Thomas Moore (1779–1852)

          WHEN in death I shall calmly recline,

                O bear my heart to my mistress dear,

          Tell her it lived upon smiles and wine

                Of the brightest hue, while it linger’d here.

          Bid her not shed one tear of sorrow

                To sully a heart so brilliant and light;

          But balmy drops of the red grape borrow,

                To bathe the relic from morn till night.

          When the light of my song is o’er,

                Then take my harp to your ancient hall;

          Hang it up at that friendly door,

                Where weary travellers love to call.

          Then if some bard, who roams forsaken,

                Revive its soft note in passing along,

          Oh! let one thought of its master waken

                Your warmest smile for the child of song.

          Keep this cup, which is now o’erflowing,

                To grace your revel, when I’m at rest;

          Never, oh! never its balm bestowing

                On lips that beauty hath seldom blest.

          But when some warm devoted lover

                To her he adores shall bathe its brim,

          Then, then my spirit around shall hover,

                And hallow each drop that foams for him.