Odes Of Anacreon - 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!

Thomas Moore

Thomas Moore was an Irish poet, singer, and songwriter, celebrated for his Irish Melodies, which are now considered a staple of Irish cultural heritage. Born on May 28, 1779, in Dublin, Ireland, Moore gained fame for his lyrical songs, many of which were set to traditional Irish tunes. Not only a poet, but he was also a staunch advocate of Irish nationalism, often incorporating themes of national identity and resistance into his work. Moore's influential collection 'Irish Melodies' became popular in both Ireland and Britain and helped to define the literary output of the era. He passed away on February 25, 1852, but his legacy in Irish literature and music endures.

Thomas Moore

A Dream Of Hindostan.

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

Ode To A Hat.

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

To The Flying-Fish.[1]

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

To The Book Of Follies.

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

English

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Odes Of Anacreon - Ode LXXV.

Spirit of Love, whose locks unrolled,
Stream on the breeze like floating gold;
Come, within a fragrant cloud
Blushing 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 hoary hues
That time upon my forehead strews.
Alas! I fear she keeps her charms,
In store for younger, happier arms!

Thomas Moore

Odes Of Anacreon - Ode XXXI.

^[1]


Armed with hyacinthine rod,
(Arms enough for such a god,)
Cupid bade me wing my pace,
And try with him the rapid race.
O'er many a torrent, wild and deep,
By tangled brake and pendent steep.
With weary foot I panting flew,
Till my brow dropt with chilly dew.
And now my soul, exhausted, dying,
To my lip was faintly flying;
And now I thought the spark had fled,
When Cupid hovered o'er my head,
And fanning light his breezy pinion,
Rescued my soul from death's dominion;^[2]
Then said, in accents half-reproving.
"Why hast thou been a foe to loving?"

Thomas Moore

Odes Of Anacreon - Ode XIII.

I will, I will, the conflict's past,
And I'll consent to love at last.
Cupid has long, with smiling art,
Invited me to yield my heart;
And I have thought that peace of mind
Should not be for a smile resigned;
And so repelled the tender lure,
And hoped my heart would sleep secure.

But, slighted in his boasted charms,
The angry infant flew to arms;
He slung his quiver's golden frame,
He took his bow; his shafts of flame,
And proudly summoned me to yield,
Or meet him on the martial field.
And what did I unthinking do?
I took to arms, undaunted, too;
Assumed the corslet, shield, and spear,
And, like Pelides, smiled at fear.

Then (hear it, All ye powers above!)
I fought with Love! I fought with Love!
And now his arrows all were shed,...

Thomas Moore

Odes Of Anacreon - Ode XXIII.

I often wish this languid lyre,
This warbler of my soul's desire,
Could raise the breath of song sublime,
To men of fame, in former time.
But when the soaring theme I try,
Along the chords my numbers die,
And whisper, with dissolving tone,
"Our sighs are given to love alone!"
Indignant at the feeble lay,
I tore the panting chords away,
Attuned them to a nobler swell,
And struck again the breathing shell;
In all the glow of epic fire,
To Hercules I wake the lyre,
But still its fainting sighs repeat,
"The tale of love alone is sweet!"
Then fare thee well, seductive dream,
That madest me follow Glory's theme;
For thou my lyre, and thou my heart,
Shall never more in spirit part;
And all that one has felt so well
The other shall as sweetly ...

Thomas Moore

Odes Of Anacreon - Ode XVIII.

Now the star of day is high,
Fly, my girls, in pity fly.
Bring me wine in brimming urns
Cool my lip, it burns, it burns!
Sunned by the meridian fire,
Panting, languid I expire,
Give me all those humid flowers,
Drop them o'er my brow in showers.
Scarce a breathing chaplet now
Lives upon my feverish brow;
Every dewy rose I wear
Sheds its tears, and withers there.^[1]
But to you, my burning heart,
What can now relief impart?
Can brimming bowl, or floweret's dew,
Cool the flame that scorches you?

Thomas Moore

Odes Of Anacreon - Ode LXXI.

With twenty chords my lyre is hung,
    And while I wake them all for thee,
Thou, O maiden, wild and young,
    Disportest in airy levity.

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

Thomas Moore