Thomas Moore

You may break, you may shatter the vase, if you will, But the scent of the roses will hang round it still.

And the best of all ways To lengthen our days Is to steal a few hours from the night, my dear!

The Minstrel Boy to the war is gone, In the ranks of death you'll find him; His father's sword he has girded on, And his wild harp slung behind him.

When true hearts lie wither'd And fond ones are flown, Oh, who would inhabit This bleak world alone?

'Tis the last rose of Summer, Left blooming alone; All her lovely companions Are faded and gone.

Eyes of unholy blue.

The tribute most high to a head that is royal, Is love from a heart that loves liberty too.

But there's nothing half so sweet in life As love's young dream.

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

Believe me, if all those endearing young charms Which I gaze on so fondly to-day, Were to change by to-morrow and fleet in my arms, Like fairy gifts fading away. Thou wouldst still be adored as this moment thou art, Let thy loveliness fade …

Rich and rare were the gems she wore, And a bright gold ring on her wand she bore.

Life is a waste of wearisome hours Which seldom the rose of enjoyment adorns; And the heart that is soonest awake to the flowers, Is always the first to be touch'd by the thorns.

The harp that once through Tara's halls The soul of music shed, Now hangs as mute on Tara's walls As if that soul were fled. So sleeps the pride of former days, So glory's thrill is o'er;

And the tear that we shed, though in secret it rolls, Shall long keep his memory green in our souls.

Oh! breathe not his name, let it sleep in the shade, Where cold and unhonour'd his relics are laid.

Go where glory waits thee, But while fame elates thee, Oh! still remember me!

"Come, come," said Tom's father, "at your time of life, There's no longer excuse for thus playing the rake-- It is time you should think, boy, of taking a wife."

Oh, call it by some better name, For friendship sounds too cold.

Sound the loud timbrel o'er Egypt's dark sea! Jehovah has triumphed—his people are free.

All that's bright must fade,— The brightest and the fleetest; All that's sweet was made, But to be lost when sweetest.

What though youth gave love and roses, Age still leaves us friends and wine.

I feel like one, Who treads alone Some banquet-hall deserted, Whose lights are fled, Whose garlands dead, And all but he departed!

Oft, in the stilly night, Ere Slumber's chain has bound me, Fond Memory brings the light Of other days around me; The smiles, the tears, Of boyhood's years,

A Persian's heaven is easily made: 'Tis but black eyes and lemonade.