Poetry of Moore
Thomas Moore
born 1780, died 1852 |
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Oh, Soon Return
Our white sail caught the ev'ning ray,
The wave beneath us seem'd to burn,
When all the weeping maid could say
Was, "Oh, soon return!"
Through many a clime our ship was driven,
O'er many a billow rudely thrown;
Now chill'd beneath a northern heaven,
Now sunn'd in summer's zone:
And still where'er we bent our way,
When evening bid the west wave burn,
I fancied still I heard her say,
"Oh, soon return!"
If ever my bosom found
Its thoughts one moment turn'd from thee,
'T was when the combat rag'd around,
And brave men look'd to me.
But though the war-field's wild alarm
For gentle Love was all unmeet,
He lent to Glory's brow the charm,
Which made even danger sweet.
And still, when vict'ry's calm came o'er
The hearts where rage had ceas'd to burn,
Those parting words I heard once more,
"Oh, soon return! - Oh, soon return!"
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