There Are Sounds Of Mirth.

A poem by Thomas Moore

There are sounds of mirth in the night-air ringing,
And lamps from every casement shown;
While voices blithe within are singing,
That seem to say "Come," in every tone.
Ah! once how light, in Life's young season,
My heart had leapt at that sweet lay;
Nor paused to ask of graybeard Reason
Should I the syren call obey.

And, see--the lamps still livelier glitter,
The syren lips more fondly sound;
No, seek, ye nymphs, some victim fitter
To sink in your rosy bondage bound.
Shall a bard, whom not the world in arms
Could bend to tyranny's rude control,
Thus quail at sight of woman's charms
And yield to a smile his freeborn soul?

Thus sung the sage, while, slyly stealing,
The nymphs their fetters around him cast,
And,--their laughing eyes, the while, concealing,--
Led Freedom's Bard their slave at last.
For the Poet's heart, still prone to loving,
Was like that rack of the Druid race,[1]
Which the gentlest touch at once set moving,
But all earth's power couldn't cast from its base.

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