Poem by 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 Life’s young season,
                My heart had leap’d 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 tyranny’s rude countroul,
          Thus quail, at sight of woman’s 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 Freedom’s Bard their slave at last.
          For the Poet’s heart, still prone to loving,
                Was like that rock of the Druid race,
          Which the gentlest touch at once set moving,
                But all earth’s power couldn’t cast from its base.

1. From “The Odes of Anacreon”. Ode 54
2. From “The Odes of Anacreon”. Ode 56
3. From “The Odes of Anacreon”. Ode 52
4. From “Irish Melodies”. 113. Alone in Crowds to Wander On
5. From “Irish Melodies”. 114. I’ve a Secret to Tell Thee

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