Silent Oh! Moyle, be the roar of thy water, Break not, ye breezes, your chain of repose; While murmuring mournfully, Lir's lonely daughter Tells to the nightstar her tale of woes. When shall the swan, her deathnote singing, Sleep, with wings in darkness furl'd? When will Heav'n, its sweet bells ringing, Call my spirit from this stormy world? Silent, O! Moyle, to thy winterwave weeping, Fate bids me languish long ages away; Yet still in her darkness doth Erin lie sleeping, Still doth the pure light its dawning delay. When will that daystar, mildly springing, Warm our isle with peace and love? When will Heav'n, its sweet bells ringing, Call my spirit to the fields above?
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