Poem by Thomas Moore

From “The Odes of Anacreon”. Ode 31

Arm’d with hyacinthine rod,
(Arms enough for such a god,)
Cupid bade me wing my pace,
And try with him the rapid race.
O’er many a torrent, wild and deep,
By tangled brake and pendent steep,
With weary foot I panting flew,
Till my brow dropp’d with chilly dew.
And now my soul, exhausted, dying,
To my lip was faintly flying;
And now I thought the spark had fled,
When Cupid hover’d o’er my head,
And fanning light his breezy pinion,
Rescued my soul from death’s dominion;
Then said, in accents half-reproving,
„Why hast thou been a foe to loving?”

1. From “Irish Melodies”. 41. Lesbia Hath a Beaming Eye
2. From “Irish Melodies”. 47. What the Bee Is to the Floweret
3. From “The Odes of Anacreon”. Ode 27
4. From “The Odes of Anacreon”. Ode 32
5. From “Irish Melodies”. 120. Oh, Could We Do with This World of Ours

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