Thomas Moore

Humility, that low, sweet root From which all heavenly virtues shoot.

Ay, down to the dust with them, slaves as they are! From this hour let the blood in their dastardly veins, That shrunk at the first touch of Liberty's war, Be wasted for tyrants, or stagnate in chains.

To sigh, yet feel no pain; To weep, yet scarce know why; To sport an hour with Beauty's chain, Then throw it idly by.

If thou would'st have me sing and play As once I play'd and sung, First take this time-worn lute away, And bring one freshly strung.

When thus the heart is in a vein Of tender thought, the simplest strain Can touch it with peculiar power.

To Greece we give our shining blades.

Who has not felt how sadly sweet The dream of home, the dream of home, Steals o'er the heart, too soon to fleet, When far o'er sea or land we roam?

I give thee all,—I can no more, Though poor the off'ring be; My heart and lute are all the store That I can bring to thee.

When twilight dews are falling soft Upon the rosy sea, love, I watch the star whose beam so oft Has lighted me to thee, love.

Here bring your wounded hearts, here tell your anguish; Earth has no sorrow that Heaven cannot heal.

As down in the sunless retreats of the ocean Sweet flowers are springing no mortal can see, So deep in my soul the still prayer of devotion, Unheard by the world, rises silent to Thee. As still to the star of its worship, though clouded, …

This world is all a fleeting show, For man's illusion given; The smiles of joy, the tears of woe, Deceitful shine, deceitful flow,— There's nothing true but Heaven.

The bird let loose in Eastern skies, Returning fondly home, Ne'er stoops to earth her wing, nor flies Where idle warblers roam; But high she shoots through air and light, Above all low delay,

A friendship that like love is warm; A love like friendship, steady.

If I speak to thee in friendship's name, Thou think'st I speak too coldly; If I mention love's devoted flame, Thou say'st I speak too boldly.

As half in shade and half in sun This world along its path advances, May that side the sun's upon Be all that e'er shall meet thy glances!

Those evening bells! those evening bells! How many a tale their music tells Of youth and home, and that sweet time When last I heard their soothing chime!

Wert thou all that I wish thee, great, glorious, and free, First flower of the earth and first gem of the sea.

To live and die in scenes like this, With some we 've left behind us.

I know not, I ask not, if guilt 's in that heart, I but know that I love thee whatever thou art.

Thus, when the lamp that lighted The traveller at first goes out, He feels awhile benighted, And looks around in fear and doubt. But soon, the prospect clearing, By cloudless starlight on he treads,

To live with them is far less sweet Than to remember thee.

'T is believ'd that this harp which I wake now for thee Was a siren of old who sung under the sea.

'T is sweet to think that where'er we rove We are sure to find something blissful and dear; And that when we 're far from the lips we love, We've but to make love to the lips we are near.