Thomas Moore (1779–1852)

          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 brighten’d 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 has murmur’d, "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 fill’d!

          Like the vase, in which roses have once been distill’d —

          You may break, you may shatter the vase, if you will,

          But the scent of the roses will hang round it still.