Nay, Tell Me Not, Dear

By Thomas Moore

Nay, tell me not, dear, that the goblet drowns
One charm of feeling, one fond regret;
Believe me, a few of thy angry frowns
Are all I've sunk in its bright waves yet.
Ne'er hath a beam
Been lost in the stream,
That ever was shed from thy form or soul;
The balm of thy sighs,
The spell of thine eyes,
Still float on the surface, and hallow my bowl!
Then fancy not, dearest! that wine can steal
One blissful dream of the heart from me;
Like founts, that awaken the pilgrim's zeal,
The bowl that brightens my love for thee!

They tell us that Love in his fairy bower,
Had two blush-roses, of birth divine;
He sprinkled the one with the rainbow's shower,
But bath'd the other with mantling wine.
Soon did the buds
That drank of the floods,
Distill'd by the rainbow, decline and fade;
While those which the tide
Of ruby had dy'd,
All blush'd into beauty, like thee, sweet maid!
Then fancy not, dearest! that wine can steal
One blissful dream of the heart from me;
Like founts, that awaken the pilgrim's zeal,
The bowl but brightens my love for thee.