The Poetical Works of Thomas Moore Collected by Himself. In Ten Volumes |
 | I, II. |
 | III, IV. |
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THERE ARE SOUNDS OF MIRTH. |
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| V. |
| VI, VII. |
| VIII, IX. |
| X. |
 | The Poetical Works of Thomas Moore |  |
93
THERE ARE SOUNDS OF MIRTH.
There are sounds of mirth in the night-air ringing,
And lamps from every casement shown;
While voices blithe within are singing,
That seem to say “Come,” in every tone.
Ah! once how light, in Life's young season,
My heart had leap'd at the sweet lay:
Nor paus'd to ask of greybeard Reason
Should I the syren call obey.
And lamps from every casement shown;
While voices blithe within are singing,
That seem to say “Come,” in every tone.
Ah! once how light, in Life's young season,
My heart had leap'd at the sweet lay:
Nor paus'd to ask of greybeard Reason
Should I the syren call obey.
And, see—the lamps still livelier glitter,
The syren lips more fondly sound;
No, seek, ye nymphs, some victim fitter
To sink in your rosy bondage bound.
Shall a bard, whom not the world in arms
Could bend to tyranny's rude controul,
Thus quail, at sight of woman's charms,
And yield to a smile his freeborn soul?
The syren lips more fondly sound;
No, seek, ye nymphs, some victim fitter
To sink in your rosy bondage bound.
Shall a bard, whom not the world in arms
Could bend to tyranny's rude controul,
Thus quail, at sight of woman's charms,
And yield to a smile his freeborn soul?
94
Thus sung the sage, while, slyly stealing,
The nymphs their fetters around him cast,
And,—their laughing eyes, the while, concealing,—
Led Freedom's Bard their slave at last.
For the Poet's heart, still prone to loving,
Was like that rock of the Druid race ,
Which the gentlest touch at once set moving,
But all earth's power couldn't cast from its base.
The nymphs their fetters around him cast,
And,—their laughing eyes, the while, concealing,—
Led Freedom's Bard their slave at last.
For the Poet's heart, still prone to loving,
Was like that rock of the Druid race ,
Which the gentlest touch at once set moving,
But all earth's power couldn't cast from its base.
| The Poetical Works of Thomas Moore | |