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The Poetical Works of Thomas Moore

Collected by Himself. In Ten Volumes
  

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192

GO, THEN—'TIS VAIN.

[_]

(Sicilian Air.)

Go, then—'tis vain to hover
Thus round a hope that's dead;
At length my dream is over;
'Twas sweet—'twas false—'tis fled!
Farewell! since nought it moves thee,
Such truth as mine to see—
Some one, who far less loves thee,
Perhaps more bless'd will be.
Farewell, sweet eyes, whose brightness
New life around me shed;
Farewell, false heart, whose lightness
Now leaves me death instead.
Go, now, those charms surrender
To some new lover's sigh—
One who, though far less tender,
May be more bless'd than I.