Thomas Moore (Томас Мур)

From “The Odes of Anacreon”. Ode 26

Thy harp may sing of Troy’s alarms,
Or tell the tale of Theban arms;
With other wars my song shall burn,
For other wounds my harp shall mourn.
’Twas not the crested warrior’s dart
That drank the current of my heart;
Nor naval arms, nor mailed steed,
Have made this vanquish’d bosom bleed;
No — ’twas from eyes of liquid blue,
A host of quiver’d Cupids flew;
And now my heart all bleeding lies
Beneath that army of the eyes!

1. From “The Odes of Anacreon”. Ode 59
2. From “Irish Melodies”. 10. Rich and Rare Were the Gems She Wore
3. From “The Odes of Anacreon”. Ode 15
4. From “The Odes of Anacreon”. Ode 56
5. From “The Odes of Anacreon”. Ode 50

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