The Complete Poems of Sir Thomas Moore

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Likewise to show his mighty knowledge, he,
On things unknown in physiology,
Wrote many a chapter to divert us,
(Like that great little man Albertus,)
Wherein he showed the reason why,
When children first are heard to cry,
If boy the baby chance to be.
He cries O A!--if girl, O E!--
Which are, quoth he, exceeding fair hints
Respecting their first sinful parents;
"Oh Eve!" exclaimeth little madam,
While little master cries "Oh Adam!"

But, 'twas in Optics and Dioptrics,
Our daemon played his first and top tricks.
He held that sunshine passes quicker
Through wine than any other liquor;
And though he saw no great objection
To steady light and clear reflection,
He thought the aberrating rays,
Which play about a bumper's blaze,
Were by the Doctors looked, in common, on,
As a more rare and rich phenomenon.
He wisely said that the sensorium
Is for the eyes a great emporium,
To which these noted picture-stealers
Send all they can and meet with dealers.
In many an optical proceeding
The brain, he said, showed great good breeding;
For instance, when we ogle women
(A trick which Barbara tutored him in),
Although the dears are apt to get in a
Strange position on the retina,
Yet instantly the modest brain
Doth set them on their legs again!

Our doctor thus, with "stuft sufficiency"
Of all omnigenous omnisciency,
Began (as who would not begin
That had, like him, so much within?)
To let it out in books of all sorts,
Folios, quartos, large and small sorts;
Poems, so very deep and sensible
That they were quite incomprehensible
Prose, which had been at learning's Fair,
And bought up all the trumpery there,
The tattered rags of every vest,
In which the Greeks and Romans drest,
And o'er her figure swollen and antic
Scattered them all with airs so frantic,
That those, who saw what fits she had,
Declared unhappy Prose was mad!
Epics he wrote and scores of rebuses,
All as neat as old Turnebus's;
Eggs and altars, cyclopaedias,
Grammars, prayer-books--oh! 'twere tedious,
Did I but tell thee half, to follow me:
Not the scribbling bard of Ptolemy,
No--nor the hoary Trismegistus,
(Whose writings all, thank heaven! have missed us,)
E'er filled with lumber such a wareroom
As this great "_porcus literarum_!"

[1] Mamurra, a dogmatic philosopher, who never doubted about
anything, except who was his father.

[2] Bombastus was one of the names of that great scholar and
quack Paracelsus. He used to fight the devil every night with a
broadsword, to the no small terror of his pupil Oporinus, who has recorded
the circumstance.

[3] The angel, who scolded St. Jerome for reading Cicero, as
Gratian tells the story in his "_concordantia discordantium Canonum_," and
says, that for this reason bishops were not allowed to read the Classics.

[4] The idea of the Rabbins, respecting the origin of woman, is
not a little singular. They think that man was originally formed with a
tail, like a monkey, but that the Deity cut off this appendage, and made
woman of it.

[5] Scaliger.--Dagon was thought by others to be a certain
sea-monster, who came every day out of the Red Sea to teach the Syrians
husbandry.

[6] It is much to be regretted that Martin Luther, with all his
talents for reforming, should yet be vulgar enough to laugh at Camerarius
for writing to him in Greek, "Master Joachim (says he) has sent me some
dates and some raisins, and has also written me two letters in Greek. As
soon as I am recovered, I shall answer them in Turkish, that he too may
have the pleasure of reading what he does not understand."

[7] Or Glass-breaker--Morhofius has given an account of this
extraordinary man, in a work, published 1682.

* * * * *

POEMS RELATING TO AMERICA

TO FRANCIS, EARL OF MOIRA.

GENERAL IN HIS MAJESTY'S FORCES, MASTER-GENERAL OF THE ORDNANCE,
CONSTABLE OF THE TOWER, ETC.

MY LORD,

It is impossible to think of addressing a Dedication to your Lordship
without calling to mind the well-known reply of the Spartan to a
rhetorician, who proposed to pronounce an eulogium on Hercules. "Oh
Hercules!" said the honest Spartan, "who ever thought of blaming
Hercules?" In a similar manner the concurrence of public opinion has left
to the panegyrist of your Lordship a very superfluous task. I shall,
therefore, be silent on the subject, and merely entreat your indulgence to
the very humble tribute of gratitude which I have here the honor to
present.

I am, my Lord,
With every feeling of attachment and respect,
Your Lordship's very devoted Servant,

THOMAS MOORE.

_37 Bury Street, St. James's,
April 10, 1806_.

PREFACE.[1]

The principal poems in the following collection were written during an
absence of fourteen months from Europe. Though curiosity was certainly not
the motive of my voyage to America, yet it happened that the gratification
of curiosity was the only advantage which I derived from it. Finding
myself in the country of a new people, whose infancy had promised so much,
and whose progress to maturity has been an object of such interesting
speculation, I determined to employ the short period of time, which my
plan of return to Europe afforded me, in travelling through a few of the
States, and acquiring some knowledge of the inhabitants.

The impression which my mind received from the character and manners of
these republicans, suggested the Epistles which are written from the city
of Washington and Lake Erie.[2] How far I was right in thus assuming the
tone of a satirist against a people whom I viewed but as a stranger and a
visitor, is a doubt which my feelings did not allow me time to
investigate. All I presume to answer for is the fidelity of the picture
which I have given; and though prudence might have dictated gentler
language, truth, I think, would have justified severer.

I went to America with prepossessions by no means unfavorable, and indeed
rather indulged in many of those illusive ideas, with respect to the
purity of the government and the primitive happiness of the people, which
I had early imbibed In my native country, where, unfortunately, discontent
at home enhances every distant temptation, and the western world has long
been looked to as a retreat from real or imaginary oppression; as, in
short, the elysian Atlantis, where persecuted patriots might find their
visions realized, and be welcomed by kindred spirits to liberty and
repose. In all these flattering expectations I found myself completely
disappointed, and felt inclined to say to America, as Horace says to his
mistress, "_intentata nites_." Brissot, in the preface to his travels,
observes, that "freedom in that country is carried to so high a degree as
to border upon a state of nature;" and there certainly is a close
approximation to savage life not only in the liberty which they enjoy, but
in the violence of party spirit and of private animosity which results
from it. This illiberal zeal imbitters all social intercourse; and, though
I scarcely could hesitate in selecting the party, whose views appeared to
me the more pure and rational, yet I was sorry to observe that, in
asserting their opinions, they both assume an equal share of intolerance;
the Democrats consistently with their principles, exhibiting a vulgarity
of rancor, which the Federalists too often are so forgetful of their cause
as to imitate.

The rude familiarity of the lower orders, and indeed the unpolished state
of society in general, would neither surprise nor disgust if they seemed
to flow from that simplicity of character, that honest ignorance of the
gloss of refinement which may be looked for in a new and inexperienced
people. But, when we find them arrived at maturity in most of the vices,
and all the pride of civilization, while they are still so far removed
from its higher and better characteristics, it is impossible not to feel
that this youthful decay, this crude anticipation of the natural period of
corruption, must repress every sanguine hope of the future energy and
greatness of America.

I am conscious that, in venturing these few remarks, I have said just
enough to offend, and by no means sufficient to convince; for the limits
of a preface prevent me from entering into a justification of my opinions,
and I am committed on the subject as effectually as if I had written
volumes in their defence. My reader, however, is apprised of the very
cursory observation upon which these opinions are founded, and can easily
decide for himself upon the degree of attention or confidence which they
merit.

With respect to the poems in general, which occupy the following pages, I
know not in what manner to apologize to the public for intruding upon
their notice such a mass of unconnected trifles, such a world of epicurean
atoms as I have here brought in conflict together. To say that I have been
tempted by the liberal offers of my bookseller, is an excuse which can
hope for but little indulgence from the critic; yet I own that, without
this seasonable inducement, these poems very possibly would never have
been submitted to the world. The glare of publication is too strong for
such imperfect productions: they should be shown but to the eye of
friendship, in that dim light of privacy which is as favorable to poetical
as to female beauty, and serves as a veil for faults, while it enhances
every charm which it displays. Besides, this is not a period for the idle
occupations of poetry, and times like the present require talents more
active and more useful. Few have now the leisure to read such trifles, and
I most sincerely regret that I have had the leisure to write them.

[1] This Preface, as well as the Dedication which precedes it, were
prefixed originally to the miscellaneous volume entitled "Odes and
Epistles," of which, hitherto, the poems relating to my American tour have
formed a part.

[2] Epistles VI., VII., and VIII.

POEMS RELATING TO AMERICA.

TO LORD VISCOUNT STRANGFORD.

ABOARD THE PHAETON FRIGATE, OFF THE AZORES, BY MOONLIGHT.

Sweet Moon! if, like Crotona's sage,[1]
By any spell my hand could dare
To make thy disk its ample page,
And write my thoughts, my wishes there;
How many a friend, whose careless eye
Now wanders o'er that starry sky,
Should smile, upon thy orb to meet
The recollection, kind and sweet,
The reveries of fond regret,
The promise, never to forget,
And all my heart and soul would send
To many a dear-loved, distant friend.

How little, when we parted last,
I thought those pleasant times were past,
For ever past, when brilliant joy
Was all my vacant heart's employ:
When, fresh from mirth to mirth again,
We thought the rapid hours too few;
Our only use for knowledge then
To gather bliss from all we knew.
Delicious days of whim and soul!
When, mingling lore and laugh together,
We leaned the book on Pleasure's bowl,
And turned the leaf with Folly's feather.
Little I thought that all were fled,
That, ere that summer's bloom was shed,
My eye should see the sail unfurled
That wafts me to the western world.

And yet, 'twas time;--in youth's sweet days,
To cool that season's glowing rays,
The heart awhile, with wanton wing,
May dip and dive in Pleasure's spring;
But, if it wait for winter's breeze,
The spring will chill, the heart will freeze.
And then, that Hope, that fairy Hope,--
Oh! she awaked such happy dreams,
And gave my soul such tempting scope
For all its dearest, fondest schemes,
_That not Verona's child of song_,
When flying from the Phrygian shore,
With lighter heart could bound along,
Or pant to be a wanderer more!

Even now delusive hope will steal
Amid the dark regrets I feel,
Soothing, as yonder placid beam
Pursues the murmurers of the deep,
And lights them with consoling gleam,
And smiles them into tranquil sleep.
Oh! such a blessed night as this,
I often think, if friends were near,
How we should feel, and gaze with bliss
Upon the moon-bright scenery here!
The sea is like a silvery lake,
And, o'er its calm the vessel glides
Gently, as if it feared to wake
The slumber of the silent tides.
The only envious cloud that lowers
Hath hung its shade on Pico's height,[2]
Where dimly, mid the dusk, he towers,
And scowling at this heaven of light,
Exults to see the infant storm
Cling darkly round his giant form!

Now, could I range those verdant isles,
Invisible, at this soft hour,
And see the looks, the beaming smiles,
That brighten many an orange bower;
And could I lift each pious veil,
And see the blushing cheek it shades,--
Oh! I should have full many a tale,
To tell of young Azorian maids.[3]
Yes, Strangford, at this hour, perhaps,
Some lover (not too idly blest,
Like those, who in their ladies' laps
May cradle every wish to rest,)
Warbles, to touch his dear one's soul,
Those madrigals, of breath divine,
Which Camoens' harp from Rapture stole
And gave, all glowing warm, to thine.[4]
Oh! could the lover learn from thee,
And breathe them with thy graceful tone,
Such sweet, beguiling minstrelsy
Would make the coldest nymph his own.

But, hark!--the boatswain's pipings tell
'Tis time to bid my dream farewell:
Eight bells:--the middle watch is set;
Good night, my Strangford!--ne'er forget
That far beyond the western sea
Is one whose heart remembers thee.

[1] Pythagoras; who was supposed to have a power of writing upon the Moon
by the means of a magic mirror.--See _Boyle_, art. _Pythag_.

[2] A very high mountain on one of the Azores, from which the island
derives its name. It is said by some to be as high as the Peak of
Teneriffe.

[3] I believe it is Gutherie who says, that the inhabitants of the Azores
are much addicted to gallantry. This is an assertion in which even
Gutherie may be credited.

[4] These islands belong to the Portuguese.

STANZAS.

A beam of tranquillity smiled in the west,
The storms of the morning pursued us no more;
And the wave, while it welcomed the moment of rest.
Still heaved, as remembering ills that were o'er.

Serenely my heart took the hue of the hour,
Its passions were sleeping, were mute as the dead;
And the spirit becalmed but remembered their power,
As the billow the force of the gale that was fled.

I thought of those days, when to pleasure alone
My heart ever granted a wish or a sigh;
When the saddest emotion my bosom had known,
Was pity for those who were wiser than I.

I reflected, how soon in the cup of Desire
The pearl of the soul may be melted away;
How quickly, alas, the pure sparkle of fire
We inherit from heaven, may be quenched in the clay;

And I prayed of that Spirit who lighted the flame,
That Pleasure no more might its purity dim;
So that, sullied but little, or brightly the same,
I might give back the boon I had borrowed from Him.

How blest was the thought! it appeared as if Heaven
Had already an opening to Paradise shown;
As if, passion all chastened and error forgiven,
My heart then began to be purely its own.

I looked to the west, and the beautiful sky
Which morning had clouded, was clouded no more:
"Oh! thus," I exclaimed, "may a heavenly eye
"Shed light on the soul that was darkened before."

TO THE FLYING-FISH.[1]

When I have seen thy snow-white wing
From the blue wave at evening spring,
And show those scales of silvery white,
So gayly to the eye of light,
As if thy frame were formed to rise,
And live amid the glorious skies;
Oh! it has made me proudly feel,
How like thy wing's impatient zeal
Is the pure soul, that rests not, pent
Within this world's gross element,
But takes the wing that God has given,
And rises into light and heaven!

But, when I see that wing, so bright,
Grow languid with a moment's flight,
Attempt the paths of air in vain,
And sink into the waves again;
Alas! the flattering pride is o'er;
Like thee, awhile, the soul may soar,
But erring man must blush to think,
Like thee, again, the soul may sink.

Oh Virtue! when thy clime I seek,
Let not my spirit's flight be weak;
Let me not, like this feeble thing,
With brine still dropping from its wing,
Just sparkle in the solar glow
And plunge again to depths below;
But, when I leave the grosser throng
With whom my soul hath dwelt so long,
Let me, in that aspiring day,
Cast every lingering stain away,
And, panting for thy purer air,
Fly up at once and fix me there.

[1] It is the opinion of St. Austin upon Genesis, and I believe of nearly
all the Fathers, that birds, like fish, were originally produced from the
waters; in defence of which idea they have collected every fanciful
circumstance which can tend to prove a kindred similitude between them.
With this thought in our minds, when we first see the Flying-Fish, we
could almost fancy, that we are present at the moment of creation, and
witness the birth of the first bird from the waves.

TO MISS MOORE.

FROM NORFOLK, IN VIRGINIA, NOVEMBER, 1803.

In days, my Kate, when life was new,
When, lulled with innocence and you,
I heard, in home's beloved shade,
The din the world at distance made;
When, every night my weary head
Sunk on its own unthorned bed,
And, mild as evening's matron hour,
Looks on the faintly shutting flower,
A mother saw our eyelids close,
And blest them into pure repose;
Then, haply if a week, a day,
I lingered from that home away,
How long the little absence seemed!
How bright the look of welcome beamed,
As mute you heard, with eager smile,
My tales of all that past the while!

Yet now, my Kate, a gloomy sea
Bolls wide between that home and me;
The moon may thrice be born and die,
Ere even that seal can reach mine eye.
Which used so oft, so quick to come,
Still breathing all the breath of home,--
As if, still fresh, the cordial air
From lips beloved were lingering there.
But now, alas,--far different fate!
It comes o'er ocean, slow and late,
When the dear hand that filled its fold
With words of sweetness may lie cold.

But hence that gloomy thought! at last,
Beloved Kate, the waves are past;
I tread on earth securely now,
And the green cedar's living bough
Breathes more refreshment to my eyes
Than could a Claude's divinest dyes.
At length I touch the happy sphere
To liberty and virtue dear,
Where man looks up, and, proud to claim
His rank within the social frame,
Sees a grand system round him roll,
Himself its centre, sun, and soul!
Far from the shocks of Europe--far
From every wild, elliptic star
That, shooting with a devious fire,
Kindled by heaven's avenging ire,
So oft hath into chaos hurled
The systems of the ancient world.

The warrior here, in arms no more
Thinks of the toil, the conflict o'er,
And glorying in the freedom won
For hearth and shrine, for sire and son,
Smiles on the dusky webs that hide
His sleeping sword's remembered pride.
While Peace, with sunny cheeks of toil,
Walks o'er the free, unlorded soil,
Effacing with her splendid share
The drops that war had sprinkled there.
Thrice happy land! where he who flies
From the dark ills of other skies,
From scorn, or want's unnerving woes.
May shelter him in proud repose;
Hope sings along the yellow sand
His welcome to a patriot land:
The mighty wood, with pomp, receives
The stranger in its world of leaves,
Which soon their barren glory yield
To the warm shed and cultured field;
And he, who came, of all bereft,
To whom malignant fate had left
Nor hope nor friends nor country dear,
Finds home and friends and country here.

Such is the picture, warmly such,
That Fancy long, with florid touch.
Had painted to my sanguine eye
Of man's new world of liberty.
Oh! ask me not, if Truth have yet
Her seal on Fancy's promise set;
If even a glimpse my eyes behold
Of that imagined age of gold;--
Alas, not yet one gleaming trace![1]
Never did youth, who loved a face
As sketched by some fond pencil's skill,
And made by fancy lovelier still,
Shrink back with more of sad surprise,
When the live model met his eyes,
Than I have felt, in sorrow felt,
To find a dream on which I've dwelt
From boyhood's hour, thus fade and flee
At touch of stern reality!

But, courage, yet, my wavering heart!
Blame not the temple's meanest part,[2]
Till thou hast traced the fabric o'er;--
As yet, we have beheld no more
Than just the porch to Freedom's fame;
And, though a sable spot may stain
The vestibule, 'tis wrong, 'tis sin
To doubt the godhead reigns within!
So here I pause--and now, my Kate,
To you, and those dear friends, whose fate
Touches more near this home-sick soul
Than all the Powers from pole to pole,
One word at parting,--in the tone
Most sweet to you, and most my own,
The simple strain I send you here,
Wild though it be, would charm your ear,
Did you but know the trance of thought
In which my mind its numbers caught.
'Twas one of those half-waking dreams,
That haunt me oft, when music seems
To bear my soul in sound along,
And turn its feelings all to song.
I thought of home, the according lays
Came full of dreams of other days;
Freshly in each succeeding note
I found some young remembrance float,
Till following, as a clue, that strain
I wandered back to home, again.

Oh! love the song, and let it oft
Live on your lip, in accents soft.
Say that it tells you, simply well,
All I have bid its wild notes tell,--
Of Memory's dream, of thoughts that yet
Glow with the light of joy that's set,
And all the fond heart keeps in store
Of friends and scenes beheld no more.
And now, adieu!--this artless air,
With a few rhymes, in transcript fair,
Are all the gifts I yet can boast
To send you from Columbia's coast;
But when the sun, with warmer smile.
Shall light me to my destined isle.[3]
You shall have many a cowslip-bell,
Where Ariel slept, and many a shell,
In which that gentle spirit drew
From honey flowers the morning dew.

[1] Such romantic works as "The American Farmer's Letters," and the
account of Kentucky by Imlay, would seduce us into a belief, that
innocence, peace, and freedom had deserted the rest of the world for
Martha's Vineyard and the banks of the Ohio.

[2] Norfolk, it must be owned, presents an unfavorable specimen of
America. The characteristics of Virginia in general are not such as can
delight either the politician or the moralist, and at Norfolk they are
exhibited in their least attractive form. At the time when we arrived the
yellow fever had not yet disappeared, and every odor that assailed us in
the streets very strongly accounted for its visitation.

[3] Bermuda.

A BALLAD.

THE LAKE OF THE DISMAL SWAMP.

WRITTEN AT NORFOLK, IN VIRGINIA.

"They tell of a young man, who lost his mind upon the death of a girl
he loved, and who, suddenly disappearing from his friends, was never
afterwards heard of. As he had frequently said, in his ravings, that
the girl was not dead, but gone to the Dismal Swamp, it is supposed he
had wandered into that dreary wilderness, and had died of hunger, or
been lost in some of its dreadful morasses."--Anon.

_"La Poesie a ses monstres comme la nature."_
D'ALEMBERT.

"They made her a grave, too cold and damp
"For a soul so warm and true;
"And she's gone to the Lake of the Dismal Swamp,[1]
"Where, all night long, by a firefly lamp,
"She paddles her white canoe.

"And her fire-fly lamp I soon shall see,
"And her paddle I soon shall hear;
"Long and loving our life shall be,
"And I'll hide the maid in a cypress tree,
"When the footstep of death is near."

Away to the Dismal Swamp he speeds--
His path was rugged and sore,
Through tangled juniper, beds of reeds,
Through many a fen, where the serpent feeds,
And man never trod before.

And, when on the earth he sunk to sleep
If slumber his eyelids knew,
He lay, where the deadly vine doth weep
Its venomous tear and nightly steep
The flesh with blistering dew!

And near him the she-wolf stirred the brake,
And the copper-snake breathed in his ear,
Till he starting cried, from his dream awake,
"Oh! when shall I see the dusky Lake,
"And the white canoe of my dear?"

He saw the Lake, and a meteor bright
Quick over its surface played--
"Welcome," he said, "my dear one's light!"
And the dim shore echoed, for many a night,
The name of the death-cold maid.

Till he hollowed a boat of the birchen bark,
Which carried him off from shore;
Far, far he followed the meteor spark,
The wind was high and the clouds were dark,
And the boat returned no more.

But oft, from the Indian hunter's camp
This lover and maid so true
Are seen at the hour of midnight damp
To cross the Lake by a fire-fly lamp,
And paddle their white canoe!

[1] The Great Dismal Swamp is ten or twelve miles distant from
Norfolk, and the Lake in the middle of it (about seven miles long) is
called Drummond's Pond.

TO THE MARCHIONESS DOWAGER OF DONEGALL.

FROM BERMUDA, JANUARY, 1804.

Lady! where'er you roam, whatever land
Woos the bright touches of that artist hand;
Whether you sketch the valley's golden meads,
Where mazy Linth his lingering current leads;[1]
Enamored catch the mellow hues that sleep,
At eve, on Meillerie's immortal steep;
Or musing o'er the Lake, at day's decline,
Mark the last shadow on that holy shrine,[2]
Where, many a night, the shade of Tell complains
Of Gallia's triumph and Helvetia's chains;
Oh! lay the pencil for a moment by,
Turn from the canvas that creative eye,
And let its splendor, like the morning ray
Upon a shepherd's harp, illume my lay.