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Sound, sound the clarion, fill the fife !

To all the sensual world proclaim,
One crowded hour of glorious life,
Is worth an age without a name.

Old Mortality. Vol. i. Chapter xxi.
Within that awful volume lies
The mystery of mysteries !

The Monastery. Vol. i. Chapter xii.
And better had they ne'er been born,
Who read to doubt, or read to scorn.


THOMAS MOORE. 1780-1852.



'HIS narrow isthmus 'twixt two boundless seas, The past, the future, two eternities !

The Veiled Prophet of Khorassan. There's a bower of roses by Bendemeer's stream.



Like the stained web that whitens in the sun,
Grow pure by being purely shone upon.


One morn a Peri at the gate
Of Eden stood disconsolate.

Paradise and the Peri.

But the trail of the serpent is over them all.


O, ever thus, from childhood's hour,

I've seen my fondest hopes decay ;
I never loved a tree or flower,
But ’t was the first to fade away.

The Fire-Worshippers. I never nursed a dear gazelle,

To glad me with its soft black eye, But when it came to know me well,

And love me, it was sure to die.


Beholding heaven and feeling hell.


The sunshine, broken in the rill,
Though turned astray, is sunshine still.


Farewell, farewell to thee Araby's daughter. Ibid.

Alas ! how light a cause may move
Dissension between hearts that love !
Hearts that the world in vain had tried,
And sorrow but more closely tied,
That stood the storm, when waves were rough,
Yet in a sunny hour fall off,
Like ships that have gone down at sea,
When heaven was all tranquillity.

The Light of the Harain. Love on through all ills, and love on till they die.

Ibid. And, oh ! if there be an Elysium on earth, It is this, it is this.


The harp that once through Tara's halls

The soul of music shed,
Now hangs as mute on Tara's walls,
As if that soul were fled.

The Harp that Once.

Fly not yet, 't is just the hour

When pleasure like the midnight flower, That scorns the eye of vulgar light,

Begins to bloom for sons of night, And maids who love the moon.

Fly not Yet.

Go where glory waits thee.

Go where Glory.

And the heart that is soonest awake to the flowers, Is always the first to be touched by the thorns.

O think not my Spirits.

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No eye to watch, and no tongue to wound us,
All earth forgot, and all heaven around us.

Come o'er the Sea

Rich and rare were the gems she wore.

Rich and Rare.

There's not in the wide world a valley so sweet,
As that vale in whose bosom the bright waters meet.

The Meeting of the Waters. Shall I ask the brave soldier, who fights by my side In the cause of mankind, if our creeds agree?

Come send round the Wine.

No, the heart that has truly loved never forgets,
But as truly loves on to the close !
As the sunflower turns on her god, when he sets,
The same look which she turned when he rose.

Believe me, if all those endearing.

The moon looks

On many brooks,
The brook can see no moon but this.*

While gazing on the Moon's Light.

There's nothing half so sweet in life
As love's young


Love's Young Dream.

To live with them is far less sweet
'Than to remember thee.+

I saw thy Form.

'T is the last rose of summer,

Left blooming alone. Last Rose of Summier.

When true hearts lie withered

And fond ones are flown,
Oh ! who would inhabit

This bleak world alone ?


you will,

You may break, you may shatter the vase, if
But the scent of the roses will hang round it still.

Farewell ! But whenever you welcome the Hour,

* This image was suggested by the following thought, which occurs somewhere in Sir William Jones's Works :-'The moon looks upon many night-flowers, the night-flower sees but one moon.'

In imitation of Shenstone, ‘Heu ! quanto minus est cum reliquis versari quam tui meminisse.'

Thus, when the lamp that lighted

The traveller at first goes out,
He feels awhile benighted,

And looks around in fear and doubt.
But soon, the prospect clearing,

By cloudless starlight on he treads,
And thinks no lamp so cheering
As that light which Heaven sheds.

I'd Mourn the Hopes.

And when once the young heart of a maiden is stolen, The maiden herself will steal after it soon.

III Omens.

The light that lies
In woman's eyes.

The Time I'rie Lost, &C.

My only books

Were woman's looks,
And folly's all they've taught me.


I know not, I ask not, if guilt's in that heart,
I but know that I love thee, whatever thou art.

Come, rest in this Bosom. Wert thou all that I wish thee, great, glorious, and free, First flower of the earth, and first gem of the sea.

Remember Thee.


Those evening bells ! those evening bells !
How many a tale their music tells.

Those Evening Bells

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