English poem
(French Air.)
by Thomas Moore
Tho' 'tis all but a dream at the best, And still, when happiest, soonest o'er, Yet, even in a dream, to be blest Is so sweet, that I ask for no more. The bosom that opes With earliest hopes, The soonest finds those hopes untrue: As flowers that first In spring-time burst The earliest wither too! Ay--'tis all but a dream, etc.
Tho' by friendship we oft are deceived, And find love's sunshine soon o'ercast, Yet friendship will still be believed. And love trusted on to the last. The web 'mong the leaves The spider weaves Is like the charm Hope hangs o'er men; Tho' often she sees 'Tis broke by the breeze, She spins the bright tissue again. Ay--'tis all but a dream, etc.
WHEN THE WINE-CUP IS SMILING.