Thomas Moore

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.

One sole desire, one passion now remains
To keep life's fever still within his veins,
Vengeance! dire read more

One sole desire, one passion now remains
To keep life's fever still within his veins,
Vengeance! dire vengeance on the wretch who cast
O'er him and all he lov'd that ruinous blast.

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.

Oh, colder than the wind that freezes
Founts, that but now in sunshine play'd,
Is that congealing read more

Oh, colder than the wind that freezes
Founts, that but now in sunshine play'd,
Is that congealing pang which seizes
The trusting bosom, when betray'd.

All that's bright must fade,--
The brightest still the fleetest;
All that's sweet was made
read more

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