THOMAS MOORE
1779-1852
The Young May Moon
THE young May moon is beaming, love,
The glow-worm’s lamp is gleaming, love;
How sweet to rove
Through Morna’s grove,
When the drowsy world is dreaming, love!
Then awake!—the heavens look bright, my dear,
’Tis never too late for delight, my dear;
And the best of all ways
To lengthen our days
Is to steal a few hours from the night, my dear!
Now all the world is sleeping, love,
But the Sage, his star-watch keeping, love,
And I, whose star
More glorious far
Is the eye from that casement peeping, love.
Then awake!—till rise of sun, my dear,
The Sage’s glass we’ll shun, my dear,
Or in watching the flight
Of bodies of light
He might happen to take thee for one, my dear!
The Irish Peasant to His Mistress
THROUGH grief and through danger thy smile hath cheer’d my way,
Till hope seem’d to bud from each thorn that round me lay;
The darker our fortune, the brighter our pure love burn’d,
Till shame into glory, till fear into zeal was turn’d:
Yes, slave as I was, in thy arms my spirit felt free,
And bless’d even the sorrows that made me more dear to thee.
Thy rival was honour’d, while thou wert wrong’d and scorn’d;
Thy crown was of briers, while gold her brows adorn’d;
She woo’d me to temples, whilst thou lay’st hid in caves;
Her friends were all masters, while thine, alas! were slaves;
Yet cold in the earth, at thy feet, I would rather be
Than wed what I loved not, or turn one thought from thee.