The Poetical Works of Thomas Moore Collected by Himself. In Ten Volumes |
 | I, II. |
| III, IV. |
 | V. |
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| VI, VII. |
| VIII, IX. |
| X. |
 | The Poetical Works of Thomas Moore |  |
66
SONG.
As Love, one summer eve, was straying,
Who should he see, at that soft hour,
But young Minerva, gravely playing
Her flute within an olive bower.
I need not say, 'tis Love's opinion
That, grave or merry, good or ill,
The sex all bow to his dominion,
As woman will be woman still.
Who should he see, at that soft hour,
But young Minerva, gravely playing
Her flute within an olive bower.
I need not say, 'tis Love's opinion
That, grave or merry, good or ill,
The sex all bow to his dominion,
As woman will be woman still.
Though seldom yet the boy hath given
To learned dames his smiles or sighs,
So handsome Pallas look'd, that even,
Love quite forgot the maid was wise.
Besides, a youth of his discerning
Knew well that, by a shady rill,
At sunset hour, whate'er her learning,
A woman will be woman still.
To learned dames his smiles or sighs,
So handsome Pallas look'd, that even,
Love quite forgot the maid was wise.
Besides, a youth of his discerning
Knew well that, by a shady rill,
At sunset hour, whate'er her learning,
A woman will be woman still.
Her flute he praised in terms extatic,—
Wishing it dumb, nor cared how soon;—
For Wisdom's notes, howe'er chromatic,
To Love seem always out of tune.
But long as he found face to flatter.
The nymph found breath to shake and thrill;
As, weak or wise—it doesn't matter—
Woman, at heart, is woman still.
Wishing it dumb, nor cared how soon;—
For Wisdom's notes, howe'er chromatic,
To Love seem always out of tune.
67
The nymph found breath to shake and thrill;
As, weak or wise—it doesn't matter—
Woman, at heart, is woman still.
Love changed his plan, with warmth exclaiming,
“How rosy was her lips' soft dye!”
And much that flute, the flatterer, blaming,
For twisting lips so sweet awry.
The nymph look'd down, beheld her features
Reflected in the passing rill,
And started, shock'd—for, ah, ye creatures!
Ev'n when divine, you're women still.
“How rosy was her lips' soft dye!”
And much that flute, the flatterer, blaming,
For twisting lips so sweet awry.
The nymph look'd down, beheld her features
Reflected in the passing rill,
And started, shock'd—for, ah, ye creatures!
Ev'n when divine, you're women still.
Quick from the lips it made so odious,
That graceless flute the Goddess took,
And, while yet fill'd with breath melodious,
Flung it into the glassy brook;
Where, as its vocal life was fleeting
Adown the current, faint and shrill,
'Twas heard in plaintive tone repeating,
“Woman, alas, vain woman still!”
That graceless flute the Goddess took,
And, while yet fill'd with breath melodious,
Flung it into the glassy brook;
Where, as its vocal life was fleeting
Adown the current, faint and shrill,
'Twas heard in plaintive tone repeating,
“Woman, alas, vain woman still!”
| The Poetical Works of Thomas Moore | |