Now descending low and sweet
To our feet,
Till the odours of the grass
With the light notes as they pass
Blend and meet: 
All that Erin’s memory guards
In her heart,
Deeds of heroes, songs of bards,
Have their part.

Brian’s glories reappear,
Fionualla’s song we hear,
Tara’s walls resound again
With a more inspir`ed strain,
Rival rivers meet and join,
Stately Shannon blends with Boyne;
While on high the storm-winds cease
Heralding the arch of peace.

And all the bright creations fair
  That ’neath his master-hand awake,
Some in tears and some in smiles,
Like Nea in the summer isles,
  Or Kathleen by the lonely lake,
Round his radiant throne repair: 
Nay, his own Peri of the air
  Now no more disconsolate,
  Gives in at Fame’s celestial gate
His passport to the skies—­
  The gift to heaven most dear,
  His country’s tear. 
From every lip the glad refrain doth rise,
“Joy, ever joy, his glorious task is done,
The gates are passed and Fame’s bright heaven is won!”

Ah! yes, the work, the glorious work is done,
And Erin crowns to-day her brightest son,
Around his brow entwines the victor bay,
And lives herself immortal in his lay—­
Leads him with honour to her highest place,
For he had borne his more than mother’s name
Proudly along the Olympic lists of fame
When mighty athletes struggled in the race. 
Byron, the swift-souled spirit, in his pride
Paused to cheer on the rival by his side,
And Lycidas, so long
Lost in the light of his own dazzling song,
Although himself unseen,
Gave the bright wreath that might his own have been
To him whom ’mid the mountain shepherd throng,
The minstrels of the isles,
When Adonais died so fair and young,
Ierne sent from out her green defiles
“The sweetest lyrist of her saddest wrong,
And love taught grief to fall like music from his tongue.” 
And he who sang of Poland’s kindred woes,
And Hope’s delicious dream,
And all the mighty minstrels who arose
In that auroral gleam
That o’er our age a blaze of glory threw
Which Shakspere’s only knew—­
Some from their hidden haunts remote,
Like him the lonely hermit of the hills,
Whose song like some great organ note
The whole horizon fills. 
Or the great Master, he whose magic hand,
Wielding the wand from which such wonder flows,
Transformed the lineaments of a rugged land,
And left the thistle lovely as the rose. 
Oh! in a concert of such minstrelsy,
In such a glorious company,
What pride for Ireland’s harp to sound,
For Ireland’s son to share,
What pride to see him glory-crowned,
And hear amid the dazzling gleam
Upon the rapt and ravished air
Her harp still sound supreme!

Glory to Moore, eternal be the glory
  That here we crown and consecrate to-day,
Glory to Moore, for he has sung our story
  In strains whose sweetness ne’er can pass away.