Томас Мур (Thomas Moore)

From “Irish Melodies”. 65. When First I Met Thee

          WHEN first I met thee, warm and young,
                There shone such truth about thee,
          And on thy lip such promise hung,
                I did not dare to doubt thee.
          I saw thee change, yet still relied,
                Still clung with hope the fonder,
          And thought, though false to all beside,
                From me thou couldst not wander.
                    But go, deceiver! go,
                          The heart, whose hopes could make it
                    Trust one so false, so low,
                          Deserves that thou shouldst break it.

          When every tongue thy follies named,
                I fled the unwelcome story,
          Or found, in even the faults they blamed,
                Some gleams of future glory.
          I still was true, when nearer friends
                Conspired to wrong, to slight thee;
          The heart that now thy falsehood rends
                Would then have bled to right thee.
                    But go, deceiver! go —
                          Some day, perhaps, thou’lt waken
                    From pleasure’s dream, to know
                          The grief of hearts forsaken.

          Even now, though youth its bloom has shed,
                No lights of age adorn thee;
          The few who loved thee once have fled,
                And they who flatter scorn thee.
          Thy midnight cup is pledged to slaves,
                No genial ties enwreath it;
          The smiling there, like light on graves,
                Has rank cold hearts beneath it.
                    Go — go — though worlds were thine,
                          I would not now surrender
                    One taintless tear of mine
                          For all thy guilty splendour!

          And days may come, thou false one! yet,
                When even those ties shall sever!
          When thou wilt call, with vain regret,
                On her thou’st lost for ever;
          On her who, in thy fortune’s fall,
                With smiles had still received thee,
          And gladly died to prove thee all
                Her fancy first believed thee.
                    Go — go — ’tis vain to curse,
                          ’Tis weakness to upbraid thee;
                    Hate cannot wish thee worse
                          Than guilt and shame have made thee.

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