IRISH MELODIES. THOMAS MOORE. I.-WHEN HE, WHO ADORES THEE. THEN he, who adores thee, has left but the Of his fault and his sorrows behind, name Oh! say, wilt thou weep, when they darken the fame Yes, weep, and however my foes may condemn, For Heaven can witness, though guilty to them, With thee were the dreams of my earliest love; In my last humble prayer to the Spirit above, Oh! blest are the lovers and friends who shall live But the next dearest blessing that Heaven can give Is the pride of thus dying for thee. II. THE HARP THAT ONCE THROUGH TARA'S HALLS. HE harp that once through Tara's halls THE 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, No more to chiefs and ladies bright The chord alone, that breaks at night, Thus Freedom now so seldom wakes, Is when some heart indignant breaks, III.-THE MEETING OF THE WATERS. HERE is not in the wide world a valley so sweet THER As that vale in whose bosom the bright waters meet; Yet it was not that nature had shed o'er the scene 'Twas that friends, the belov'd of my bosom, were near, Sweet vale of Avoca! how calm could I rest In thy bosom of shade, with the friends I love best, IV.-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, Like fairy-gifts fading away, Thou would'st still be ador'd, as this moment thou art, And around the dear ruin each wish of my heart It is not while beauty and youth are thine own, That the fervour and faith of a soul can be known, As the sun-flower turns on her god, when he sets, The same look which she turn'd when he rose. OH! V.-LOVE'S YOUNG DREAM. H! the days are gone, when Beauty bright When my dream of life, from morn till night, New hope may bloom, Of milder, calmer beam, But there's nothing half so sweet in life As love's young dream: No, there's nothing half so sweet in life Tho' the bard to purer fame may soar, Tho' he win the wise, who frown'd before, He'll never meet A joy so sweet, In all his noon of fame, As when first he sang in woman's ear, And, at every close, she blush'd to hear No, that hallow'd form is ne'er forgot Still it lingering haunts the greenest spot 'Twas odour fled As soon as shed; 'Twas morning's wingèd dream; 'Twas a light that ne'er can shine again On life's dull stream: Oh! 'twas light that ne'er can shine again VI.-LESBIA HATH A BEAMING EYE. L ESBIA hath a beaming eye, But no one knows for whom it beameth; Right and left its arrows fly, But what they aim at no one dreameth. Sweeter 'tis to gaze upon My Nora's lid that seldom rises; Few its looks, but every one, Like unexpected light surprises! Oh, my Nora Creina, dear! My gentle, bashful Nora Creina! In many eyes, But Love in yours, my Nora Creina! Lesbia wears a robe of gold, But all so close the nymph hath lac'd it, Not a charm of beauty's mould Presumes to stay where nature plac'd it. Oh! my Nora's gown for me, That floats as wild as mountain breezes, Leaving every beauty free To sink or swell as Heaven pleases! Yes, my Nora Creina, dear, My simple, graceful Nora Creina! Nature's dress Is loveliness The dress you wear, my Nora Creina! Lesbia has a wit refin'd, But, when its points are gleaming round us, Who can tell if they're design'd To dazzle merely, or to wound us? Pillow'd on my Nora's heart, In safer slumber Love reposes— My mild, my artless Nora Creina! Hath no such light As warms your eyes, my Nora Creina! |