Thomas Moore (1779–1852)

          NAY, tell me not, dear, that the goblet drowns

                One charm of feeling, one fond regret;

          Believe me, a few of thy angry frowns

                Are all I’ve sunk in its bright wave yet.

                    Ne’er hath a beam

                    Been lost in the stream

                That ever was shed from thy form or soul;

                    The spell of those eyes,

                    The balm of thy sighs,

                Still float on the surface, and hallow by bowl.

          Then fancy not, dearest, that wine can steal

                One blissful dream of the heart from me;

          Like founts that awaken the pilgrim’s zeal,

          The bowl but brightens my love for thee.

          They tell us the Love in his fairy bower

                Had two blush-roses, of birth divine;

          He sprinkled the one with a rainbow’s shower,

                But bathed the other with mantling wine.

                    Soon did the buds

                    That drunk of the floods

                Distill’d by the rainbow decline and fade;

                    While those which the tide

                    Of ruby had dyed

                All blush’d into beauty, like thee, sweet maid!

          Then fancy not, dearest, that wine can steal

                One blissful dream of the heart from me;

          Like founts that awaken the pilgrim’s zeal,

                The bowl but brightens my love for thee.