Avoca

Peace, where livest thou?
Is it not in the vale
Among the trees,
Beside yon lovely streamlet,
Whose gurgling waters gently tease
The fragrant breeze,
From heather covered hills.
And chase the timid flies
Across the dazzling ripples.
Yet all is still.
A curlew, lifts its voice,
And whispers soft and low,
To pierce the everlasting stillness,
Which haunts the vale of happiness.
No sigh is heard,
No moan , no tears, no sadness.
Joy is all around
In bird and tree, and flower,
Harmonized, by the dancing streamlet,
Whose jolly visage, ne’er saw
Only nature’s loveliness.
Or the strained look of wonder,
On the pallid face of a passing peasant.
O’ that I may lay my head
And die in this vale of peace.
The very quietness, tells naught else
But the presence of some Image,
Which we humans fail to grasp;
The image of Him, who made the universe,
And chose the hidden lovely vale,
As the angels’ earthly home.
Sweet Avoca, where Tom Moore’s noble bust,
Stands erect, to gaze forever more,
On the place he loved,
Where he sat in silence,
And whispered soft strains,
That echo through the years,
As cherished melodies of bygone days,
Avoca, send aloft the spirit of enchantment,
Far across the busy world,
Which knows not ease,
Then, surely, men would shun
The thought of war and bustle
And fly to thee, O canopy of peace.

Copyright Máiréad Tuohy Duffy (C)2004