The Poetical Works of Thomas Moore Collected by Himself. In Ten Volumes |
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BOAT GLEE. |
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The Poetical Works of Thomas Moore | ||
390
BOAT GLEE.
The song that lightens our languid way
When brows are glowing,
And faint with rowing,
Is like the spell of Hope's airy lay,
To whose sound through life we stray.
The beams that flash on the oar awhile,
As we row along through waves so clear,
Illume its spray, like the fleeting smile
That shines o'er Sorrow's tear.
When brows are glowing,
And faint with rowing,
Is like the spell of Hope's airy lay,
To whose sound through life we stray.
The beams that flash on the oar awhile,
As we row along through waves so clear,
Illume its spray, like the fleeting smile
That shines o'er Sorrow's tear.
Nothing is lost on him who sees
With an eye that Feeling gave;—
For him there's a story in every breeze,
And a picture in every wave.
Then sing to lighten the languid way;—
When brows are glowing,
And faint with rowing:
'Tis like the spell of Hope's airy lay,
To whose sound through life we stray.
With an eye that Feeling gave;—
For him there's a story in every breeze,
And a picture in every wave.
Then sing to lighten the languid way;—
When brows are glowing,
And faint with rowing:
'Tis like the spell of Hope's airy lay,
To whose sound through life we stray.
391
Oh think, when a hero is sighing,
What danger in such an adorer!
What woman could dream of denying
The hand that lays laurels before her.
No heart is so guarded around,
But the smile of a victor would take it;
No bosom can slumber so sound,
But the trumpet of Glory will wake it.
What danger in such an adorer!
What woman could dream of denying
The hand that lays laurels before her.
No heart is so guarded around,
But the smile of a victor would take it;
No bosom can slumber so sound,
But the trumpet of Glory will wake it.
Love sometimes is given to sleeping,
And woe to the heart that allows him;
For soon neither smiling or weeping
Will e'er from such slumber arouse him.
But though he were sleeping so fast,
That the life almost seem'd to forsake him,
Ev'n then, one soul-thrilling blast
From the trumpet of Glory would wake him.
And woe to the heart that allows him;
For soon neither smiling or weeping
Will e'er from such slumber arouse him.
But though he were sleeping so fast,
That the life almost seem'd to forsake him,
Ev'n then, one soul-thrilling blast
From the trumpet of Glory would wake him.
The Poetical Works of Thomas Moore | ||