How far—how far from the gloomy fogs,
From the green pines, from the seething waves
That saw him born! From the ancestral estates,
From the homeland's sky that caressed him with its light,
From the places alas! he cherished, how far...!
Came he to fall 'neath the enemy's blow
To never more rise, ill-starred!
Thus to perish on alien strands,
To die so young, to leave life behind
Unfilled still of living and eager
To taste the fruit he would have tended!
And instead of the proud laurel wreath
That crowns the hero's manly head
To descend to the mute and silent grave...!

O white swans of the British Isles,
O copses that embroider courtly
The green banks of the tame rivers
And the fresh fields where John used to run!
If to you reached bitter the mournful sigh,
The parting thought of his transparent mind
Which sped to you
Bidding good-bye! with anxiety
And love entwined in the dying gasp—
With what heartache, with what inexpressible sorrow,
With what unmatched surprise you too must have said
Good-bye! to him who so distant, far-flung
From the homeland, lonesome sank into eternity!

And the throne armchair, the unstirring curtain
Of the forever-relinquished bed,
The cold cinders of the unlit hearth,
The soft carpet that faithfully preserves
The visible print of the departed's footstep,
The dog that listens for the absent master
And seeks him out by errant untilled tracks,
The tall grasses of the shady boulevard
Where he used to stroll for solace,
The unvarying murmur of the spring
Beside which he'd sit in the afternoons...
How they would speak unceasingly of Moore
With their silent grieving language
To the eyes of those who for him were weeping!
Nevermore—nevermore alas! will he sad
Return to the place where they expect him!
He departed bold to strive for glory,
He left, he left...! And did not return
For death cut him low on foreign fields
Like the flower falls whose seed
Finds no earth to root on.

Poor John, you fell far from the tomb
Where you thought to rest with your own.
Your remains yet repose on foreign land
And they who loved you and remember still
On gazing upon the waves of the mistéd Ocean
Say pained from the native shore,
"He lies over there beyond this unruly sea,
There he was abandoned, perhaps...perhaps forever.
A grave that no one weeps over shelters
The beloved ashes of the one we lost...!"
And the mournful winds and the silent breezes
(Delight of the dead who slumber far removed
From the native turf) arrive to refresh you
In the summer's hot night and bring
On their wings tender plaints,
Soft sighs, loving echoes,
An undried teardrop that bedews
The arid stone of the chilled sarcophagus,
Some sylvan perfume from your country.

Yet what unparalleled gorgeous abode
Fate bestowed on your mortal remains!
Would it please God that it weren't for you,
Noble stranger, an alien dwelling!
For no poet or dreamer can there be
Who beholding in autumn
The sea of sere, yellowish leaf
That your mausoleum hosts lovingly—
Who watching in the cool dawns
Of the month of May the rosy lights
That come to visit you cheerily—
Says not, "Thus, when I die, would I
Sleep peaceably in this flowerful garden
By the sea...remote from a graveyard!"

O Moore! You never hear
Bitter sobs or plaintive prayers
Nor do other dead come in the quiet night
Calling on you to join them
In the uncertain dance of the sepulchres.
Yours only the sweet breath of blooming buds,
A withering flower's parting good-bye,
The mad scamper and boisterous laughter
Of pretty children who come fearlessly
To hide behind the white sepulchre
And at times—many perhaps!—the sighs
Of burning love which the wind hauls away
To God only knows where...have you—fortunate one—
For unrivalled company in your last dwelling.
And the sea—the sea—the swollen sea that roars
As roars that other one which lulled you in the cradle—
Dwells here and washes ashore to kiss the stones
Of a land of love that watches over you fondly
And lets the roses about you burgeon...!
Rest in peace, rest in peace o Moore!

And you who love him, zealous for your honour,
Sons of Albion, rest at ease.
Our land is a land of country squires—as chivalrous
As it is pretty by God's brimming desire—
That well knows how to honour they who deserve it
And therefore honoured as he deserved was Moore.
He does not lie forsaken in his sepulchre;
A people cares with compassionate respect
For the foreigner whom treacherous death
Forced to stay far removed from his own
And to strangers come solicit the final haven.

When you cross over the waves of the sea
And you travel to visit your brother
Press your ear to the tomb tenderly
And should you feel the ashes stirring—
Should you hear unfamiliar voices
And grasp what they are saying—
Your soul will be comforted.
He will tell you that nowhere in the world
Could he have found a better resting place
But among his own by their loving embrace!