Then oh! what pleasure, where'er we rove,
To be sure to find something still that is dear,
And to know, when far from the lips we love,
We've but to make love to the lips we are near.
THOMAS MOORE.

LESBIA VERSUS NORA.

LESBIA hath a beaming eye,

But no one knows for whom it beameth;
Right and left its arrows fly,

But what they aim at no one dreameth.
Sweeter 'tis to gaze upon

My Nora's lid that seldom rises;

Few its looks, but every one

Like unexpected light, surprises.
O my Nora Creina, dear,
My gentle, bashful Nora Creina,
Beauty lies

In many eyes,

But love in yours, my Nora Creina!

Lesbia wears a robe of gold,

But all so close the nymph hath laced it,
Not a charm of beauty's mould

Presumes to stay where Nature placed it.

Oh, my Nora's gown for me,

That floats as wild as mountain breezes,

Leaving every beauty free

To sink or swell as Heaven pleases.
Yes, my Nora Creina, dear,

My simple, graceful Nora Creina,

Nature's dress

Is loveliness

The dress you wear, my Nora Creina.

THE TIME I'VE LOST IN WOOING.

Lesbia hath a wit refined,

But when its points are gleaming round us, Who can tell if they're designed

To dazzle merely, or to wound us ?
Pillow'd on my Nora's heart,

In safer slumber Love reposes—
Bed of peace! whose roughest part
Is but the crumpling of the roses.
O my Nora Creina, dear,
My mild, my artless Nora Creina,

Wit, though bright,

Hath no such light

As warms your eyes, my Nora Creina.

THOMAS MOORE.

THE TIME I'VE LOST IN WOOING.

THE time I've lost in wooing,

In watching and pursuing

The light that lies

In woman's eyes,

Has been my heart's undoing.

Though Wisdom oft has sought me,

I scorned the lore she brought me,
My only books

Were woman's looks,

And folly's all they've taught me.

Her smile when Beauty granted,
I hung with gaze enchanted,
Like him the sprite

Whom maids by night

Oft meet in glen that's haunted.

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Like him, too, Beauty won me,
But while her eyes were on me,
If once their ray

Was turned away,

Oh! winds could not outrun me.

And are these follies going?

And is my proud heart growing

Too cold or wise

For brilliant eyes

Again to set it glowing?

No-vain, alas! th' endeavour
From bonds so sweet to sever;
Poor Wisdom's chance

Against a glance

Is now as weak as ever.

THOMAS MOORE.

LOVE.

How sweet the answer Echo makes

To music at night,

When, roused by lute or horn, she wakes,
And far away, o'er lawns and lakes,
Goes answering light.

Yet Love hath echoes truer far,

And far more sweet,

Than e'er, beneath the moonlight's star,

Of horn, or lute, or soft guitar,

The songs repeat.

AN ELYSIUM ON EARTH.

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"Tis when the sigh in youth sincere,

And only then

The sigh, that's breathed for one to hear,

Is by that one, that only dear,

Breathed back again!

THOMAS MOORE.

AN ELYSIUM ON EARTH.

SONG FROM LALLA ROOKH.'

COME hither, come hither-by night and by day,
We linger in pleasures that never are gone;
Like the waves of the summer, as one dies away,
Another as sweet and as shining comes on.
And the love that is o'er, in expiring, gives birth
To a new one as warm, as unequall'd in bliss ;
And oh, if there be an elysium on earth,
It is this, it is this!

Here maidens are sighing, and fragrant the sigh
As the flower of the Amra just oped by a bee;
And precious their tears as that rain from the sky,
Which turns into pearls as it falls in the sea,
Oh, think what the kiss and the smile must be worth,
When the sigh and the tear are so perfect in bliss;
And own if there be an elysium on earth,

It is this, it is this!

Here sparkles the nectar that, hallow'd by love,
Could draw down those angels of old from their sphere,
Who for wine of this earth left the fountains above,
And forgot heaven's stars for the eyes we have here.
And, bless'd with the odour our goblet gives forth,
What spirit the sweets of his Eden would miss ?
For, oh, if there be an elysium on earth,

It is this, it is this!

There's a bliss beyond all that the minstrel has told,

When two, that are link'd in one heavenly tie, With heart never changing and brow never cold, Love on through all ills, and love on till they die ; One hour of a passion so sacred is worth

Whole ages of heartless and wandering bliss ; And oh, if there be an elysium on earth,

It is this, it is this!

THOMAS MOORE.

THE FLOWER OF ALL MAIDENS.

OH, flower of all maidens for beauty,
Fair-bosomed, and rose-lipped, and meek,
My heart is your slave and your booty,
And droops, overpowered and weak.
Your clustering raven-black tresses
Curl richly and glossily round,
Blest he who shall win your caresses,
Sweet Blossom all down to the ground!

I have loved you, O mildest and fairest,
With love that could scarce be more warm-
I have loved you, O brightest and rarest,
Not less for your mind than your form.
I've adored you since ever I met you,
O Rose without brier or stain ;
And if e'er I forsake or forget you
Let Love be ne'er trusted again!

My bright one you are till I perish,
Oh, might I but call you my wife !
My treasure, my bliss, whom I'll cherish
With love to the close of my life!