Thomas Moore ( )


From Irish Melodies. 102. And Doth Not a Meeting Like This


AND doth not a meeting like this make amends
      For all the long years Ive been wandering away 
To see thus around me my youths early friends,
      As smiling and kind as in that happy day?
Though haply oer some of your brows, as oer mine,
      The snow  fall of time may be stealing  what then?
Like Alps in the sunset, thus lighted by wine,
      Well wear the gay tinge of youths roses again.

What softend remembrances come oer the heart,
      In gazing on those weve 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 seemd effaced,
      The warmth of a meeting like this brings to the light.

And thus, as in memorys bark we shall glide,
      To visit the scenes of your boyhood anew,
Though oft we may see, looking down on the tide,
      The wreck of full many a hope shining through;
Yet still, as in fancy we point to the flowers,
      That once made a garden of all the gay shore,
Deceived for a moment, well think them still ours,
      And breathe the fresh air of lifes morning once more.

So brief our existence, a glimpse, at the most,
      Is all we can have of the few we hold dear;
And oft even joy is unheeded and lost,
      For want of some heart, that could echo it, near.
Ah, well may we hope, when this short life is gone,
      To meet in some world of more permanent bliss,
For a smile, or a grasp of the hand, hastening on,
      Is all we enjoy of each other in this.

But, come, the more rare such delights to the heart,
      The more we should welcome and bless them the more;
Theyre ours, when we meet  they are lost when we part,
      Like birds that bring Summer, and fly when tis oer.
Thus circling the cup, hand in hand, ere we drink,
      Let Sympathy pledge us, through pleasure, through pain,
That, fast as a feeling but touches one link,
      Her magic shall send it direct through the chain.



Thomas Moore's other poems:
  1. From The Odes of Anacreon. Ode 57
  2. From The Odes of Anacreon. Ode 75
  3. From The Odes of Anacreon. Ode 59
  4. From The Odes of Anacreon. Ode 24
  5. From The Odes of Anacreon. Ode 61


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