Thomas Moore, from Irish Melodies, vol. 10
There are sounds of mirth in the night-air ringing,|
And lamps from every casement shown;
While voices blithe within are singing,
That seem to say "Come," in every tone.
Ah! once how light, in Life's young season,
My heart had leap'd at that sweet lay;
Nor paused to ask of greybeard Reason
Should I the syren call obey.
2. And, see - the lamps still livelier glitter,|
The syren lips more fondly sound;
No, seek, ye nymphs, some victim fitter
To sink in your rosy bondage bound.
Shall a bard,whom not the world in arms,
Could bend to tyranny's rude countroul,
Thus quail, at sight of woman's charms,
And yield to a smile his freeborn soul?
3. Thus sung the sage, while, slyly stealing,|
The nymphs their fetters around him cast,
And - their laughing eyes, the while, concealing
Led Freedom's Bard their slave at last.
For the Poet's heart, still prone to loving,
Was like that rock of the Druid race,*
Which the gentlest touch at once set moving,
But all earth's power couldn't cast from its base.
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