Sympathy.

TO JULIA.


        --sine me sit nulla Venus.
        SULPICIA.


Our hearts, my love, were formed to be
The genuine twins of Sympathy,
    They live with one sensation;
In joy or grief, but most in love,
Like chords in unison they move,
    And thrill with like vibration.

How oft I've beard thee fondly say,
Thy vital pulse shall cease to play
    When mine no more is moving;
Since, now, to feel a joy alone
Were worse to thee than feeling none,
    So twined are we in loving!

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.

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English

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To Julia.

Though Fate, my girl, may bid us part,
    Our souls it cannot, shall not sever;
The heart will seek its kindred heart,
    And cling to it as close as ever.

But must we, must we part indeed?
    Is all our dream of rapture over?
And does not Julia's bosom bleed
    To leave so dear, so fond a lover?

Does she, too, mourn?--Perhaps she may;
    Perhaps she mourns our bliss so fleeting;
But why is Julia's eye so gay,
    If Julia's heart like mine is beating?

I oft have loved that sunny glow
    Of gladness in her blue eye beaming--
But can the bosom bleed with woe
    While joy is in the glances beaming?

No, no!--Yet, love, I will not chide;
    Although your heart were fond of roving,
Nor that, nor all the world ...

Thomas Moore

To Julia.

I saw the peasant's hand unkind
    From yonder oak the ivy sever;
They seemed in very being twined;
    Yet now the oak is fresh as ever!

Not so the widowed ivy shines:
    Torn from its dear and only stay,
In drooping widowhood it pines,
    And scatters all its bloom away.

Thus, Julia, did our hearts entwine,
    Till Fate disturbed their tender ties:
Thus gay indifference blooms in thine,
    While mine, deserted, droops and dies!

Thomas Moore

To Julia. On Her Birthday.

When Time was entwining the garland of years,
    Which to crown my beloved was given,
Though some of the leaves might be sullied with tears,
    Yet the flowers were all gathered in heaven.

And long may this garland be sweet to the eye,
    May its verdure forever be new;
Young Love shall enrich it with many a sigh,
    And Sympathy nurse it with dew.

Thomas Moore

To Julia Weeping.

Oh! if your tears are given to care,
    If real woe disturbs your peace,
Come to my bosom, weeping fair!
    And I will bid your weeping cease.

But if with Fancy's visioned fears,
    With dreams of woe your bosom thrill;
You look so lovely in your tears,
    That I must bid you drop them still.

Thomas Moore

To Julia.

Mock me no more with Love's beguiling dream,
    A dream, I find, illusory as sweet:
One smile of friendship, nay, of cold esteem,
    Far dearer were than passion's bland deceit!

I've heard you oft eternal truth declare;
    Your heart was only mine, I once believed.
Ah! shall I say that all your vows were air?
    And must I say, my hopes were all deceived?

Vow, then, no longer that our souls are twined
    That all our joys are felt with mutual zeal;
Julia!--'tis pity, pity makes you kind;
    You know I love, and you would seem to feel.

But shall I still go seek within those arms
    A joy in which affection takes no part?
No, no, farewell! you give me but your charms,
    When I had fondly thought you gave your heart.

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Elegiac Stanzas. Supposed To Be Written By Julia, On The Death Of Her Brother.

Though sorrow long has worn my heart;
    Though every day I've, counted o'er
Hath brought a new and, quickening smart
    To wounds that rankled fresh before;

Though in my earliest life bereft
    Of tender links by nature tied;
Though hope deceived, and pleasure left;
    Though friends betrayed and foes belied;

I still had hopes--for hope will stay
    After the sunset of delight;
So like the star which ushers day,
    We scarce can think it heralds night!--

I hoped that, after all its strife,
    My weary heart at length should rest.
And, feinting from the waves of life,
    Find harbor in a brother's breast.

That brother's breast was warm with truth,
    Was bright with honor's purest ray;
He was the dearest, gentlest you...

Thomas Moore