There are sounds of mirth in the night-air ringing, <br />And lamps from every casement shown; <br />While voices blithe within are singing, <br />That seem to say "Come," in every tone. <br />Ah! once how light, in Life's young season, <br />My heart had leap'd at that sweet lay; <br />Nor paused to ask of greybeard Reason <br />Should I the syren call obey. <br /> <br />And, see -- the lamps still livelier glitter, <br />The syren lips more fondly sound; <br />No, seek, ye nymphs, some victim fitter <br />To sink in your rosy bondage bound. <br />Shall a bard,whom not the world in arms, <br />Could bend to tyranny's rude countroul, <br />Thus quail, at sight of woman's charms, <br />And yield to a smile his freeborn soul? <br /> <br />Thus sung the sage, while, slyly stealing, <br />The nymphs their fetters around him cast, <br />And -- their laughing eyes, the while, concealing -- <br />Led Freedom's Bard their slave at last. <br />For the Poet's heart, still prone to loving, <br />Was like that rock of the Druid race, <br />Which the gentlest touch at once set moving, <br />But all earth's power couldn't cast from its base.<br /><br />Thomas Moore<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/there-are-sounds-of-mirth/
