The Poetical Works of Thomas Moore Collected by Himself. In Ten Volumes |
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[I found her not—the chamber seem'd] |
III, IV. |
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VI, VII. |
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VIII, IX. |
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The Poetical Works of Thomas Moore | ||
71
[I found her not—the chamber seem'd]
I found her not—the chamber seem'd
Like some divinely haunted place,
Where fairy forms had lately beam'd,
And left behind their odorous trace!
Like some divinely haunted place,
Where fairy forms had lately beam'd,
And left behind their odorous trace!
It felt, as if her lips had shed
A sigh around her, ere she fled,
Which hung, as on a melting lute,
When all the silver chords are mute,
There lingers still a trembling breath
After the note's luxurious death,
A shade of song, a spirit air
Of melodies which had been there.
A sigh around her, ere she fled,
Which hung, as on a melting lute,
When all the silver chords are mute,
There lingers still a trembling breath
After the note's luxurious death,
A shade of song, a spirit air
Of melodies which had been there.
I saw the veil, which, all the day,
Had floated o'er her cheek of rose;
I saw the couch, where late she lay
In languor of divine repose;
And I could trace the hallow'd print
Her limbs had left, as pure and warm,
As if 'twere done in rapture's mint,
And Love himself had stamp'd the form.
Had floated o'er her cheek of rose;
I saw the couch, where late she lay
In languor of divine repose;
72
Her limbs had left, as pure and warm,
As if 'twere done in rapture's mint,
And Love himself had stamp'd the form.
Oh my sweet mistress, where wert thou?
In pity fly not thus from me;
Thou art my life, my essence now,
And my soul dies of wanting thee.
In pity fly not thus from me;
Thou art my life, my essence now,
And my soul dies of wanting thee.
The Poetical Works of Thomas Moore | ||