Thomas Moore ( )


From The Odes of Anacreon. Ode 43


While our rosy fillets shed
Freshness oer each fervid head,
With many a cup and many a smile
The festal moments we beguile.
And while the harp, impassiond, flings
Tuneful rapture from its strings,
Some airy nymph, with graceful bound,
Keeps measure to the musics sound;
Waving, in her snowy hand,
The leafy Baccahalian wand,
Which, as the tripping wanton flies,
Trembles all over to her sighs.
A youth the while, with loosend hair,
Floating on the listless air,
Sings, to the wild harps tender tone,
A tale of woes, alas, his own;
And oh, the sadness in his sigh,
As oer his lip the accents die!
Never sure on earth has been
Half so bright, so blest a scene.
It seems as Love himself had come
To make this spot his chosen home; 
And Venus, too, with all her wiles,
And Bacchus, sheddng rosy smiles,
All, all are here, to hail with me
To Genius of Festivity.



Thomas Moore's other poems:
  1. From The Odes of Anacreon. Ode 26
  2. From The Odes of Anacreon. Ode 75
  3. From The Odes of Anacreon. Ode 15
  4. From The Odes of Anacreon. Ode 25
  5. From The Odes of Anacreon. Ode 38


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