Thomas Moore (1779 – 1852)
Irish poet and hymnist, now best remembered for the lyrics of The Last Rose of Summer.
You may break, you may shatter the vase, if you will,
But the scent of the roses will hang round it still.
But Faith, fanatic Faith, once wedded fast
To some dear falsehood, hugs it to the last.
Oh, call it by some better name,
For friendship sounds too cold.
Faintly as tolls the evening chime,
Our voices keep tune and our oars keep time.
This narrow isthmus 'twixt two boundless seas,
The past, the future,—two eternities!
Ask a woman's advice, and, whate'er she advise,
Do the very reverse and you're sure to be wise.
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.
A Persian's heaven is easily made:
'Tis but black eyes and lemonade.
Farewell, farewell to thee, Araby's daughter!
Thus warbled a Peri beneath the dark sea.
Oh for a tongue to curse the slave
Whose treason, like a deadly blight,
Comes o'er the councils of the brave,
And blasts them in their hour of might!
Alas! how light a cause may move
Dissension between hearts that love!
Hearts that the world in vain had tried,
And sorrow but more closely tied;
That stood the storm when waves were rough,
Yet in a sunny hour fall off,
Like ships that have gone down at sea
When heaven was all tranquillity.
Go where glory waits thee,
But while fame elates thee,
Oh! still remember me!
Beholding heaven, and feeling hell.
And oh if there be an Elysium on earth,
It is this, it is this!
No eye to watch, and no tongue to wound us
All earth forgot, and all heaven around us.
And the tear that we shed, though in secret it rolls,
Shall long keep his memory green in our souls.
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.
Oh! breathe not his name, let it sleep in the shade,
Where cold and unhonour'd his relics are laid.