by Thomas Moore
She never look'd so kind before --
Yet why the melting smile recall?
I've seen this witchery o'er and o'er,
'Tis hollow, vain, and heartless all!
Thus I said, and, sighing, sipp'd
The wine which she lately tasted;
The cup where she had lately dipp'd
Breath so long 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?
That kiss, for which, if worlds were mine,
A world for every kiss I'd give her;
Those floating eyes that floating shine,
Like diamonds in an eastern river!
That mould so fine, so pearly bright,
Of which luxurious Heaven hath cast her,
Through which her soul did beam as white
As flame through lamps of alabaster!
Of these I sung, and notes and words
Were sweet, as if 'twas Lamia's hair
That lay upon my lute for chords,
And Lamia's lip that warbled there!
But when, alas! I turn'd the theme,
And when of vows and oaths I spoke,
Of truth and hope's beguiling dream --
The chord beneath my finger broke.
And when that thrill is most awake,
And when you think heaven's joys await you,
The nymph will change, the chord will break --
O love! O music! how I hate you!
Source:The Poetical Works of Thomas Moore.
Copyright undated, very old
The Walter Scott Publishing Co. Ltd.