Virginia Lucas Poetry ScrapbookMain MenuAbout This ProjectThe PoemsResearch Essays"Not Ours The Vows," by Bernard Barton"Oh no we never mention Her" by Thomas Haynes Bayly"A man's a man for a' that," by Robert Burns"The Death of the Flowers," by William Cullen Bryant"Darkness," by Lord Byron"The Parting Requiem" by Louisa Macartney Crawford"A Name in The Sand" by Hannah F. Gould"Twilight" by Fitzgreen Halleck"The Rock Beside the Sea," by Felicia Dorothea Hemans"The Maniac," by Matthew Gregory LewisPage compiled by Anthony Tamberrino"Psalm of Life," by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow"The Grave" by James Montgomery"Farewell but Whenever You Welcome the Hour" by Thomas Moore"The Last Rose of Summer" by Thomas Moore"Love Not" by Caroline Norton"To _______" by Percy Bysshe Shelley"White Roses," by Sarah Louisa P. Smith"There are Gains for All Our Losses," by Richard Henry Stoddard"Love" by Charles Swain"Rest," by Susan Archer Talley"Ask Me No More" by Alfred, Lord TennysonTranscription and essays by Christian Ritter"And I have felt a spirit which disturbs me," by William Wordsworth
"Farewell but whenever you welcome the hour" by Thomas Moore
Farewell but whenever you welcome the hour. Farewell, but whenever you welcome the hour That awakens the night song of mirth in your bower, Then think of the friend who once welcomed it too, And forgot his own griefs to be happy with you. His griefs may return – not a hope may remain Of the few that have brighten’d his pathway of pain – But he ne’er will forget the short vision that threw Its enchantment around him while ling’ring with you!
And still on that evening when pleasure fills up To the highest top. sparkle each heart and each cup Where e’er my path lies, be it gloomy or bright My soul, happy friends, shall be with you that night – Shall join in your revels, your sports and your wiles, And return to me beaming all o’er with your smiles; Too blest if it tells me, that ‘mid the gay cheer, Some kind voice had murmur’d “I wish he were here”!
Let fate do her worst there are relics of joy, Bright dreams of the past wh. she cannot destroy! Which come in the night time of sorrow and care, And bring back the features that joy used to wear Long, long be my heart with such memories fill’d! Like the vase in which roses have onced been distill’d You may break, you may ruin the vase if you will But the scent of the roses will hang round it still.” Thomas Moore. Born in Dublin 1789