Classic Poem

A Melody, by Thomas Moore.

Lesbia hath a beaming eye,
But no one knows for whom it beameth;
Right and left its arrows fly,
But what they aim at, no one dreameth.
Sweeter 'tis to gaze upon
My Norah's lid, that seldom rises;
Few her looks, but every one
Like unexpected light surprises.
O, my Norah Creina dear!
My gentle, bashful Norah Creina!
Beauty lies
In many eyes —
But Love's in thine, my Norah Creina!

Lesbia wears a robe of gold:
But all so tight the nymph hath laced it,
Not a charm of beauty's mould
Presumes to stay where nature placed it.
O, my Norah's gown for me,
That floats as wild as mountain breezes,
Leaving every beauty free
To sink or swell as Heaven pleases,
Yes, my Norah Creina dear!
My simple, graceful Norah Creina!
Nature's dress
Is loveliness —
The dress you wear, my Norah Creina!

Lesbia hath a wit refined;
But when its points are gleaming round us,
Who can tell if they're design'd
To dazzle merely, or to wound us?
Pillow'd on my Norah's breast,
In safer slumber Love reposes —
Bed of peace, whose roughest part
Is but the crumpling of the roses.
O, my Norah Creina dear!
My mild, my artless Norah Creina!
Wit, though bright,
Hath not the light
That warms your eyes, my Norah Creina!