Thomas Moore ( )


From Irish Melodies. 94. Oh, Banquet Not


          OH, banquet not in those shining bowers,
                Where Youth resorts, but come to me,
          For mines a garden of faded flowers,
                More fit for sorrow, for age, and thee.
          And there we shall have our feast of tears,
                And many a cup in silence pour;
          Our guests, the shades of former years,
                Our toasts, to lips that bloom no more.

          There, while the myrtles withering boughs
                Their lifeless leaves around us shed,
          Well brim the bowl to broken vows
                To friends long lost, the changed, the dead.
          Or, while some blighted laurel waves
                Its branches oer the dreary spot,
          Well drink to those neglected graves
                Where valour sleeps, unnamed, forgot.



Thomas Moore's other poems:
  1. From The Odes of Anacreon. Ode 46
  2. From The Odes of Anacreon. Ode 60
  3. From The Odes of Anacreon. Ode 19
  4. From The Odes of Anacreon. Ode 9
  5. From The Odes of Anacreon. Ode 50


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