Hark! 'tis the light march, to whose measured time,
The Polish lady, by her lover led,
Delights thro' gay saloons with step untried to tread,
Or sweeter still, thro' moonlight walks
Whose shadows serve to hide
The blush that's raised by who talks
Of love the while by her side,
Then comes the smooth waltz, to whose floating sound
Like dreams we go gliding around,
Say, which shall we dance? which shall we dance?
THE EVENING GUN.
Remember'st thou that setting sun,
The last I saw with thee,
When loud we heard the evening gun
Peal o'er the twilight sea?
Boom!--the sounds appeared to sweep
Far o'er the verge of day,
Till, into realms beyond the deep,
They seemed to die away.
Oft, when the toils of day are done,
In pensive dreams of thee,
I sit to hear that evening gun,
Peal o'er the stormy sea.
Boom!--and while, o'er billows curled.
The distant sounds decay,
I weep and wish, from this rough world
Like them to die away.
LEGENDARY BALLADS.
TO
THE MISS FEILDINGS,
THIS VOLUME
IS INSCRIBED
BY
THEIR FAITHFUL FRIEND AND SERVANT,
THOMAS MOORE.
LEGENDARY BALLADS
THE VOICE.
It came o'er her sleep, like a voice of those days,
When love, only love was the light of her ways;
And, soft as in moments of bliss long ago,
It whispered her name from the garden below.
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