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SONG.
COME not to me, my dearest love, | |
| When hope is gay and wo is fled; | |
| Sad is my bower and high above, | |
| Deep trees their shroudlike branches spread. | |
| But when that wo tenfold returns, | 5 |
| When in the dust those hopes shall be, | |
| When with deep pain thy bosom burns, | |
| Then thou, my love, must come to me. | |
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| For thee, my desert bower I ’ll dress, | |
| For thee will light my tearful eyes; | 10 |
| For thee will braid each raven tress | |
| That now in wild disorder flies. | |
| And grief, who sits within my cell | |
| A constant visitor to me, | |
| Shall greet thee, for she knows full well | 15 |
| How sadly sweet I ’ll sing to thee. | |
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SONG.
SING to me as in old “lang syne,” | |
| Thy sweet neglected songs. | |
| To other hearts, oh! not to mine, | |
| Thy newer, lighter strain belongs, | 20 |
| My desert memory it wrongs. | |
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| The strains thou lightly hurried’st o’er | |
| To charm the gallant and the gay, | |
| The brighter smile thy features wore, | |
| When ceased thy sportive roundelay, | 25 |
| How changed from that more lovely day! | |
| |
| Then to the known, the loved, the few, | |
| Awoke each dear, familiar tone, | |
| Which every heart instinctive knew | |
| And thrilling answer’d with its own, | 30 |
| Till not a note was felt alone. | |
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| Gone are the few—the known estranged, | |
| Perchance ’tis right thy melody | |
| Like them and these and all be changed, | |
| And none preserve those songs but me | 35 |
| To think on what has been, what ne’er shall be. | |
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SONG.
TOM MOORE, again we’re met— | |
| By the sparkles of thine eye, | |
| By thy lip with bright wine wet, | |
| Thou art glad as well as I. | 40 |
| And thine eye shall gleam the brighter | |
| Ere our meeting shall be o’er | |
| And thy minstrelsy flow lighter | |
| With our healths to thee, Tom Moore. | |
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| For thy boyish songs of woman | 45 |
| Thrown about like unstrung pearls, | |
| Ere thy armed spirit’s summon | |
| Bade thee leave thy bright-hair’d girls; | |
| For thy satire’s quenchless arrows | |
| On the foes thy country bore, | 50 |
| For thy song of Erin’s sorrows, | |
| Here ’s health to thee, Tom Moore. | |
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| Drink to Moore, drink to Moore— | |
| What though England renounce him, | |
| Her dark days shall soon be o’er, | 55 |
| And her brightest band surrounds him. | |
| In the land, then, of the vine, | |
| To thee, its glittering drops we pour, | |
| And in warmest, reddest wine, | |
| Drink a health to thee, Tom Moore. | 60 |
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