Believe Me, If All Those Endearing Young Charms

BELIEVE me, if all those endearing young charms,

Which I gaze on so fondly to-day,

Were to change by to-morrow, and fleet in my arms,

Live fairy-gifts fading away,

Thou wouldst still be adored, as this moment thou art,

Let thy loveliness fade as it will,

And around the dear ruin each wish of my heart

Would entwine itself verdantly still.

It is not while beauty and youth are thine own,

And thy cheeks unprofaned by a tear,

That the fervor and faith of a soul may be known,

To which time will but make thee more dear!

No, the heart that has truly loved never forgets,

But as truly loves on to the close,

As the sunflower turns on her god when he sets

The same look which she turned when he rose!

Thomas Moore

'Tis The Last Rose of Summer

'TIS the last rose of Summer,

Left blooming alone;

All her lovely companions

Are faded and gone;

No flower of her kindred,

No rosebud is nigh,

To reflect back her blushes,

Or give sigh for sigh!

I'll not leave thee, thou lone one,

To pine on the stem;

Since the lovely are sleeping,

Go sleep thou with them.

Thus kindly I scatter

Thy leaves o'er the bed

Where thy mates of the garden

Lie scentless and dead.

So soon may I follow,

When friendships decay,

And from Love's shining circle

The gems drop away!

When true hearts lie withered,

And fond ones are flown,

Oh! who would inhabit

This bleak world alone?

Thomas Moore

The Minstrel Boy

THE minstrel boy to the war is gone,

In the ranks of death you'll find him,

His father's sword he has girded on,

And his wild harp slung behind him.

"Land of song!" said the warrior bard,

"Though all the world betrays thee,

One sword, at least, thy rights shall guard,

One faithful harp shall praise thee!"

The minstrel fell!--but the foeman's chain

Could not bring his proud soul under;

The harp he loved ne'er spoke again,

For he tore its cords asunder,

And said, "No chain shall sully thee,

Thou soul of love and bravery!

Thy songs were made for the pure and free,

They shall never sound in slavery!"

Thomas Moore

The Harp That Once Through Tara's Halls

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.

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

Oft in the Stilly Night

OFT in the stilly night,

Ere slumber's chain has bound me,

Fond Mem'ry 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 Mem'ry brings the light

Of other days around me.

When I remember all

The friends so linked 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 Mem'ry brings the light

Of other days around me.

Thomas Moore

The Young May Moon

THE young May moon is beaming, love,

The glow-worm's lamp is gleaming, love;

How sweet to rove

Through Morna's grove,

When the drowsy world is dreaming, love!

Then awake! -- the heavens look bright, my dear,

'Tis never too late for delight, my dear;

And the best of all ways

To lengthen our days

Is to steal a few hours from the night, my dear!

Now all the world is sleeping, love,

But the Sage, his star-watch keeping, love,

And I, whose star

More glorious far

Is the eye from that casement peeping, love.

Then awake! -- till rise of sun, my dear,

The Sage's glass we'll shun, my dear,

Or in watching the flight

Of bodies of light

He might happen to take thee for one, my dear!

Thomas Moore

Go where Glory waits thee

GO where glory waits thee,

But while fame elates thee,

Oh! still remember me.

When the praise thou meetest

To thine ear is sweetest,

Oh! 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,

Oh! then remember me.

When, at eve, thou rovest

By the star thou lovest,

Oh! then remember me.

Think, when home returning

Bright we've seen it burning,

Oh! thus remember me.

Oft as summer closes,

When thine eye reposes

On its ling'ring roses,

Once so lov'd by thee,

Think of her who wove them,

Her, who made thee love them,

Oh! then remember me.

When, around thee dying,

Autumn leaves are lying,

Oh! then remember me.

And, at night, when gazing

On the gay hearth blazing,

Oh! 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 us'd to sing thee, --

Oh! then remember me.

Thomas Moore

She is Far from the Land

SHE is far from the land, where her young hero sleeps,

And lovers are round her, sighing;

But coldly she turns from their gaze, and weeps,

For her heart in his grave is lying!

She sings the wild song of her dear native plains,

Every note which he lov'd awaking --

Ah! little they think, who delight in her strains,

How the heart of the Minstrel is breaking!

He had lov'd for his love, for his country he died,

They were all that to life had entwin'd him, --

Nor soon shall the tears of his country be dried,

Nor long will his love stay behind him.

Oh! make her a grave, where the sun-beams rest,

When they promise a glorious morrow;

They'll shine o'er her sleep, like a smile from the West,

From her own lov'd Island of sorrow!

Thomas Moore

The Lake of the Dismal Swamp

"THEY made her a grave too cold and damp

For a soul so warm and true;

And she's gone to the Lake of the Dismal Swamp,

Where all night long, by a firefly lamp,

She paddles her white canoe.

And her firefly lamp I soon shall see,

And her paddle I soon shall hear;

Long and moving our life shall be

And I'll hide the maid in a cypress tree,

When the footstep of death is near."

Away to the Dismal Swamp he speeds, --

His path was rugged and sore,

Through tangled juniper, beds of reeds,

Through many a fen where the serpent feeds,

And man never trod before.

And when on the earth he sank to sleep,

If slumber his eyelids knew,

He lay where the deadly vine doth weep

Its venemous tear, and nightly steep

The flesh with blistering dew!

And near him the she-wolf stirr'd the brake,

And the copper-snake breathed in his ear,

Till he starting cried, from his dream awake,

"Oh when shall I see the dusky Lake,

And the white canoe of my dear?"

He saw the Lake, and a meteor bright

Quick over its surface play'd, --

"Welcome," he said, "my dear one's light!"

And the dim shore echo'd for many a night

The name of the death-cold maid.

Till he hollow'd a boat of the birchen bark,

Which carried him off from the shore;

Far, far he follow'd the meteor spark,

The wind was high and the clouds were dark,

And the boat return'd no more.

But oft, from the Indian hunter's camp,

This lover and maid so true

Are seen at the hour of midnight damp

To cross the Lake by a firefly lamp,

And paddle their white canoe!

Thomas Moore

The Time I've Lost

THE time I've lost in wooing,

In watching and pursuing

The light that lies

In woman's eyes,

Has been my heart's undoing.

Tho' Wisdom oft has sought me,

I scorn'd the lore she brought me,

My only books

Were women's looks,

And folly's all they taught me.

Her smile when Beauty granted,

I hung with gaze enchanted,

Like him the Sprite

Whom maids by night

Oft meet in glen that's haunted.

Like him, too, Beauty won me;

But when the spell was on me,

If once their ray

Was turn'd away,

O! winds could not outrun me.

And are those follies going?

And is my proud heart growing

Too cold or wise

For brillant eyes

Again to set it glowing?

No -- vain, alas! th' endeavour

From bonds so sweet to sever: --

Poor Wisdom's chance

Against a glance

Is now as weak as ever.

Thomas Moore

Hark! The Vesper Hymn is Stealing

HARK! the vesper hymn is stealing

O'er the waters soft and clear;

Nearer yet and nearer pealing,

And now bursts upon the ear:

  Jubilate, Amen.

Farther now, now farther stealing,

Soft it fades upon the ear:

  Jubilate, Amen.

Now, like moonlight waves retreating

To the shore, it dies along;

Now, like angry surges meeting,

Breaks the mingled tide of song:

  Jubilate, Amen.

Hush! again, like waves, retreating

To the shore, it dies along:

  Jubilate, Amen.

Thomas Moore