In the churchyard of Bromham the yews intertwine O'er a smooth granite cross of a Celtic design, Looking quite out of place in surroundings like these In a corner of Wilts 'twixt the chalk and the cheese. I can but account you neglected and poor, Dear bard of my boyhood, mellifluous Moore. That far from the land which all of you loved best In a village of England your bones should have rest. I had rather they lay where the Blackwater glides When the light of the evening doth burnish its tides And St Carthage Cathedral's meticulous spire Is tipped like the Castle with sun-setting fire. I had rather some gate-lodge of plaster and thatch With slim pointed windows and porches to match Had last seen your coffin drawn out on the road From a great Irish house to its final abode. Or maybe a rath with a round tower near And the whispering Shannon delighting the ear And the bog all around and the width of the sky Is the place where your bones should deservedly lie. The critics may scorn you and Hazlit may carp At the 'Musical Snuff-box' you made of the Harp; The regency drawing-rooms that thrilled with your song Are not the true world to which now you belong. No! the lough and the mountain, the ruins and rain And purple-blue distances bound you demesne, For the tunes to the elegant measures you trod Have chords of deep longing for Ireland and God. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...RORY O'MORE; OR, ALL FOR GOOD LUCK by SAMUEL LOVER SPOON RIVER ANTHOLOGY: EDITOR WHEDON by EDGAR LEE MASTERS ON MR. FREDERICK PORTER'S ROOM OF PICTURES, 1930 by EDMUND CHARLES BLUNDEN THE HOLY DUST by JULIEN AUGUSTE PELAGE BRIZEUX COLOMBE'S BIRTHDAY; A PLAY. ACTS 1-3 by ROBERT BROWNING |