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Poem by Thomas Moore


From The Odes of Anacreon. Ode 26


Thy harp may sing of Troys 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 warriors dart
That drank the current of my heart;
Nor naval arms, nor mailed steed,
Have made this vanquishd bosom bleed;
No  twas from eyes of liquid blue,
A host of quiverd Cupids flew;
And now my heart all bleeding lies
Beneath that army of the eyes!



Thomas Moore


Thomas Moore's other poems:
  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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