Thomas Moore (1779 – 1852)
Irish poet and hymnist, now best remembered for the lyrics of The Last Rose of Summer.
And the best of all ways
To lengthen our days
Is to steal a few hours from the night, my dear!
Some flow'rets of Eden ye still inherit,
But the trail of the serpent is over them all.
Love on through all ills, and love on till they die.
Paradise itself were dim
And joyless, if not shared with him!
Like the stain'd web that whitens in the sun,
Grow pure by being purely shone upon.
"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."
"Why, so it is father--whose wife
shall I take?"
But the trail of the serpent is over them all.
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,
The words of love then spoken;
The eyes that shone,
Now dimm'd and gone,
The cheerful hearts now broken!
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.
'Tis the last rose of Summer,
Left blooming alone;
All her lovely companions
Are faded and gone.
Like Dead Sea fruits, that tempt the eye,
But turn to ashes on the lips.
Take all the pleasures of all the spheres,
And multiply each through endless years,—
One minute of heaven is worth them all.
One morn a Peri at the gate
Of Eden stood disconsolate.
As sunshine broken in the rill,
Though turned astray, is sunshine still.
My only books
Were woman's looks,
And folly's all they've taught me.
Sound the loud timbrel o'er Egypt's dark sea!
Jehovah has triumphed—his people are free.
I feel like one,
Who treads alone
Some banquet-hall deserted,
Whose lights are fled,
Whose garlands dead,
And all but he departed!
Oh, ever thus, from childhood's hour,
I 've seen my fondest hopes decay;
I never loved a tree or flower
But 't was the first to fade away.
I never nurs'd a dear gazelle,
To glad me with its soft black eye,
But when it came to know me well
And love me, it was sure to die.
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 as it will,
And around the dear ruin each wish of my heart,
Would entwine itself verdantly still.
Rich and rare were the gems she wore,
And a bright gold ring on her wand she bore.