Anacreontic.

A poem by Thomas Moore

"She never looked so kind before--
"Yet why the wanton's smile recall?
"I've seen this witchery o'er and o'er,
"'Tis hollow, vain, and heartless all!"

Thus I said and, sighing drained
The cup which she so late had tasted;
Upon whose rim still fresh remained
The breath, so oft in falsehood wasted.

I took the harp and would have sung
As if 'twere not of her I sang;
But still the notes on Lamia hung--
On whom but Lamia could they hang?

Those eyes of hers, that floating shine,
Like diamonds in some eastern river;
That kiss, for which, if worlds were mine,
A world for every kiss I'd give her.

That frame so delicate, yet warmed
With flushes of love's genial hue;
A mould transparent, as if formed
To let the spirit's light shine through.

Of these I sung, and notes and words
Were sweet, as if the very air
From Lamia's lip hung o'er the chords,
And Lamia's voice still warbled there!

But when, alas, I turned the theme,
And when of vows and oaths I spoke,
Of truth and hope's seducing dream--
The chord beneath my finger broke.

False harp! false woman! such, oh, such
Are lutes too frail and hearts too willing;
Any hand, whate'er its touch,
Can set their chords or pulses thrilling.

And when that thrill is most awake,
And when you think Heaven's joys await you,
The nymph will change, the chord will break--
Oh Love, oh Music, how I hate you!

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