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Thomas Moore - Oh, Banquet Not
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Oh, banquet not in those shining bowers, 
   Where Youth resorts, but come to me, 
For mine`s a garden of faded flowers, 
   More fit for sorrow, for age, and thee. 
And there we shall have our feast of tears, 
   And many a cup in silence pour; 
Our guests, the shades of former years, 
   Our toasts, to lips that bloom no more. 

There, while the myrtle`s withering boughs 
   Their lifeless leaves around us shed, 
We`ll brim the bowl to broken vows 
   To friends long lost, the changed, the dead. 
Or, while some blighted laurel waves 
   Its branches o`er the dreary spot, 
We`ll drink to those neglected graves 
   Where valour sleeps, unnamed, forgot.
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