The Poetical Works of Thomas Moore Collected by Himself. In Ten Volumes |
 | I, II. |
 |
|
|
[If I were yonder wave, my dear] |
| III, IV. |
| V. |
| VI, VII. |
| VIII, IX. |
| X. |
 | The Poetical Works of Thomas Moore |  |
261
[If I were yonder wave, my dear]
If I were yonder wave, my dear,
And thou the isle it clasps around,
I would not let a foot come near
My land of bliss, my fairy ground.
And thou the isle it clasps around,
I would not let a foot come near
My land of bliss, my fairy ground.
If I were yonder conch of gold,
And thou the pearl within it plac'd.
I would not let an eye behold
The sacred gem my arms embrac'd.
And thou the pearl within it plac'd.
I would not let an eye behold
The sacred gem my arms embrac'd.
If I were yonder orange-tree,
And thou the blossom blooming there,
I would not yield a breath of thee
To scent the most imploring air.
And thou the blossom blooming there,
I would not yield a breath of thee
To scent the most imploring air.
Oh! bend not o'er the water's brink,
Give not the wave that odorous sigh,
Nor let its burning mirror drink
The soft reflection of thine eye.
Give not the wave that odorous sigh,
Nor let its burning mirror drink
The soft reflection of thine eye.
262
That glossy hair, that glowing cheek,
So pictur'd in the waters seem,
That I could gladly plunge to seek
Thy image in the glassy stream.
So pictur'd in the waters seem,
That I could gladly plunge to seek
Thy image in the glassy stream.
Blest fate! at once my chilly grave
And nuptial bed that stream might be;
I'll wed thee in its mimic wave,
And die upon the shade of thee.
And nuptial bed that stream might be;
I'll wed thee in its mimic wave,
And die upon the shade of thee.
Behold the leafy mangrove, bending
O'er the waters blue and bright,
Like Nea's silky lashes, lending
Shadow to her eyes of light.
O'er the waters blue and bright,
Like Nea's silky lashes, lending
Shadow to her eyes of light.
Oh, my belov'd! where'er I turn,
Some trace of thee enchants mine eyes;
In every star thy glances burn;
Thy blush on every flow'ret lies.
Some trace of thee enchants mine eyes;
In every star thy glances burn;
Thy blush on every flow'ret lies.
Nor find I in creation aught
Of bright, or beautiful, or rare,
Sweet to the sense, or pure to thought,
But thou art found reflected there.
Of bright, or beautiful, or rare,
Sweet to the sense, or pure to thought,
But thou art found reflected there.
| The Poetical Works of Thomas Moore | |