by Thomas Moore
While Pleasure’s scarce touches the lip ere it dies.
Go, then, and dream, etc.
That moon, which hung o’er your parting, so splendid,
Often will shine again, bright as she then did —
But, never more will the beam she saw burn
In those happy eyes, at your meeting, return.
Go, then, and dream, etc.
TAKE HENCE THE BOWL.
(NEAPOLITAN AIR.)
Take hence the bowl; — tho’ beaming
Brightly as bowl e’er shone,
Oh, it but sets me dreaming
Of happy days now gone.
There, in its clear reflection,
As in a wizard’s glass,
Lost hopes and dead affection,
Like shades, before me pass.
Each cup I drain brings hither
Some scene of bliss gone by; —
Bright lips too bright to wither,
Warm hearts too warm to die.
Till, as the dream comes o’er me
Of those long vanished years,
Alas, the wine before me
Seems turning all to tears!
FAREWELL, THERESA!
(VENETIAN AIR.)
Farewell, Theresa! yon cloud that over
Heaven’s pale night-star gathering we see,
Will scarce from that pure orb have past ere thy lover
Swift o’er the wide wave shall wander from thee.
Long, like that dim cloud, I’ve hung around thee,
Darkening thy prospects, saddening thy brow;
With gay heart, Theresa, and bright cheek I found thee;
Oh, think how changed, love, how changed art thou now!
But here I free thee: like one awaking
From fearful slumber, thou break’st the spell;
’Tis over — the moon, too, her bondage is breaking —
Past are the dark clouds; Theresa, farewell!
HOW OFT, WHEN WATCHING STARS.
(SAVOYARD AIR.)
Oft, when the watching stars grow pale,
And round me sleeps the moonlight scene,
To hear a flute through yonder vale
I from my casement lean.
“Come, come, my love!” each note then seems to say,
“Oh, come, my love! the night wears fast away!”
Never to mortal ear
Could words, tho’ warm they be,
Speak Passion’s language half so clear
As do those notes to me!
Then quick my own light lute I seek,
And strike the chords with loudest swell;
And, tho’ they naught to others speak,
He knows their language well.
“I come, my love!” each note then seems to say,
“I come, my love! — thine, thine till break of day.”
Oh, weak the power of words,
The hues of painting dim
Compared to what those simple chords
Then say and paint to him!
WHEN THE FIRST SUMMER BEE.
(GERMAN AIR.)
When the first summer bee
O’er the young rose shall hover,
Then, like that gay rover,
I’ll come to thee.
He to flowers, I to lips, full of sweets to the brim —
What a meeting, what a meeting for me and for him!
When the first summer bee, etc.
Then, to every bright tree
In the garden he’ll wander;
While I, oh, much fonder,
Will stay with thee.
In search of new sweetness thro’ thousands he’ll run,
While I find the sweetness of thousands in one.
Then, to every bright tree, etc.
THO’ ‘TIS ALL BUT A DREAM.
(FRENCH AIR.)
Tho’ ’tis all but a dream at the best,
And still, when happiest, soonest o’er,
Yet, even in a dream, to be blest
Is so sweet, that I ask for no more.
The bosom that opes
With earliest hopes,
The soonest finds those hopes untrue:
As flowers that first
In spring-time burst
The earliest wither too!
Ay— ’tis all but a dream, etc.
Tho’ by friendship we oft are deceived,
And find love’s sunshine soon o’ercast,
Yet friendship will still be believed.
And love trusted on to the last.
The web ‘mong the leaves
The spider weaves
Is like the charm Hope hangs o’er men;
Tho’ often she sees
’Tis broke by the breeze,
She spins the bright tissue again.
Ay— ’tis all but a dream, etc.
WHEN THE WINE-CUP IS SMILING.
(ITALIAN AIR.)
When the wine-cup is smiling before us,
And we pledge round to hearts that are true, boy, true,
Then the sky of this life opens o’er us,
And Heaven gives a glimpse of its blue.
Talk of Adam in Eden reclining,
We are better, far better off thus, boy, thus;
For him but two bright eyes were shining —
See, what numbers are sparkling for us!
When on one side the grape-juice is dancing,
While on t’other a blue eye beams, boy, beams,
’Tis enough, ‘twixt the wine and the glancing,
To disturb even a saint from his dreams.
Yet, tho’ life like a river is flowing,
I care not how fast it goes on, boy, on,
So the grape on its bank is still growing,
And Love lights the waves as they run.
WHERE SHALL WE BURY OUR SHAME?
(NEAPOLITAN AIR.)
Where shall we bury our shame?
Where, in what desolate place,
Hide the last wreck of a name
Broken and stained by disgrace?
Death may dissever the chain,
Oppression will cease when we’re gone;
But the dishonor, the stain,
Die as we may, will live on.
Was it for this we sent out
Liberty’s cry from our shore?
Was it for this that her shout
Thrilled to the world’s very core?
Thus to live cowards and slaves! —
Oh, ye free hearts that lie dead,
Do you not, even in your graves,
Shudder, as o’er you we tread?
NE’ER TALK OF WISDOM’S GLOOMY SCHOOLS.
(MAHRATTA AIR.)
Ne’er talk of Wisdom’s gloomy schools;
Give me the sage who’s able
To draw his moral thoughts and rules
From the study of the table; —
Who learns how lightly, fleetly pass
This world and all that’s in it.
From the bumper that but crowns his glass,
And is gone again next minute!
The diamond sleeps within the mine,
The pearl beneath the water;
While Truth, more precious, dwells in wine.
The grape’s own rosy daughter.
And none can prize her charms like him,
Oh, none like him obtain her,
Who thus can, like Leander, swim
Thro’ sparkling floods to gain her!
HERE SLEEPS THE BARD.
(HIGHLAND AIR.)
Here sleeps the Bard who knew so well
All the sweet windings of Apollo’s shell;
Whether its music rolled like torrents near.
Or died, like distant streamlets, on the ear.
Sleep, sleep, mute bard; alike unheeded now
The storm and zephyr sweep thy lifeless brow; —
That storm, whose rush is like thy martial lay;
That breeze which, like thy love-song, dies aw
ay!
DO NOT SAY THAT LIFE IS WANING.
Do not say that life is waning,
Or that hope’s sweet day is set;
While I’ve thee and love remaining,
Life is in the horizon yet.
Do not think those charms are flying,
Tho’ thy roses fade and fall;
Beauty hath a grace undying,
Which in thee survives them all.
Not for charms, the newest, brightest,
That on other cheeks may shine,
Would I change the least, the slightest.
That is lingering now o’er thine.
THE GAZELLE.
Dost thou not hear the silver bell,
Thro’ yonder lime-trees ringing?
’Tis my lady’s light gazelle;
To me her love thoughts bringing, —
All the while that silver bell
Around his dark neck ringing.
See, in his mouth he bears a wreath,
My love hath kist in tying;
Oh, what tender thoughts beneath
Those silent flowers are lying, —
Hid within the mystic wreath,
My love hath kist in trying!
Welcome, dear gazelle, to thee,
And joy to her, the fairest.
Who thus hath breathed her soul to me.
In every leaf thou bearest;
Welcome, dear gazelle, to thee,
And joy to her the fairest!
Hail ye living, speaking flowers,
That breathe of her who bound ye;
Oh, ’twas not in fields, or bowers;
’Twas on her lips, she found ye; —
Yes, ye blushing, speaking flowers,
’Twas on her lips she found ye.
NO — LEAVE MY HEART TO REST.
No — leave my heart to rest, if rest it may,
When youth, and love, and hope, have past away.
Couldst thou, when summer hours are fled,
To some poor leaf that’s fallen and dead,
Bring back the hue it wore, the scent it shed?
No — leave this heart to rest, if rest it may,
When youth, and love, and hope, have past away.
Oh, had I met thee then, when life was bright,
Thy smile might still have fed its tranquil light;
But now thou comest like sunny skies,
Too late to cheer the seaman’s eyes,
When wrecked and lost his bark before him lies!
No — leave this heart to rest, if rest it may,
Since youth, and love, and hope have past away.
WHERE ARE THE VISIONS.
“Where are the visions that round me once hovered,
“Forms that shed grace from their shadows alone;
“Looks fresh as light from a star just discovered,
“And voices that Music might take for her own?”
Time, while I spoke, with his wings resting o’er me,
Heard me say, “Where are those visions, oh where?”
And pointing his wand to the sunset before me,
Said, with a voice like the hollow wind, “There.”
Fondly I looked, when the wizard had spoken,
And there, mid the dim-shining ruins of day,
Saw, by their light, like a talisman broken,
The last golden fragments of hope melt away.
WIND THY HORN, MY HUNTER BOY.
Wind thy horn, my hunter boy,
And leave thy lute’s inglorious sighs;
Hunting is the hero’s joy,
Till war his nobler game supplies.
Hark! the hound-bells ringing sweet,
While hunters shout and the, woods repeat,
Hilli-ho! Hilli-ho!
Wind again thy cheerful horn,
Till echo, faint with answering, dies:
Burn, bright torches, burn till morn,
And lead us where the wild boar lies.
Hark! the cry, “He’s found, he’s found,”
While hill and valley our shouts resound.
Hilli-ho! Hilli-ho!
OH, GUARD OUR AFFECTION.
Oh, guard our affection, nor e’er let it feel
The blight that this world o’er the warmest will steal:
While the faith of all round us is fading or past,
Let ours, ever green, keep its bloom to the last.
Far safer for Love ’tis to wake and to weep,
As he used in his prime, than go smiling to sleep;
For death on his slumber, cold death follows fast,
White the love that is wakeful lives on to the last.
And tho’, as Time gathers his clouds o’er our head,
A shade somewhat darker o’er life they may spread,
Transparent, at least, be the shadow they cast,
So that Love’s softened light may shine thro’ to the last.
SLUMBER, OH SLUMBER.
“Slumber, oh slumber; if sleeping thou mak’st
“My heart beat so wildly, I’m lost if thou wak’st.”
Thus sung I to a maiden,
Who slept one summer’s day,
And, like a flower overladen
With too much sunshine, lay.
Slumber, oh slumber, etc.
“Breathe not, oh breathe not, ye winds, o’er her cheeks;
“If mute thus she charm me, I’m lost when she speaks.”
Thus sing I, while, awaking,
She murmurs words that seem
As if her lips were taking
Farewell of some sweet dream.
Breathe not, oh breathe not, etc.
BRING THE BRIGHT GARLANDS HITHER.
Bring the bright garlands hither,
Ere yet a leaf is dying;
If so soon they must wither.
Ours be their last sweet sighing.
Hark, that low dismal chime!
’Tis the dreary voice of Time.
Oh, bring beauty, bring roses,
Bring all that yet is ours;
Let life’s day, as it closes,
Shine to the last thro’ flowers.
Haste, ere the bowl’s declining,
Drink of it now or never;
Now, while Beauty is shining,
Love, or she’s lost for ever.
Hark! again that dull chime,
’Tis the dreary voice of Time.
Oh, if life be a torrent,
Down to oblivion going,
Like this cup be its current,
Bright to the last drop flowing!
IF IN LOVING, SINGING.
If in loving, singing, night and day
We could trifle merrily life away,
Like atoms dancing in the beam,
Like day-flies skimming o’er the stream,
Or summer blossoms, born to sigh
Their sweetness out, and die —
How brilliant, thoughtless, side by side,
Thou and I could make our minutes glide!
No atoms ever glanced so bright,
No day-flies ever danced so light,
Nor summer blossoms mixt their sigh,
So close, as thou and I!
THOU LOVEST NO MORE.
Too plain, alas, my doom is spoken
Nor canst thou veil the sad truth o’er;
Thy heart is changed, thy vow is broken,
Thou lovest no more — thou lovest no more.
Tho’ kindly still those eyes behold me,
The smile is gone, which once they wore;
Tho’ fondly still those arms enfold me,
’Tis not the same — thou lovest no more.
Too long my dream of bliss believing,
I’ve thought thee all thou wert before;
But now — alas! there’s no deceiving,
’Tis all too plain, thou lovest no more.
Oh, thou as soon the dead couldst waken,
As lost affection’s life restore,
Give peace to he
r that is forsaken,
Or bring back him who loves no more.
WHEN ABROAD IN THE WORLD.
When abroad in the world thou appearest.
And the young and the lovely are there,
To my heart while of all thou’rt the dearest.
To my eyes thou’rt of all the most fair.
They pass, one by one,
Like waves of the sea,
That say to the Sun,
“See, how fair we can be.”
But where’s the light like thine,
In sun or shade to shine?
No — no, ‘mong them all, there is nothing like thee,
Nothing like thee.
Oft, of old, without farewell or warning,
Beauty’s self used to steal from the skies;
Fling a mist round her head, some fine morning,
And post down to earth in disguise;
But, no matter what shroud
Around her might be,
Men peeped through the cloud,
And whispered, “’Tis She.”
So thou, where thousands are,
Shinest forth the only star, —
Yes, yes, ‘mong them all, there is nothing like thee,
Nothing like thee.
KEEP THOSE EYES STILL PURELY MINE.
Keep those eyes still purely mine,
Tho’ far off I be:
When on others most they shine,
Then think they’re turned on me.
Should those lips as now respond
To sweet minstrelsy,
When their accents seem most fond,
Then think they’re breathed for me.
Make what hearts thou wilt thy own,
If when all on thee
Fix their charmed thoughts alone,
Thou think’st the while on me.
HOPE COMES AGAIN.
Hope comes again, to this heart long a stranger,
Once more she sings me her flattering strain;
But hush, gentle syren — for, ah, there’s less danger
In still suffering on, than in hoping again.
Long, long, in sorrow, too deep for repining,
Gloomy, but tranquil, this bosom hath lain:
And joy coming now, like a sudden light shining
