To A Lady, With Some Manuscript Poems, On Leaving The Country.

A poem by Thomas Moore

When, casting many a look behind,
I leave the friends I cherish here--
Perchance some other friends to find,
But surely finding none so dear--

Haply the little simple page,
Which votive thus I've traced for thee,
May now and then a look engage,
And steal one moment's thought for me.

But, oh! in pity let not those
Whose hearts are not of gentle mould,
Let not the eye that seldom flows
With feeling's tear, my song behold.

For, trust me, they who never melt
With pity, never melt with love;
And such will frown at all I've felt,
And all my loving lays reprove.

But if, perhaps, some gentler mind,
Which rather loves to praise than blame,
Should in my page an interest find.
And linger kindly on my name;

Tell him--or, oh! if, gentler still,
By female lips my name be blest:
For where do all affections thrill
So sweetly as in woman's breast?--

Tell her, that he whose loving themes
Her eye indulgent wanders o'er,
Could sometimes wake from idle dreams,
And bolder flights of fancy soar;

That Glory oft would claim the lay,
And Friendship oft his numbers move;
But whisper then, that, "sooth to say,
His sweetest song was given to Love!"

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