The Complete Poems of Sir Thomas Moore Part 15

The nursling fawn, that in some shade Its antlered mother leaves behind, Is not more wantonly afraid, More timid of the rustling wind!

ODE LXXII.

Fare thee well, perfidious maid, My soul, too long on earth delayed, Delayed, perfidious girl, by thee, Is on the wing for liberty.

I fly to seek a kindlier sphere, Since thou hast ceased to love me here!

ODE LXXIII.

Awhile I bloomed, a happy flower, Till love approached one fatal hour, And made my tender branches feel The wounds of his avenging steel.

Then lost I fell, like some poor willow That falls across the wintry billow!

ODE LXXIV.

Monarch Love, resistless boy, With whom the rosy Queen of Joy, And nymphs, whose eyes have Heaven's hue, Disporting tread the mountain-dew; Propitious, oh! receive my sighs, Which, glowing with entreaty, rise That thou wilt whisper to the breast Of her I love thy soft behest: And counsel her to learn from thee.

That lesson thou hast taught to me.

Ah! if my heart no flattery tell, Thou'lt own I've learned that lesson well!

ODE LXXV.

Spirit of Love, whose locks unrolled, Stream on the breeze like floating gold; Come, within a fragrant cloud Blus.h.i.+ng with light, thy votary shroud; And, on those wings that sparkling play, Waft, oh, waft me hence away!

Love! my soul is full of thee, Alive to all thy luxury.

But she, the nymph for whom I glow The lovely Lesbian mocks my woe; Smiles at the chill and h.o.a.ry hues That time upon my forehead strews.

Alas! I fear she keeps her charms, In store for younger, happier arms!

ODE LXXVI.

Hither, gentle Muse of mine, Come and teach thy votary old Many a golden hymn divine, For the nymph with vest of gold.

Pretty nymph, of tender age, Fair thy silky looks unfold; Listen to a h.o.a.ry sage, Sweetest maid with vest of gold!

ODE LXXVII.

Would that I were a tuneful lyre, Of burnished ivory fair, Which, in the Dionysian choir, Some blooming boy should bear!

Would that I were a golden vase.

That some bright nymph might hold My spotless frame, with blus.h.i.+ng grace, Herself as pure as gold!

ODE LXXVIII.

When Cupid sees how thickly now, The snows of Time fall o'er my brow, Upon his wing of golden light.

He pa.s.ses with an eaglet's flight, And flitting onward seems to say, "Fare thee well, thou'st had thy day!"

Cupid, whose lamp has lent the ray, That lights our life's meandering way, That G.o.d, within this bosom stealing, Hath wakened a strange, mingled feeling.

Which pleases, though so sadly teasing, And teases, though so sweetly pleasing!

Let me resign this wretched breath Since now remains to me No other balm than kindly death, To soothe my misery!

I know thou lovest a br.i.m.m.i.n.g measure, And art a kindly, cordial host; But let me fill and drink at pleasure-- Thus I enjoy the goblet most.

I fear that love disturbs my rest, Yet feel not love's impa.s.sioned care; I think there's madness in my breast Yet cannot find that madness there!