Page:Hero of Ballinacrazy.pdf/4

4

Fly not yet,’tis just the hour

When pleasure like the midnight flower,

That scorns the eye of vulgar light,

Begins to bloom for sons of night,

‘And maids who love the moon.

‘Twas just to bless these hours of shade

That beauty and the moon were made;

‘Tis then the soft attractions glowing,

Set the tides and goblets flowing

Oh stay! Oh stay!

Joy so seldom weaves a chain

Like this to-night, that oh! ‘tis pain

To break its link so soon.

Fly not yet, the fount that’s played,

In days of old through Ammon’s shade,

Though icy cold by day it ran,

Yet, like the sons of mirth, began

To burn, when night was near:

And so should woman’s heart and looks

By day be cold as winter brooke,

Nor kindle till the night returning,

Bring the genial hour for burning:

Oh stay! Oh stay!

When did morning ever break