Thomas Moore (1779–1852)

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 Nora’s lid that seldom rises;

Few its looks, but every one,

Like unexpected light, surprises!

Oh, my Nora Creina, dear,

My gentle, bashful Nora Creina,

Beauty lies

In many eyes,

But Love in yours, my Nora Creina.

Lesbia wears a robe of gold;

But all so close the nymph hath laced it,

Not a charm of beauty’s mould

Presumes to stay where Nature placed it.

Oh, my Nora’s gown for me,

That floats as wild as mountain breezes,

Leaving every beauty free

To sink or swell as Heaven pleases.

Yes, my Nora Creina, dear,

My simple, graceful Nora Creina,

Nature’s dress

Is loveliness—

The dress you wear, my Nora Creina.

Lesbia hath a wit refined;

But when its points are gleaming round us,

Who can tell if they’re designed

To dazzle merely, or to wound us?

Pillowed on my Nora’s heart,

In safer slumber Love reposes—

Bed of peace! whose roughest part

Is but the crumpling of the roses.

Oh, my Nora Creina, dear,

My mild, my artless Nora Creina!

Wit, though bright,

Hath no such light

As warms your eyes, my Nora Creina.