Thomas Moore (1779–1852)

          ALONE in crowds to wander on,

          And feel that all the charm is gone

          Which voices dear and eyes beloved

          Shed round us once, where’er we roved —

          This, this the doom must be

          Of all who’ve loved, and loved to see

          The few bright things they thought would stay

          For ever near them, die away.

          Though fairer forms around us throng,

          Their smiles to others all belong,

          And want that charm which dwells alone

          Round those the fond heart calls its own,

          Where, where the sunny brow?

          The long-known voice — where are they now?

          Thus ask I still, nor ask in vain,

          The silence answers all too plain.

          Oh, what is Fancy’s magic worth,

          If all her art cannot call forth

          One bliss like those we felt of old

          From lips now mute, and eyes now cold?

          No, no — her spell in vain —

          As soon could she bring back again

          Those eyes themselves from out the grave,

          As wake again one bliss they gave.