The Poetical Works of Thomas Moore Collected by Himself. In Ten Volumes |
 | I, II. |
| III, IV. |
 | V. |
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| 1. |
| 2. |
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| VI, VII. |
| VIII, IX. |
| X. |
 | The Poetical Works of Thomas Moore |  |
“Fond girls!” an aged Zean said—
One who, himself, had fought and bled,
And now, with feelings, half delight,
Half sadness, watch'd their mimic fight—
“Fond maids! who thus with War can jest—
“Like Love, in Mars's helmet drest,
“When, in his childish innocence,
“Pleased with the shade that helmet flings,
“He thinks not of the blood, that thence
“Is dropping o'er his snowy wings.
“Ay—true it is, young patriot maids,
“If Honour's arm still won the fray,
“If luck but shone on righteous blades,
“War were a game for gods to play!
“But, no, alas!—hear one, who well
“Hath track'd the fortunes of the brave—
“Hear me, in mournful ditty, tell
“What glory waits the patriot's grave:”—
One who, himself, had fought and bled,
And now, with feelings, half delight,
Half sadness, watch'd their mimic fight—
“Fond maids! who thus with War can jest—
“Like Love, in Mars's helmet drest,
“When, in his childish innocence,
“Pleased with the shade that helmet flings,
“He thinks not of the blood, that thence
“Is dropping o'er his snowy wings.
“Ay—true it is, young patriot maids,
“If Honour's arm still won the fray,
“If luck but shone on righteous blades,
“War were a game for gods to play!
“But, no, alas!—hear one, who well
“Hath track'd the fortunes of the brave—
“Hear me, in mournful ditty, tell
“What glory waits the patriot's grave:”—
| The Poetical Works of Thomas Moore | |