events as those in which they have struggled for freedomg their national heroes as those who have val- iantlylived or died in the name of that f reedomg and their national bards, poets, and authors as those who have expressed these passions, hopes, and struggles, in undying words. Crushed though she has 'been, century after century, by the heel of the tyrant' fettered through her long night of bondage by, the slavish allllllllllllg ' N. , .4 vfymii. 3 Q , in m ' , 5 2 if 'X Q ' eg.. . - 7 . . , . . r u . x . 7 - ' aa . - n . . . . 1 1 v . illllllllllllltl - . . , . :llla . g : El-.5 allfllllllflla chains of oppression and injustice, no other nation can surpass in number or in merit the genius of her bards and writers in the cause of liberty and justice. Spurred to a pitch of vengeance, to a high hope for the full noon of freedom, through a half cen- tury by the vehement eloquence of such memorable orators as Burke, Sheridan, Grattan, and Plunkett-all of whom saw a more successful peer in the Great Tribune, O'Connell-Ireland at the close of the eighteenth century, once more sought liberty under its most gallant leader, Robert Emmett. With passion running high and hope beyond its possibilities, his efforts proved as ill-rewarded as those of innumerable others who had fought before him. However, the story of his gallantry, the expression of the nation's passions in these moments of undaunted courage and bravery, continue to be transported to present and to future times through the strains of Irish Melodies, composed by her illustrious bard whose life and hope were one witn his country Tom Moore Robert Emmett in the last moments of his life, struggling in the death-grip of the wounds of battle, cried to those who were with him: Let no man write my epitaph .... let my tomb re- main uninscribed till other times and other men shall learn to do justice to my memory The immortality of such thought and feeling is compassed only by the written inspiration of Moore Oh! breathe not his name, let it sleep in the shade Where cold and itnhonor'd his relics are laid Sad silent and dark be the tears that we shed Il69ll umm mm: Ill? slllllla :I -. 'um umr As the night-dew that falls on the grass o'er his head. P 3

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,f'X Llll - iillli IIIIIIIEA M nf EIIIIII: 'I'-5 ' ' M' glllllllllllllg X E . m Q in X Hlllllllllillll . 1 Y ! But the night dew that falls though in silence it weeps Shall brighten with verdure the grave where he sleeps, And the tear that we shed though in secret it rolls Shall long keep his memory green in our souls In glowing tribute to Fmmett Moore sends forth the follow- With thee CErinD were the dreams of my earliest love, ' . Every thought of my reason was thine In my last humble prayer to the spirit above Thy name shall be mingled with mine Oh! blest are the lovers and friends who shall live The days of thy glory to see,' But the next dearest blessing that Heaven can give Is the pride of thus dying for thee. ' , To a multitude of lVIoore's Irish Melodies, all truly conveying in both measure and language the sorrows, the hopes, and the joys of Ireland in its day of darkness, a world of literary men have paid homage, a generation of famous poets and authors have given praise, and a people haveattached their hearts be- cause they are inspiring commemorations of Ireland's glory and prophecies of her destiny. It is of particular interest to note that about fourteen years before the Duke of Wellington proposed to the throne the great measure of Catholic Emancipation Moore addressed the following lines to Wellington as a testiq mony to the latter's distinguished victories' on the Continent uttering his praise as an expression of the spirit of Erin Hail, Star of my Isle! said the Spirit, all sparkling , With beams such as break from her own dewy skies- Through ages of sorrow, deserted and darkling I 've watch'd for some glory like thine to arise For, though Heroes I 've number'd, unbless'd was their lot A nd unhallow'd they sleep in the crossways of Fame But oh! there is not One dishonoring blot On the wreath that encircles my Wellington s name. Yet still the last crown of thy toils is remaining, The grandest, the purest, ev'n THOU hastiyet known Though proud was thy task, other nations unchaining Far prouder to heal the deep wounds of thy own. i At the foot of that throne for whose weal thou hast stood ZIIUINIIIIIIIU A Ellli slllllls Sl ' wi El-- :lmmmm IIIIIIIIIIIHIL ing utterances interpretative of the gallant leader's patriotism: J. 1. ,.