The Poetical Works of Thomas Moore Collected by Himself. In Ten Volumes |
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[I pray you, let us roam no more] |
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 | The Poetical Works of Thomas Moore |  |
248
[I pray you, let us roam no more]
—Tale iter omne cave.
Propert. lib. iv. eleg. 8.
I pray you, let us roam no more
Along that wild and lonely shore,
Where late we thoughtless stray'd;
'Twas not for us, whom heaven intends
To be no more than simple friends,
Such lonely walks were made.
Along that wild and lonely shore,
Where late we thoughtless stray'd;
'Twas not for us, whom heaven intends
To be no more than simple friends,
Such lonely walks were made.
That little Bay, where turning in
From ocean's rude and angry din,
As lovers steal to bliss,
The billows kiss the shore, and then
Flow back into the deep again,
As though they did not kiss.
From ocean's rude and angry din,
As lovers steal to bliss,
The billows kiss the shore, and then
Flow back into the deep again,
As though they did not kiss.
Remember, o'er its circling flood
In what a dangerous dream we stood—
The silent sea before us,
Around us, all the gloom of grove,
That ever lent its shade to love,
No eye but heaven's o'er us!
In what a dangerous dream we stood—
The silent sea before us,
249
That ever lent its shade to love,
No eye but heaven's o'er us!
I saw you blush, you felt me tremble,
In vain would formal art dissemble
All we then look'd and thought;
'Twas more than tongue could dare reveal,
'Twas ev'ry thing that young hearts feel,
By Love and Nature taught.
In vain would formal art dissemble
All we then look'd and thought;
'Twas more than tongue could dare reveal,
'Twas ev'ry thing that young hearts feel,
By Love and Nature taught.
I stoop'd to cull, with faltering hand,
A shell that, on the golden sand,
Before us faintly gleam'd;
I trembling rais'd it, and when you
Had kist the shell, I kist it too—
How sweet, how wrong it seem'd!
A shell that, on the golden sand,
Before us faintly gleam'd;
I trembling rais'd it, and when you
Had kist the shell, I kist it too—
How sweet, how wrong it seem'd!
Oh, trust me, 'twas a place, an hour,
The worst that e'er the tempter's power
Could tangle me or you in;
Sweet Nea, let us roam no more
Along that wild and lonely shore,
Such walks may be our ruin.
The worst that e'er the tempter's power
Could tangle me or you in;
Sweet Nea, let us roam no more
Along that wild and lonely shore,
Such walks may be our ruin.
| The Poetical Works of Thomas Moore | |