The Anderson intelligencer. [volume] (Anderson Court House, S.C.) 1860-1914, 1879-06-12
ERIN,S IMMORTAL BARD.
Centennial Celebration of the Birth of Tom
Moore.

ERIN'S IMMORTAL BARD.
Centennial Celebration of the Birth of Tom
| Moore.
Charleston Ners and Courier.
The Centennial of Ireland's great bard
was celebrated with fitting honors at
Hibernian Park yesterday, by the open
ing of the annual two days festival
under the auspices of the Park Associa-
ton. The Park was we'll filed with
pleasure. seekers, and in the afternoon,
when the centennial address was deliv-
cred, a gcodly number of the fair sex,
and of the sterner sex, too, gathered
under the grand old oaks, which shade
the Park, to hear the praises of Tom
Moore sung by as gallant soldier and
as silver-tongued an orator as ever owed
his origin to the land of Emmett and
Moore.
Capt. B. F. McCabe, in an appropriate
allusion to the event, introduced Col.
James Armstrong, the orator of the day,
who spoke as follows:
To-day in many lands the scattered but
devoted children of dear Erin meet to-
gether to commemorate the centennial OF
Thomas Moore.
Here on this bright, glad May day,
beneath this summer splendor of foliage
and sunshine, waving banners of green
and gold-where the symbolic harp is
seen, and where brave and true, fresh
and pure hearts throb in unison with
this event, and are thrilled with the
gladdening memories it awakens-we
swell the great chorus which arises from
countless thousands in recalling the
genius and patriotism of Ireland's chosen
Bard.
The very name OF Tom Moore should
engender thought and inspire sentiment.
The rich sunshine of his song dispelled
the mists from the smiling valleys, and
made gladstone the sparkling streams of
his native land, to which he devoted the
depth, the tenderness. the beauty and
strength of his genius. He loved Ire
land with an ardor and enthusiasm that
only death could extinguish. 1t is not
my province to assign his true place in
the galaxy of poets. I have neither the
time nor talent to prove that he reached
proud heighth on Parnassus. The
British reviewers said that he possessed
fancy, but no genius. The same writer
denied to Robert Emmett the virtue of
patriotism. "Lilla Rookh" everywhere
sparkles with the richest and rarest gems
of poetic thought, and possesses radi-
ance of grandeur as brilliant as the stars.
Though the scene is laid in the East, the
wrongs of Ireland suggested and inspired
his matchless verse. He never believed
that success alone can make the patriot
misfortune always makes the rebel.
With what beauty and force he express
es it:
.R.bel,,on, sou, d;.bonorinr word.
Whose wrongful blight 50 Oft has stained
The hOiies asa that or sword
How many a spirit, born to bless,
Hath sunk beneath that StheGng
" Had waited val Ito to eternal III M fame" ~
Rut NV friends il is his sweet and
enchanting melodies that I love to re-
call. They conf jure up delightful associ-
| ations and tender recollectlons OF by
gone times, and revive those golden
hours of youth which many of you
passed by the yerdant slopes of the SUR,
r. T;EI ~. Porro,, +ho PIool,vo+ar
Iue hiuy, tuo DelAoW, Ine DiaChma"ei,
the Foyle, the Lee, and the Shannon.
| Deliobtfnl old Christonher North said
that "of all the song writers that ever
warbled or chanted or sung the best, in
our estimation, is verify none other than
Thomas Moore" Many of his songs,
my friends, are both sad and sweet
sweet as the music of her purling rills-
IL =, .ho ,;,h;no, &c +ha n,;nds fbrorrb
sau as Sue siS9!n6 VI 'ne "iuuo 'iiiouSii
her valleys. You heard them along with
the breathing OF motners love, ana
rnoy no;hor;s " nrover Thev str;te tho tenJer-
uiotner prayer. lucy s.iiAe Vn1 .Snuei-
for thew seem az o Voice waited from the
dear Island home, "Home, Sweet Home"
whose grand and beautiful image is still
Iresn anu green III memory. 1ne niols-
tened eve, the qulverlDg lip, the silent
pravor nroye
pay
'iWert thou all that wish thee great, glorious,
and free.
First flower of the earth and drst gem of the sea,
might hail thee with prouder, with happier brow,
But on! e0uia l i0'e 'nes more uerpis 'n"n nO"
NO thy chains as they rankle thy blood as it runs
whose besrts iGe tbe vouIr CIT Of the desertbirds
nest,
Drink love- love N cach hie-dF0p 'hat h0ws from 'ny
Mora vos ono ~ Emmett,s early