Thomas Moore

And when once the young heart of a maiden is stolen, The maiden herself will steal after it soon.

The moon looks On many brooks, "The brook can see no moon but this."

No, the heart that has truly lov'd never forgets, But as truly loves on to the close; As the sunflower turns on her god when he sets The same look which she turn'd when he rose.

Shall I ask the brave soldier who fights by my side In the cause of mankind, if our creeds agree?

Oh, weep for the hour When to Eveleen's bower The lord of the valley with false vows came.

There is not in the wide world a valley so sweet As that vale in whose bosom the bright waters meet.

And the heart that is soonest awake to the flowers Is always the first to be touch'd by the thorns.

When did morning ever break, And find such beaming eyes awake?

Oh stay! oh stay! Joy so seldom weaves a chain Like this to-night, that oh 't is pain To break its links so soon.

Fly not yet; 't is just the hour When pleasure, like the midnight flower That scorns the eye of vulgar light, Begins to bloom for sons of night And maids who love the moon.

Though an angel should write, still 't is devils must print.

Good at a fight, but better at a play; Godlike in giving, but the devil to pay.

Whose wit in the combat, as gentle as bright, Ne'er carried a heart-stain away on its blade.

Who ran Through each mode of the lyre, and was master of all.

There was a little man, and he had a little soul; And he said, Little Soul, let us try, try, try!

Like a young eagle who has lent his plume To fledge the shaft by which he meets his doom, See their own feathers pluck'd to wing the dart Which rank corruption destines for their heart.

The minds of some of our statesmen, like the pupil of the human eye, contract themselves the more, the stronger light there is shed upon them.

I knew, by the smoke that so gracefully curl'd Above the green elms, that a cottage was near; And I said, "If there's peace to be found in the world, A heart that was humble might hope for it here."

How shall we rank thee upon glory's page, Thou more than soldier, and just less than sage?

Where bastard Freedom waves The fustian flag in mockery over slaves.

Weep on! and as thy sorrows flow, I 'll taste the luxury of woe.

When Time who steals our years away Shall steal our pleasures too, The mem'ry of the past will stay, And half our joys renew.

And oh if there be an Elysium on earth, It is this, it is this!

Love on through all ills, and love on till they die.