Thomas Moore

I find the doctors and the sages
Have differ'd in all climes and ages,
And two in read more

I find the doctors and the sages
Have differ'd in all climes and ages,
And two in fifty scarce agree
On what is pure morality.

Cheek . . .
Flushing white and mellow'd red;
Gradual tints, as when there glows
read more

Cheek . . .
Flushing white and mellow'd red;
Gradual tints, as when there glows
In snowy milk the bashful rose.

Yes,--rather plunge me back in pagan night,
And take my chance with Socrates for bliss,
Than be read more

Yes,--rather plunge me back in pagan night,
And take my chance with Socrates for bliss,
Than be the Christian of a faith like this,
Which builds on heavenly cant its earthly sway,
And in a convert mourns to lose a prey.

Rich and rare were the gems she wore,
And a bright gold ring on her wand she bore.

Rich and rare were the gems she wore,
And a bright gold ring on her wand she bore.

Now in his Palace of the West,
Sinking to slumber, the bright Day,
Like a tired monarch read more

Now in his Palace of the West,
Sinking to slumber, the bright Day,
Like a tired monarch fann'd to rest,
'Mid the cool airs of Evening lay;
While round his couch's golden rim
The gaudy clouds, like courtiers, crept--
Struggling each other's light to dim,
And catch his last smile e'er he slept.