Light Sounds The Harp.

A poem by Thomas Moore

Light sounds the harp when the combat is over,
When heroes are resting, and joy is in bloom;
When laurels hang loose from the brow of the lover,
And Cupid makes wings of the warrior's plume.
But, when the foe returns,
Again the hero burns;
High flames the sword in his hand once more:
The clang of mingling arms
Is then the sound that charms,
And brazen notes of war, that stirring trumpets pour;--
Then, again comes the Harp, when the combat is over--
When heroes are resting, and Joy is in bloom--
When laurels hang loose from the brow of the lover,
And Cupid makes wings of the warrior's plume.
Light went the harp when the War-God, reclining,
Lay lulled on the white arm of Beauty to rest,
When round his rich armor the myrtle hung twining,
And flights of young doves made his helmet their nest.
But, when the battle came,
The hero's eye breathed flame:
Soon from his neck the white arm was flung;
While, to his waking ear,
No other sounds were dear
But brazen notes of war, by thousand trumpets sung.
But then came the light harp, when danger was ended,
And Beauty once more lulled the War-God to rest;
When tresses of gold with his laurels lay blended,
And flights of young doves made his helmet their nest.

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