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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=529993" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Oh! Blame Not the Bard</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">Oh! blame not the bard, if he fly to the bowers <br>Where Pleasure lies, carelessly smiling at Fame; <br>He was born for much more, and in happier hours <br>His soul might have burn'd with a holier flame. <br>The string, that now languishes loose o'er the lyre, <br>Might have bent a proud bow to the warrior's dart;<br>And the lip, which now breathes but the song of desire <br>Might have pour'd the full tide of a patriot's heart. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">But alas for his country! -- her pride is gone by, <br>And that spirit is broken which never would bend; <br>O'er the ruin her children in secret must sigh, <br>For 'tis treason to love her, and death to defend. <br>Unprized are her sons, till they've learn'd to betray; <br>Undistinguish'd they live, if they shame not their sires; <br>And the torch, that would light them through dignity's way, <br>Must be caught from the pile where their country expires. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Then blame not the bard, if in pleasure's soft dream <br>He should try to forget what he never can heal: <br>Oh! give but a hope -- let a vista but gleam <br>Through the gloom of his country, and mark how he'll feel! <br>That instant, his heart at her shrine would lay down <br>Every passion it nursed, every bliss it adored; <br>While the myrtle, now idly entwined with his crown, <br>Like the wreath of Harmodius, should cover his sword.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">But though glory be gone, and though hope fade away, <br>Thy name, loved Erin, shall live in his songs; <br>Not even in the hour when his heart is most gay <br>Will he lose the remembrance of thee and thy wrongs. <br>The stranger shall hear thy lament on his plains; <br>The sign of thy harp shall be sent o'er the deep, <br>Till thy masters themselves, as they rivet thy chains, <br>Shall pause at the song of their captive, and weep!</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Thomas+Moore">Thomas Moore</a><div class=q>
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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=529993" data-title="Oh! Blame Not the Bard de Thomas Moore" data-description="Oh! blame not the bard, if he fly to the bowers 
Where Pleasure lies, carelessly smiling at Fame; 
He was born for much more, and in happier hours 
His soul might have burn'd with a holier flame. 
The string, that now languishes loose o'er the lyr..."></div>
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