Imatges de pàgina


Wreathe the bowl

With flowers of soul,

The brightest Wit can find us;
We'll take a flight

Towards heav'n to-night,

And leave dull earth behind us!
Should Love amid

The wreaths be hid

That Joy, the enchanter, brings us,
No danger fear

While wine is near-
We'll drown him if he stings us.
Then wreathe the bowl
With flowers of soul,
The brightest Wit can find us;
We'll take a flight

Towards heav'n to-night,

And leave dull earth behind us!

'Twas nectar fed

Of old, it's said,

Their Junos, Joves, Apollos;
And man may brew

His nectar too;

The rich receipt's as follows:-
Take wine like this;
Let looks of bliss

Around it well be blended;

Then bring Wit's beam
To warm the stream,

And there's your nectar, splendid!
So wreathe the bowl
With flowers of soul,
The brightest Wit can find us;
We'll take a flight

Towards heav'n to-night,
And leave dull earth behind us!

Say, why did Time
His glass sublime

Fill up with sands unsightly,
When wine he knew

Runs brisker through,

And sparkles far more brightly?
Oh, lend it us,

And, smiling thus,

The glass in two we'd sever,
Make pleasure glide

In double tide,

And fill both ends for ever!
Then wreathe the bowl
With flowers of soul,

The brightest Wit can find us;
We'll take a flight

Towards heav'n to-night,

And leave dull earth behind us! Thomas Moore.-Born 1780 Died 1852.


Fill the bumper fair!

Every drop we sprinkle
O'er the brow of care

Smooths away a wrinkle.

Wit's electric flame

Ne'er so swiftly passes
As when through the frame
It shoots from brimming glasses.
Fill the bumper fair!

Every drop we sprinkle
O'er the brow of care
Smooths away a wrinkle.

Sages can, they say,

Grasp the lightning's pinions, And bring down its ray

From the starred dominions :So we, sages, sit,

And 'mid bumpers bright'ning, From the heaven of wit

Draw down all its lightning.

Would'st thou know what first
Made our souls inherit
This ennobling thirst

For wine's celestial spirit?
It chanced upon that day,
When, as bards inform us,
Prometheus stole away

The living fires that warm us:

The careless Youth, when up
To glory's fount aspiring,
Took nor urn nor cup

To hide the pilfer'd fire in.-
But oh his joy, when, round

The halls of heaven spying Among the stars, he found

A bowl of Bacchus lying!

Some drops were in that bowl,

Remains of last night's pleasure, With which the sparks of soul

Mix'd their burning treasure. Hence the goblet's shower

Hath such spells to win us; Hence its mighty power

O'er that flame within us.

Fill the bumper fair!

Every drop we sprinkle O'er the brow of Care

Smooths away a wrinkle.

Thomas Moore.-Born 1780, Died 1852.


And doth not a meeting like this make amends

For all the long years I've been wand'ring away

To see thus around me my youth's early friends,

As smiling and kind as in that happy day? Though haply o'er some of your brows, as o'er mine,

The snow-fall of Time may be stealing-what then ?


Like Alps in the sunset, thus lighted by wine, We'll wear the gay tinge of Youth's roses again.

What soften'd remembrances come o'er the heart,

In gazing on those we've been lost to so long! The sorrows, the joys, of which once they were part,

Still round them, like visions of yesterday, throng;

As letters some hand hath invisibly traced, When held to the flame will steal out on the sight,

So many a feeling, that long seem'd effaced, The warmth of a moment like this brings to light

And thus, as in memory's bark we shall glide, To visit the scenes of our boyhood anew, Though oft we may see, looking down on the tide,

The wreck of full many a hope shining

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Like her delusive beam, "Twill steal away the mind, But like affection's dream,

It leaves no sting behind.

Come, twine the wreath, thy brows to shade-
These flowers were culled at noon;
Like woman's love the rose will fade,
But ah! not half so soon:
For though the flower's decay'd,
Its fragrance is not o'er;
But once when love's betray'd,
The heart can bloom no more.

Thomas Moore.-Born 1780, Died 1852.


Go where glory waits thee;
But, while Fame elates thee,
O still remember me!
When the praise thou meetest
To thine ear is sweetest,

O then remember me!
Other arms may press thee,
Dearer friends caress thee-
All the joys that bless thee

Sweeter far may be;

But when friends are nearest,
And when joys are dearest,
O then remember me!

When, at eve, thou rovest
By the star thou lovest,

O then remember me!
Think when home returning,
Bright we've seen it burning,
O, thus remember me!
Oft as summer closes,
When thine eye reposes
On its lingering roses,

Once so loved by thee,
Think of her who wove them,
Her who made thee love them;
O then remember me!

When, around thee dying,
Autumn leaves are lying,
O then remember me!
And, at night, when gazing
On the gay hearth blazing,
O, still remember me !
Then should music, stealing
All the soul of feeling,
To thy heart appealing,

Draw one tear from thee-
Then let memory bring thee
Strains I used to sing thee;

O then remember me!

Thomas Moore.-Born 1780, Died 1852.



Fly to the desert, fly with me-
Our Arab tents are rude for thee;
But, O! the choice what heart can doubt,
Of tents with love, or thrones without?

Our rocks are rough; but smiling there
Th' acacia waves her yellow hair-
Lonely and sweet, nor loved the less
For flowering in a wilderness.

Our sands are bare; but down their slope

The silvery-footed antelope

As gracefully and gaily springs

As o'er the marble courts of kings.

Then come-thy Arab maid will be
The loved and lone acacia-tree-
The antelope, whose feet shall bless
With their light sound thy loveliness.

O! there are looks and tones that dart
An instant sunshine through the heart,-
As if the soul that minute caught
Some treasure it through life had sought;

As if the very lips and eyes
Predestined to have all our sighs,
And never be forgot again,
Sparkled and spoke before us then!

So came thy every glance and tone,
When first on me they breathed and shone;
New as if brought from other spheres,
Yet welcome as if loved for years.

Then fly with me,-if thou hast known
No other flame, nor falsely thrown
A gem away, that thou hadst sworn
Should ever in thy heart be worn;

Come, if the love thou hast for me,
Is pure and fresh as mine for thee-
Fresh as the fountain under ground,
When first 'tis by the lapwing found.
But if for me thou dost forsake
Some other maid, and rudely break
Her worshipp'd image from its base,
To give to me the ruin'd place-
Then, fare thee well; I'd rather make
My bower upon some icy lake
When thawing suns begin to shine,
Than trust to love so false as thine!

Thomas Moore.-Born 1780, Died 1852.

So sleeps the pride of former days,

So glory's thrill is o'er,
And hearts that once beat high for praise,
Now feel that pulse no more.

No more to chiefs and ladies bright
The harp of Tara swells;
The chord alone that breaks at night
Its tale of ruin tells.

Thus Freedom now so seldom wakes,
The only throb she gives

Is when some heart indignant breaks
To show that still she lives.

Thomas Moore.-Born 1780, Died 1852.


As by the shore, at break of day,
A vanquish'd chief expiring lay,
Upon the sands, with broken sword,
He traced his farewell to the free;
And, there, the last unfinish'd word
He dying wrote, was "Liberty!"
At night a sea-bird shriek'd the knell
Of him who thus for Freedom fell;
The words he wrote, ere evening came,
Were cover'd by the sounding sea;-
So pass away the cause and name
Of him who dies for Liberty!

Thomas Moore.-Born 1780, Died 1852.

1287.-0! BREATHE NOT HIS NAME. O! breathe not his name! let it sleep in the shade,

Where cold and unhonor'd his relics are laid; Sad, silent, and dark be the tears that we shed,

As the night dew that falls on the grave o'er his head.

But the night dew that falls, though in silence it weeps,

Shall brighten with verdure the grave where he sleeps;

And the tear that we shed, though in secret it rolls,

Shall long keep his memory green in our souls.

Thomas Moore.-Born 1780, Died 1852.


The harp that once through Tara's halls
The soul of music shed,
Now hangs as mute on Tara's walls,
As if that soul were fled.

1288. THOSE EVENING BELLS. Those evening bells! those evening bells! How many a tale their music tells, Of youth, and home, and that sweet time When last I heard their soothing chime !

Those joyous hours are passed away;
And many a heart that then was gay,
Within the tomb now darkly dwells,
And hears no more those evening bells.
And so 'twill be when I am gone-
That tuneful peal will still ring on;
While other bards shall walk these dells,
And sing your praise, sweet evening bells.
Thomas Moore.-Born 1780, Died 1852.

For the Lord hath look'd out from his pillar of glory,

And all her brave thousands are dash'd in the tide.

Sound the loud timbrel o'er Egypt's dark sea! Jehovah has triumph'd, his people are free.

Thomas Moore.-Born 1780, Died 1852.


O! Arranmore, loved Arranmore,
How oft I dream of thee !

And of those days when by thy shore
I wander'd young and free.

Full many a path I've tried since then,
Through pleasure's flowery maze,
But ne'er could find the bliss again
I felt in those sweet days.

How blithe upon the breezy cliffs
At sunny morn I've stood,
With heart as bounding as the skiffs
That danced along the flood!

Or when the western wave grew bright
With daylight's parting wing,

Have sought that Eden in its light
Which dreaming poets sing-

That Eden where th' immortal brave
Dwell in a land serene-

Whose bowers beyond the shining wave,
At sunset, oft are seen;

Ah, dream, too full of saddening truth!
Those mansions o'er the main
Are like the hopes I built in youth-
As sunny and as vain!

Thomas Moore.-Born 1780, Died 1852.


Sound the loud timbrel o'er Egypt's dark sea! Jehovah has triumph'd-his people are free. Sing for the pride of the tyrant is broken,

His chariots, his horsemen, all splendid and brave,

How vain was their boasting!--the Lord hath but spoken,

And chariots and horsemen are sunk in the


Sound the loud timbrel o'er Egypt's dark sea! Jehovah has triumph'd-his people are free.

Praise to the Conqueror, praise to the Lord, His word was our arrow, his breath was our sword!

Who shall return to tell Egypt the story

Of those she sent forth in the hour of her pride?


How sweet the answer Echo makes To Music at night

When, roused by lute or horn, she wakes,

And far away o'er lawns and lakes

Goes answering light!

Yet Love hath echoes truer far

And far more sweet

Than e'er, beneath the moonlight's star,

Of horn or lute or soft guitar

The songs repeat.

'Tis when the sigh,-in youth sincere

And only then,

The sigh that's breathed for one to hear-
Is by that one, that only Dear
Breathed back again.

Thomas Moore.-Born 1780, Died 1852.

1292.-THE LIGHT OF OTHER DAYS. Oft in the stilly night

Ere slumber's chain has bound me,
Fond Memory brings the light
Of other days around me:
The smiles, the tears

Of boyhood's years,

'The words of love then spoken;
The eyes that shone,

Now dimm'd and gone,
The cheerful hearts now broken!
Thus in the stilly night

Ere slumber's chain has bound me,
Sad Memory brings the light
Of other days around me.

When I remember all

The friends so link'd together
I've seen around me fall
Like leaves in wintry weather,
I feel like one
Who treads alone
Some banquet-hall deserted,
Whose lights are fled
Whose garlands dead,
And all but he departed!

Thus in the stilly night

Ere slumber's chain has bound me,

Sad Memory brings the light

Of other days around me.

Thomas Moore.-Born 1780, Died 1852.



As slow our ship her foamy track
Against the wind was cleaving,
Her trembling pennant still look'd back
To that dear isle 'twas leaving.
So loth we part from all we love,
From all the links that bind us;
So turn our hearts, as on we rove,
To those we've left behind us!

When, round the bowl, of vanish'd years
We talk with joyous seeming-
With smiles that might as well be tears,
So faint, so sad their beaming;
While memory brings us back again
Each early tie that twined us,
O, sweet's the cup that circles then
To those we've left behind us!

And when in other climes we meet

Some isle or vale enchanting, Where all looks flowery, wild, and sweet, And nought but love is wanting; We think how great had been our bliss If Heaven had but assign'd us To live and die in scenes like this, With some we've left behind us!

As travellers oft look back at eve
When eastward darkly going,
To gaze upon that light they leave

Still faint behind them glowing,-
So, when the close of pleasure's day
To gloom hath near consign'd us,
We turn to catch one fading ray
Of joy that's left behind us.

Thomas Moore.-Born 1780, Died 1852.

Come now, fling up the cinders, fetch the


And take away the things you hung to air; Set out the tea-things, and bid Phoebe bring The kettle up. Arms and the Monks I sing. J. H. Frere.-Born 1769, Died 1846.

Oft that wild untutor'd race would draw,
Led by the solemn sound and sacred light,
Beyond the bank, beneath a lonely shaw,
To listen all the livelong summer night,
Till deep, serene, and reverential awe
Environ'd them with silent calm delight,
Contemplating the minster's midnight gleam,
Reflected from the clear and glassy stream.
But chiefly, when the shadowy moon had

O'er woods and waters her mysterious hue,
Their passive hearts and vacant fancies fed
With thoughts and aspirations strange and


Till their brute souls with inward working bred

Dark hints that in the depths of instinct grew

Subjective-not from Locke's associations,
Nor David Hartley's doctrine of vibrations.

Each was ashamed to mention to the others
One half of all the feelings that he felt,
Yet thus far each would venture-"Listen,

It seems as if one heard Heaven's thunders melt
In music!"

J. H. Frere.-Born 1769, Died 1846.


I've a proposal here from Mr. Murray. He offers handsomely-the money down; My dear, you might recover from your flurry, In a nice airy lodging out of town, At Croydon, Epsom, anywhere in Surrey; If every stanza brings us in a crown, I think that I might venture to bespeak A bedroom and front parlour for next week. Tell me, my dear Thalia, what you think; Your nerves have undergone a sudden shock; Your poor dear spirits have begun to sink; On Banstead Downs you'd muster a new stock,

And I'd be sure to keep away from drink, And always go to bed by twelve o'clock. We'll travel down there in the morning stages;

Our verses shall go down to distant ages. And here in town we'll breakfast on hot rolls, And you shall have a better shawl to wear; These pantaloons of mine are chafed in holes ; By Monday next I'll compass a new pair


The gates were then thrown open,

and forth at once they rush'd, The outposts of the Moorish hosts

back to the camp were push'd; The camp was all in tumult,

and there was such a thunder

Of cymbals and of drums,

as if earth would cleave in sunder. There you might see the Moors

arming themselves in haste, And the two main battles

how they were forming fast; Horsemen and footmen mixt,

a countless troop and vast. The Moors are moving forward, the battle soon must join, "My men stand here in order, ranged upon a line! Let not a man move from his rank before I give the sign."

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