She Sung Of Love – Thomas Moore

She sung of Love, while o’er her lyre 
The rosy rays of evening fell, 
As if to feed with their soft fire 
The soul within that trembling shell. 
The same rich light hung o’er her cheek, 
And play’d around those lips that sung 
And spoke, as flowers would sing and speak, 
If Love could lend their leaves a tongue. 

But soon the West no longer burn’d, 
Each rosy ray from heaven withdrew; 
And, when to gaze again I turn’d, 
The minstrel’s form seem’d fading too. 
As if her light and heaven’s were one, 
The glory all had left that frame; 
And from her glimmering lips the tone, 
As from a parting spirit, came.

Who ever loved, but had the thought 
That he and all he loved must part? 
Fill’d with this fear, I flew and caught 
The fading image to my heart — 
And cried, “Oh Love! is this thy doom? 
Oh light of youth’s resplendent day! 
Must ye then lose your golden bloom, 
And thus, like sunshine die away?” 

Drink To Her – Thomas Moore

Drink to her who long 
Hath waked the poet’s sigh, 
The girl who gave to song 
What gold could never buy. 
Oh! woman’s heart was made 
For minstrel hands alone; 
By other fingers play’d, 
It yields not half the tone. 
Then here’s to her who long 
Hath waked the poet’s sigh, 
The girl who gave to song 
What gold could never buy. 

At Beauty’s door of glass, 
When Wealth and Wit once stood, 
They ask’d her, “which might pass?” 
She answer’d, “he who could.” 
With golden key Wealth thought 
To pass — but ‘twould not do: 
While Wit a diamond brought, 
Which cut his bright way through. 
So here’s to her who long 
Hath waked the poet’s sigh, 
The girl who gave to song 
What gold could never buy. 

The love that seeks a home 
Where wealth or grandeur shines, 
Is like the gloomy gnome, 
That dwells in dark mines. 
But oh! the poet’s love 
Can boast a brighter sphere; 
Its native home’s above, 
Though woman keeps it here. 
Then drink to her who long 
Hath waked the poet’s sigh, 
The girl who gave to song 
What gold could never buy. 

Poem – The Donkey and His Panniers

A Donkey, whose talent for burdens was wondrous,

So much that you’d swear he rejoic’d in a load,

One day had to jog under panniers so pond’rous,

That — down the poor Donkey fell smack on the road!
His owners and drivers stood round in amaze —

What! Neddy, the patient, the prosperous Neddy,

So easy to drive, through the dirtiest ways,

For every description of job-work so ready!
One driver (whom Ned might have “hail’d” as a “brother”)

Had just been proclaiming his Donkey’s renown

For vigour, for spirit, for one thing or another —

When, lo, ‘mid his praises, the Donkey came down!
But, how to upraise him? – one shouts, t’other whistles,

While Jenky, the Conjurer, wisest of all,

Declar’d that an “over-production of thistles” —

(Here Ned gave a stare) — “was the cause of his fall.”
Another wise Solomon cries, as he passes —

“There, let him alone, and the fit will soon cease;

The beast has been fighting with other jack-asses,

And this is his mode of “transition to peace”.”
Some look’d at his hoofs, and with learned grimaces,

Pronounc’d that too long without shoes he had gone —

“Let the blacksmith provide him a sound metal basis

(The wise-acres said), and he’s sure to jog on.”
Meanwhile, the poor Neddy, in torture and fear,

Lay under his panniers, scarce able to groan;

And — what was still dolefuller – lending an ear

To advisers, whose ears were a match for his own.
At length, a plain rustic, whose wit went so far

As to see others’ folly, roar’d out, as he pass’d —

“Quick — off with the panniers, all dolts as ye are,

Or, your prosperous Neddy will soon kick his last!” 

Poem – Lay his Sword By his Side

Lay his sword by his side — it hath served him too well

 Not to rest near his pillow below; 

To the last moment true, from his hand ere it fell, 

Its point was still turn’d to a flying foe. 

Fellow-labourers in life, let them slumber in death, 

Side by side, as becomes the reposing brave — 

That sword which he loved still unbroke in its sheath, 

And himself unsubdued in his grave. 
Yet pause — for, in fancy, a still voice I hear, 

As if breathed from his brave heart’s remains; — 

Faint echo of that which, in Slavery’s ear, 

Once sounded the war-word, “Burst your chains.” 

And it cries, from the grave where the hero lies deep, 

“Though the day of your Chieftain for ever hath set, 

Oh leave not his sword thus inglorious to sleep — 

It hath victory’s life in it yet! 
“Should some alien, unworthy such weapon to wield, 

Dare to touch thee, my own gallant sword, 

Then rest in thy sheath, like a talisman seal’d, 

Or return to the grave of thy chainless lord. 

But, if grasp’d by a hand that hath learn’d the proud use 

Of a falchion, like thee, on the battle-plain, 

Then, at Liberty’s summons, like lightning let loose, 

Leap forth from thy dark sheath again!” 

Poem – Lalla Rookh 

“How sweetly,” said the trembling maid,

 Of her own gentle voice afraid,

So long had they in silence stood,

Looking upon that tranquil flood–

“How sweetly does the moon-beam smile

To-night upon yon leafy isle!

Oft in my fancy’s wanderings,

I’ve wish’d that little isle had wings,

And we, within its fairy bow’rs,

Were wafted off to seas unknown,

Where not a pulse should beat but ours,

And we might live, love, die alone!

Far from the cruel and the cold,–

Where the bright eyes of angels only

Should come around us, to behold

A paradise so pure and lonely.

Would this be world enough for thee?”–

Playful she turn’d, that he might see

The passing smile her cheek put on;

But when she mark’d how mournfully

His eyes met hers, that smile was gone;

And, bursting into heart-felt tears,

“Yes, yes,” she cried, “my hourly fears

My dreams have boded all too right–

We part–for ever part–to-night!

I knew, I knew it could not last–

‘Twas bright, ’twas heav’nly, but ’tis past!

Oh! ever thus, from childhood’s hour,

I’ve seen my fondest hopes decay;

I never lov’d a tree or flow’r,

But ’twas the first to fade away.

I never nurs’d a dear gazelle

To glad me with its soft black eye,

But when it came to know me well

And love me, it was sure to die!

Now too–the joy most like divine

Of all I ever dreamt or knew,

To see thee, hear thee, call thee mine,–

Oh misery! must I lose that too?

Yet go–on peril’s brink we meet;–

Those frightful rocks–that treach’rous sea–

No, never come again–though sweet,

Though heav’n, it may be death to thee.

Farewell–and blessings on thy way,

Where’er thou goest, beloved stranger!

Better to sit and watch that ray,

And think thee safe, though far away,

Than have thee near me, and in danger!”