FRIEND OF MY SOUL. FRIEND of my soul! this goblet sip- 'T will steal away the mind, But like affection's dream, It leaves no sting behind. Come, twine the wreath, thy brows to shade- Its fragrance is not o'er; But once when love's betrayed, THOMAS Moore. TO THOMAS MOORE. My boat is on the shore, Here's a sigh for those that love me, And a smile for those who hate; And, whatever sky 's above me, Here's a heart for every fate. Though the ocean roar around me, Yet it still shall bear me on; Though a desert should surround me, It hath springs that may be won. Were 't the last drop in the well, As I gasped upon the brink, Ere my fainting spirit fell 'Tis to thee that I would drink. With that water, as this wine, The libation I would pour Should be-Peace with thine and mine, And a health to thee, Tom Moore ! LORD BYRON. 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 brightened his pathway of pain But he ne'er will forget the short vision that threw Its enchantment around him while lingering with you! And still on that evening, when pleasure fills up To the highest top-sparkle each heart and each cup, Where'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 murmured, “I wish he were here!" Let Fate do her worst, there are relics of joy, Bright dreams of the past, which 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 filled! Like the vase in which roses have once been distilled; You may break, you may ruin the vase if you will, But the scent of the roses will hang round it still. THOMAS MOORE I wonder if the house still there is? I recollect his droll grimace; "How's Monsieur Terré, waiter, pray?" The waiter stares and shrugs his shoulder;"Monsieur is dead this many a day." "It is the lot of saint and sinner. So honest Terré 's run his race!" "What will Monsieur require for dinner?" "Say, do you still cook Bouillabaisse?" "Oh, oui, Monsieur," 's the waiter's answer; "Quel vin Monsieur desire-t-il { " "Tell me a good one." "That I can, sir; The Chambertin with yellow seal." "So Terré's gone," I say, and sink in My old accustomed corner-place; "He's done with feasting and with drinking, With Burgundy and Bouillabaisse." My old accustomed corner here is— This well-known chair since last I took. When first I saw ye, Cari luoghi, I'd scarce a beard upon my face, And now a grizzled, grim old fogy, I sit and wait for Bouillabaisse. Where are you, old companions trusty Of early days, here met to dine? Come, waiter! quick, a flagon crusty— I'll pledge them in the good old wine. The kind old voices and old faces My memory can quick retrace; Around the board they take their places, And share the wine and Bouillabaisse. There's Jack has made a wondrous marriage; Good Lord! the world has wagged apace Since here we set the Claret flowing, And drank, and ate the Bouillabaisse. |