Poem by 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!

1. From “Irish Melodies”. 47. What the Bee Is to the Floweret
2. From “The Odes of Anacreon”. Ode 32
3. From “The Odes of Anacreon”. Ode 16
4. From “Irish Melodies”. 3. Erin! The Tear and the Smile in Thine Eyes
5. From “Irish Melodies”. 123. From This Hour the Pledge Is Given

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