Thomas Moore (1779–1852)

          WHAT life like that of the bard can be —

          The wandering bard, who roams as free

          As the mountain lark that o’er him sings,

          And, like that lark a music brings,

          Within him, where’er he comes or goes —

          A fount that for ever flows!

          The world’s to him like some playground,

          Where fairies dance their moonlight round; —

          It dimm’d the turf where late they trod;

          The elves but seek some greener sod;

          So, when less bright his scene of glee,

          To another away flies he!

          Oh, what would have been young Beauty’s doom

          Without a bard to fix her bloom?

          They tell us, in the moon’s bright round,

          Things lost in this dark world are found;

          So charms, on earth long pass’d and gone,

          In the poet’s lay live on. —

          Would you have smiles that ne’er grow dim?

          You’ve only to give them all to him,

          Who, with but a touch of Fancy’s wand,

          Can lend them life, this life beyond.

          And fix them high, in Poesy’s sky —

          Young stars that never die!

          Then welcome the bard where’er he comes,

          For, though he hath countless airy homes,

          To which his wing excursive roves,

          Yet still, from time to time, he loves

          To light upon earth and find such cheer

          As brightens our banquet here.

          No matter how far, how fleet he flies,

          You’ve only to light up kind young eyes,

          Such signal-fires as here are given--

          And down he’ll drop from Fancy’s heaven,

          The minute such call to love or mirth

          Proclaim’s he’s wanting on the earth!