Thomas Moore (1779–1852)

          STRIKE the gay harp! see the moon is on high,

                And, as true to her beam as the tides of the ocean,

          Young hearts, when they feel the soft light of her eye,

                Obey the mute call, and heave into motion.

          Then, sound notes — the gayest, the lightest,

                That ever took wing, when heaven look’d brightest

                          Again! Again!

          Oh! could such heart-stirring music be heard

                In that City of Statues described by romancers,

          So wakening its spell, even stone would be stirr’d,

                And statues themselves all start into dancers!

          Why then delay, with such sounds in our ears,

                And the flower of Beauty’s own garden before us —

          While stars overhead leave the song of their spheres,

                And, listening to ours, hang wondering o’er us?

          Again, that strain! — to hear it thus sounding

                Might set even Death’s cold pulses bounding —

                          Again! Again!

          Oh, what delight when the youthful and gay

                Each with eye like a sunbeam and foot like a feather,

          Thus dance, like the Hours to the music of May,

                And mingle sweet song and sunshine together.