Page:Irish Melodies.djvu/35

Rh 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 but to bless these hours of shade That beauty and the moon were made; 'Tis then their 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 links so soon.

Fly not yet, the fount that play'd In times of old through 's shade* ,