Thomas Moore (1779–1852)

          OH! think not my spirits are always as light,

                And as free from a pang as they seem to you now,

          Nor expect that the heart-beaming smile of to-night

                Will return with to-morrow to brighten my brow.

          No: — life is a waste of wearisome hours,

                Which seldom the rose of enjoyment adorns;

          And the heart that is soonest awake to the flowers,

                Is always the first to be touch’d by the thorns.

          But send round the bowl, and be happy awhile —

                May we never meet worse, in our pilgrimage here,

          Than the tear that enjoyment may gild with a smile,

                And the smile that compassion can turn to a tear.

          The thread of our life would be dark, Heaven knows

                If it were not with friendship and love intertwined;

          And I care not how soon I may sink to repose,

                When these blessing shall cease to be dear to my mind.

          But they who have loved the fondest, the purest,

                Too often have wept o’er the dream they believed;

          And the heart that has slumber’d in friendship securest

                Is happy indeed if ’twas never deceived.

          But send round the bowl; while a relic of truth

                Is in man or in woman, this prayer shall be mine, —

          That the sunshine of love may illumine our youth,

                And the moonlight of friendship console our decline.