by Thomas Moore
When in death I shall calm recline,
O bear my heart to my mistress dear;
Tell her, it lived upon smiles and wine
Of the brightest hue, while it linger'd here;
Bid her not shed one tear of sorrow,
To sully a heart so brilliant and light;
But balmy drops of the red grape borrow,
To bathe the relic from morn till night.
When the light of my song is o'er,
Then take my harp to your ancient hall;
Hang it up at the friendly door,
Where weary travellers love to call.
Then if some bard, who roams forsaken,
Revive its soft note in passing along,
Oh! let one thought of its master waken
Your warmest smile for the child of song.
Keep this cup, which is now o'erflowing,
To grace your revel when I'm at rest;
Never, oh! never its balm bestowing
On lips that beauty has seldom blest.
But when some warm devoted lover,
To her he adores shall bathe its brim,
Then, then around my spirit shall hover,
And hallow each drop that foams for him.
Source:The Poetical Works of Thomas Moore.
Copyright undated, very old
The Walter Scott Publishing Co. Ltd.