Thomas Moore ( )


From The Odes of Anacreon. Ode 23


I often wish this languid lyre,
This warbler of my soul's desire,
Could raise the breath of song sublime,
To men of fame, in former time.
But when the soaring theme I try,
Along the chords my numbers die,
And whisper, with dissolving tone,
"Our sighs are given to love alone!"
Indignant at the feeble lay,
I tore the panting chords away,
Attuned them to a nobler swell,
And struck again the breathing shell;
In all the glow of epic fire,
To Hercules I wake the lyre,
But still its fainting sighs repeat,
"The tale of love alone is sweet!"
Then fare thee well, seductive dream,
That madest me follow Glory's theme;
For thou my lyre, and thou my heart,
Shall never more in spirit part;
And all that one has felt so well
The other shall as sweetly tell!



Thomas Moore's other poems:
  1. From The Odes of Anacreon. Ode 72
  2. From Irish Melodies. 114. Ive a Secret to Tell Thee
  3. From The Odes of Anacreon. Ode 51
  4. From Irish Melodies. 70. Tis Gone, and for Ever
  5. From Irish Melodies. 102. And Doth Not a Meeting Like This


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