The poetical works of Thomas Moore, with illustr. by K. Halswelle

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Strona 444 - OH ! the days are gone, when Beauty bright My heart's chain wove ; When my dream of life from morn till night Was love, still love. New hope may bloom, And days may come Of milder, calmer beam, But there's nothing half so sweet in life As love's young dream : No, there's nothing half so sweet in life As love's young dream.
Strona 427 - THERE is not in the wide world a valley so sweet, As that vale in whose bosom the bright waters meet ; Oh ! the last rays of feeling and life must depart, Ere the bloom of that valley shall fade from my heart.
Strona 29 - There's a bower of roses by BENDEMEER'S§ stream, And the nightingale sings round it all the day long ; In the time of my childhood 'twas like a sweet dream, To sit in the roses and hear the bird's song.
Strona 453 - To pine on the stem; Since the lovely are sleeping, Go, sleep thou with them. Thus kindly I scatter Thy leaves o'er the bed, Where thy mates of the garden Lie scentless and dead. So soon may / follow, When friendships decay, And from Love's shining circle The gems drop away.
Strona 421 - Go where glory waits thee, But while fame elates thee, Oh ! still remember me. When the praise thou meetest To thine ear is sweetest, Oh ! then remember me. Other arms may press thee, Dearer friends caress thee, All the joys that bless thee Sweeter far may be; But when friends are nearest, And when joys are dearest, Oh ! then remember me.
Strona 406 - This world is all a fleeting show For man's illusion given ; The smiles of joy, the tears of woe, Deceitful shine, deceitful flow, — There's nothing true but Heaven ! And false the light on glory's plume, As fading hues of even ; And Love, and Hope, and Beauty's bloom Are blossoms gathered for the tomb, — There's nothing bright but Heaven ! Poor wanderers of a stormy day, From wave to wave we're driven, And fancy's flash and reason's ray Serve but to light the troubled way, — There's nothing...
Strona 64 - Now, upon SYRIA'S land of roses Softly the light of eve reposes, And, like a glory, the broad sun Hangs over sainted LEBANON ; Whose head in wintry grandeur towers, And whitens with eternal sleet, While summer, in a vale of flowers, Is sleeping rosy at his feet.
Strona 403 - When night, with wings of starry gloom, O'ershadows all the earth and skies, Like some dark, beauteous bird, whose plume Is sparkling with unnumbered eyes, That sacred gloom, those fires divine, So grand, so countless, Lord, are Thine.
Strona 466 - And a heart and a hand all thy own to the last. Oh ! what was love made for, if 'tis not the same Through joy and through torment, through glory and shame ? I know not, I ask not, if guilt's in that heart, I but know that I love thee, whatever thou art.
Strona 466 - OH, where's the slave so lowly, Condemn'd to chains unholy, Who, could he burst His bonds at first, Would pine beneath them slowly ? What soul, whose wrongs degrade it, Would wait till time decay'd it, When thus its wing At once may spring To the throne of Him who made it f Farewell, Erin, — farewell, all, Who live to weep our fall...

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