Thomas Moore

Like Dead Sea fruit that tempts the eye,
But turns to ashes on the lips!

Like Dead Sea fruit that tempts the eye,
But turns to ashes on the lips!

All that's bright must fade,--
The brightest still the fleetest;
All that's sweet was made
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All that's bright must fade,--
The brightest still the fleetest;
All that's sweet was made
But to be lost when sweetest.

Though an angel should write, still 'tis devils must print.

Though an angel should write, still 'tis devils must print.

Faintly as tolls the evening chime,
Our voices keep tune and our oars keep time,
Soon as read more

Faintly as tolls the evening chime,
Our voices keep tune and our oars keep time,
Soon as the woods on shore dim,
We'll sing at St. Ann's our parting hymn;
Row, brothers, row, the stream runs fast,
The rapids are near and the daylight's past.

Fly not yet, 'tis just the hour
When pleasure, like the midnight flower
That scorns the eye read more

Fly not yet, 'tis just the hour
When pleasure, like the midnight flower
That scorns the eye of vulgar light,
Begins to bloom for sons of night.