Thomas Moore ( )

From Irish Melodies. 117. There Are Sounds of Mirth

          THERE are sounds of mirth in the night-air ringing,
                And lamps from every casement shown;
          While voices blithe within are singing,
                That seem to say "Come," in every tone.
          Ah! once how light, in Lifes young season,
                My heart had leapd at that sweet lay;
          Nor paused to ask of greybeard Reason
                Should I the syren call obey.

          And, see  the lamps still livelier glitter,
                The syren lips more fondly sound;
          No, seek, ye nymphs, some victim fitter
                To sink in your rosy bondage bound.
          Shall a bard, whom not the world in arms,
                Could bend to tyrannys rude countroul,
          Thus quail, at sight of womans charms,
                And yield to a smile his freeborn soul?

          Thus sung the sage, while, slyly stealing,
                The nymphs their fetters around him cast,
          And  their laughing eyes, the while, concealing 
                Led Freedoms Bard their slave at last.
          For the Poets heart, still prone to loving,
                Was like that rock of the Druid race,
          Which the gentlest touch at once set moving,
                But all earths power couldnt cast from its base.

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 30
  5. From The Odes of Anacreon. Ode 9

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