The Complete Poems of Sir Thomas Moore

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[1] "This brought on an encounter between Malachi (the Monarch of Ireland
in the tenth century) and the Danes, in which Malachi defeated two of
their champions, whom he encountered successively, hand to hand, taking a
collar of gold from the neck of one, and carrying off the sword of the
other, as trophies of his victory."--_Warner's "History of Ireland,"_
vol. i. book ix.

[2] "Military orders of knights were very early established in Ireland;
long before the birth of Christ we find an hereditary order of Chivalry in
Ulster, called _Curaidhe na Craiobhe ruadh_, or the Knights of the
Red Branch, from their chief seat in Emania, adjoining to the palace of
the Ulster kings, called _Teagh na Craiobhe ruadh_, or the Academy of
the Red Branch; and contiguous to which was a large hospital, founded for
the sick knights and soldiers, called _Bronbhearg_, or the House of
the Sorrowful Soldier."--_O'Halloran's Introduction_, etc., part 1,
chap. 5.

[3] It was an old tradition, in the time of Giraldus, that Lough Neagh had
been originally a fountain, by whose sudden overflowing the country was
inundated, and a whole region, like the Atlantis of Plato, overwhelmed. He
says that the fishermen, in clear weather, used to point out to strangers
the tall ecclesiastical towers under the water.

THE SONG OF FIONNUALA.[1]

Silent, oh Moyle, be the roar of thy water,
Break not, ye breezes, your chain of repose,
While, murmuring mournfully, Lir's lonely daughter
Tells to the night-star her tale of woes.
When shall the swan, her death-note singing,
Sleep, with wings in darkness furled?
When will heaven, its sweet bell ringing,
Call my spirit from this stormy world?

Sadly, oh Moyle, to thy winter wave weeping,
Fate bids me languish long ages away;
Yet still in her darkness doth Erin lie sleeping,
Still doth the pure light its dawning delay.
When will that day-star, mildly springing,
Warm our isle with peace and love?
When will heaven, its sweet bell ringing,
Call my spirit to the fields above?

[1] To make this story intelligible in a song would require a much greater
number of verses than any one is authorized to inflict upon an audience at
once; the reader must therefore be content to learn, in a note, that
Fionnuala, the daughter of Lir, was, by some supernatural power,
transformed into a swan, and condemned to wander, for many hundred years,
over certain lakes and rivers in Ireland, till the coming of Christianity,
when the first sound of the mass-bell was to be the signal of her
release,--I found this fanciful fiction among some manuscript translations
from the Irish, which were begun under the direction of that enlightened
friend of Ireland, the late Countess of Moira.

COME, SEND ROUND THE WINE.

Come, send round the wine, and leave points of belief
To simpleton sages, and reasoning fools;
This moment's a flower too fair and brief,
To be withered and stained by the dust of the schools.
Your glass may be purple, and mine may be blue,
But, while they are filled from the same bright bowl,
The fool, who would quarrel for difference of hue,
Deserves not the comfort they shed o'er the soul.
Shall I ask the brave soldier, who fights by my side
In the cause of mankind, if our creeds agree?
Shall I give up the friend I have valued and tried,
If he kneel not before the same altar with me?
From the heretic girl of my soul should I fly,
To seek somewhere else a more orthodox kiss?
No, perish the hearts, and the laws that try
Truth, valor, or love, by a standard like this!

SUBLIME WAS THE WARNING.

Sublime was the warning that Liberty spoke,
And grand was the moment when Spaniards awoke
Into life and revenge from the conqueror's chain.
Oh, Liberty! let not this Spirit have rest,
Till it move, like a breeze, o'er the waves of the west--
Give the light of your look to each sorrowing spot,
Nor, oh, be the Shamrock of Erin forgot
While you add to your garland the Olive of Spain!

If the fame of our fathers, bequeathed with their rights,
Give to country its charm, and to home its delights,
If deceit be a wound, and suspicion a stain,
Then, ye men of Iberia; our cause is the same!
And oh! may his tomb want a tear and a name,
Who would ask for a nobler, a holier death,
Than to turn his last sigh into victory's breath,
For the Shamrock of Erin and Olive of Spain!

Ye Blakes and O'Donnels, whose fathers resigned
The green hills of their youth, among strangers to find
That repose which, at home, they had sighed for in vain,
Join, join in our hope that the flame, which you light,
May be felt yet in Erin, as calm, and as bright,
And forgive even Albion while blushing she draws,
Like a truant, her sword, in the long-slighted cause
Of the Shamrock of Erin and Olive of Spain!

God prosper the cause!--oh, it cannot but thrive,
While the pulse of one patriot heart is alive.
Its devotion to feel, and its rights to maintain;
Then, how sainted by sorrow, its martyrs will die!
The finger of Glory shall point where they lie;
While, far from the footstep of coward or slave.
The young spirit of Freedom shall shelter their grave
Beneath Shamrocks of Erin and Olives of Spain!

BELIEVE ME IF ALL THOSE ENDEARING YOUNG CHARMS.

Believe me, if all those endearing young charms,
Which I gaze on so fondly today,
Were to change by to-morrow, and fleet in my arms,
Like fairy-gifts fading away,
Thou wouldst still be adored, as this moment thou art.
Let thy loveliness fade as it will.
And around the dear ruin each wish of my heart
Would entwine itself verdantly still.

It is not while beauty and youth are thine own,
And thy cheeks unprofaned by a tear,
That the fervor and faith of a soul can be known,
To which time will but make thee more dear;
No, the heart that has truly loved never forgets,
But as truly loves on to the close,
As the sun-flower turns on her god, when he sets,
The same look which she turned when he rose.

ERIN, OH ERIN.

Like the bright lamp, that shone in Kildare's holy fane,[1]
And burn'd thro' long ages of darkness and storm,
Is the heart that sorrows have frowned on in vain,
Whose spirit outlives them, unfading and warm.
Erin, oh Erin, thus bright thro' the tears
Of a long night of bondage, thy spirit appears.

The nations have fallen, and thou still art young,
Thy sun is but rising, when others are set;
And tho' slavery's cloud o'er thy morning hath hung,
The full noon of freedom shall beam round thee yet.
Erin, oh Erin, tho' long in the shade,
Thy star will shine out when the proudest shall fade.

Unchilled by the rain, and unwaked by the wind,
The lily lies sleeping thro' winter's cold hour,
Till Spring's light touch her fetters unbind,
And daylight and liberty bless the young flower.
Thus Erin, oh Erin, _thy_ winter is past,
And the hope that lived thro' it shall blossom at last.

[1] The inextinguishable fire of St. Bridget, at Kildare, which Giraldus
mentions.

DRINK TO HER.

Drink to her, who long,
Hath waked the poet's sigh.
The girl, who gave to song
What gold could never buy.
Oh! woman's heart was made
For minstrel hands alone;
By other fingers played,
It yields not half the tone.
Then here's to her, who long
Hath waked the poet's sigh,
The girl who gave to song
What gold could never buy.

At Beauty's door of glass,
When Wealth and Wit once stood,
They asked her '_which_ might pass?"
She answered, "he, who could."
With golden key Wealth thought
To pass--but 'twould not do:
While Wit a diamond brought,
Which cut his bright way through.
So here's to her, who long
Hath waked the poet's sigh,
The girl, who gave to song
What gold could never buy.

The love that seeks a home
Where wealth or grandeur shines,
Is like the gloomy gnome,
That dwells in dark gold mines.
But oh! the poet's love
Can boast a brighter sphere;
Its native home's above,
Tho' woman keeps it here.
Then drink to her, who long
Hath waked the poet's sigh,
The girl, who gave to song
What gold could never buy.

OH! BLAME NOT THE BARD.[1]

Oh! blame not the bard, if he fly to the bowers,
Where Pleasure lies, carelessly smiling at Fame;
He was born for much more, and in happier hours
His soul might have burned with a holier flame.
The string, that now languishes loose o'er the lyre,
Might have bent a proud bow to the warrior's dart;[2]
And the lip, which now breathes but the song of desire,
Might have poured the full tide of a patriot's heart.

But alas for his country!--her pride is gone by,
And that spirit is broken, which never would bend;
O'er the ruin her children in secret must sigh,
For 'tis treason to love her, and death to defend.
Unprized are her sons, till they've learned to betray;
Undistinguished they live, if they shame not their sires;
And the torch, that would light them thro' dignity's way,
Must be caught from the pile, where their country expires.

Then blame not the bard, if in pleasure's soft dream,
He should try to forget, what he never can heal:
Oh! give but a hope--let a vista but gleam
Thro' the gloom of his country, and mark how he'll feel!
That instant, his heart at her shrine would lay down
Every passion it nurst, every bliss it adored;
While the myrtle, now idly entwined with his crown,
Like the wreath of Harmodius, should cover his sword.

But tho' glory be gone, and tho' hope fade away,
Thy name, loved Erin, shall live in his songs;
Not even in the hour, when his heart is most gay,
Will he lose the remembrance of thee and thy wrongs.
The stranger shall hear thy lament on his plains;
The sigh of thy harp shall be sent o'er the deep,
Till thy masters themselves, as they rivet thy chains,
Shall pause at the song of their captive, and weep!

[1] We may suppose this apology to have been uttered by one of those
wandering bards, whom Spenser so severely, and perhaps, truly, describes
in his State of Ireland, and whose poems, he tells us, "were sprinkled
with some pretty flowers of their natural device, which have good grace
and comeliness unto them, the which it is great pity to see abused to the
gracing of wickedness and vice, which, with good usage, would serve to
adorn and beautify virtue."

[2] It is conjectured by Wormius, that the name of Ireland is derived from
Yr, the Runic for a _bow_ in the use of which weapon the Irish were once
very expert. This derivation is certainly more creditable to us than the
following: "So that Ireland, called the land of _Ire_, from the constant
broils therein for 400 years, was now become the land of concord."
_Lloyd's "State Worthies_," art. _The Lord Grandison_.

WHILE GAZING ON THE MOON'S LIGHT.

While gazing on the moon's light,
A moment from her smile I turned,
To look at orbs, that, more bright,
In lone and distant glory burned.
But _too_ far
Each proud star,
For me to feel its warming flame;
Much more dear
That mild sphere.
Which near our planet smiling came;
Thus, Mary, be but thou my own;
While brighter eyes unheeded play,
I'll love those moonlight looks alone,
That bless my home and guide my way.

The day had sunk in dim showers,
But midnight now, with lustre meet.
Illumined all the pale flowers,
Like hope upon a mourner's cheek.
I said (while
The moon's smile
Played o'er a stream, in dimpling bliss,)
"The moon looks
"On many brooks,
"The brook can see no moon but this;"[1]
And thus, I thought, our fortunes run,
For many a lover looks to thee,
While oh! I feel there is but _one_,
_One_ Mary in the world for me.

[1] This image was suggested by the following thought, which occurs
somewhere In Sir William Jones's works: "The moon looks upon many night-
flowers, the night flower sees but one moon."

ILL OMENS.

When daylight was yet sleeping under the billow,
And stars in the heavens still lingering shone.
Young Kitty, all blushing, rose up from her pillow,
The last time she e'er was to press it alone.
For the youth! whom she treasured her heart and her soul in,
Had promised to link the last tie before noon;
And when once the young heart of a maiden is stolen
The maiden herself will steal after it soon.

As she looked in the glass, which a woman ne'er misses.
Nor ever wants time for a sly glance or two,
A butterfly,[1] fresh from the night-flower's kisses.
Flew over the mirror, and shaded her view.
Enraged with the insect for hiding her graces,
She brushed him--he fell, alas; never to rise:
"Ah! such," said the girl, "is the pride of our faces,
"For which the soul's innocence too often dies."

While she stole thro' the garden, where heart's-ease was growing,
She culled some, and kist off its night-fallen dew;
And a rose, further on, looked so tempting and glowing,
That, spite of her haste, she must gather it too:
But while o'er the roses too carelessly leaning,
Her zone flew in two, and the
heart's-ease was lost:
"Ah! this means," said the girl
(and she sighed at its meaning),
"That love is scarce worth the
repose it will cost!"

[1] An emblem of the soul.

BEFORE THE BATTLE.

By the hope within us springing,
Herald of to-morrow's strife;
By that sun, whose light is bringing
Chains or freedom, death or life--
Oh! remember life can be
No charm for him, who lives not free!
Like the day-star in the wave,
Sinks a hero in his grave,
Midst the dew-fall of a nation's tears.

Happy is he o'er whose decline
The smiles of home may soothing shine
And light him down the steep of years:--
But oh, how blest they sink to rest,
Who close their eyes on victory's breast!

O'er his watch-fire's fading embers
Now the foeman's cheek turns white,
When his heart that field remembers,
Where we tamed his tyrant might.
Never let him bind again
A chain; like that we broke from then.
Hark! the horn of combat calls--
Ere the golden evening falls,
May we pledge that horn in triumph round![1]
Many a heart that now beats high,
In slumber cold at night shall lie,
Nor waken even at victory's sound--
But oh, how blest that hero's sleep,
O'er whom a wondering world shall weep!

[1] "The Irish Corna was not entirely devoted to martial purposes. In the
heroic ages, our ancestors quaffed Meadh out of them, as the Danish
hunters do their beverage at this day."--_Walker_.

AFTER THE BATTLE.

Night closed around the conqueror's way,
And lightnings showed the distant hill,
Where those who lost that dreadful day,
Stood few and faint, but fearless still.
The soldier's hope, the patriot's zeal,
For ever dimmed, for ever crost--
Oh! who shall say what heroes feel,
When all but life and honor's lost?

The last sad hour of freedom's dream,
And valor's task, moved slowly by,
While mute they watcht, till morning's beam
Should rise and give them light to die.
There's yet a world, where souls are free,
Where tyrants taint not nature's bliss;--
If death that world's bright opening be,
Oh! who would live a slave in this?

'TIS SWEET TO THINK.

'Tis sweet to think, that, where'er we rove,
We are sure to find something blissful and dear.
And that, when we're far from the lips we love,
We've but to make love to the lips, we are near.
The heart, like a tendril, accustomed to cling,
Let it grow where it will, can not flourish alone,
But will lean to the nearest and loveliest thing
It can twine with itself and make closely its own.

Then oh! what pleasure, where'er we rove,
To be sure to find something still that is dear,
And to know, when far from the lips we love,
We've but to make love to the lips we are near.

'Twere a shame, when flowers around us rise.
To make light of the rest, if the rose isn't there;
And the world's so rich in resplendent eyes,
'Twere a pity to limit one's love to a pair.
Love's wing and the peacock's are nearly alike,
They are both of them bright, but they're changeable too,
And, wherever a new beam of beauty can strike,
It will tincture Love's plume with a different hue.
Then oh! what pleasure, where'er we rove,
To be sure to find something still that is dear,
And to know, when far from the lips we love,
We've but to make love to the lips we are near.

THE IRISH PEASANT TO HIS MISTRESS.[1]

Thro' grief and thro' danger thy smile hath cheered my way,
Till hope seemed to bud from each thorn that round me lay;
The darker our fortune, the brighter our pure love burned,
Till shame into glory, till fear into zeal was turned;
Yes, slave as I was, in thy arms my spirit felt free,
And blest even the sorrows that made me more dear to thee.

Thy rival was honored, while thou wert wronged and scorned,
Thy crown was of briers, while gold her brows adorned;
She wooed me to temples, while thou lay'st hid in caves,
Her friends were all masters, while thine, alas! were slaves;
Yet cold in the earth, at thy feet, I would rather be,
Than wed what I loved not, or turn one thought from thee.

They slander thee sorely, who say thy vows are frail--
Hadst thou been a false one, thy cheek had looked less pale.
They say, too, so long thou hast worn those lingering chains,
That deep in thy heart they have printed their servile stains--
Oh! foul is the slander,--no chain could that soul subdue--
Where shineth _thy_ spirit, there liberty shineth too![2]

[1] Meaning, allegorically, the ancient Church of Ireland.

[2] "Where the Spirit of the Lord is, there is liberty"--_St. Paul's
Corinthians_ ii., l7.

ON MUSIC.

When thro' life unblest we rove,
Losing all that made life dear,
Should some notes we used to love,
In days of boyhood, meet our ear,
Oh! how welcome breathes the strain!
Wakening thoughts that long have slept;
Kindling former smiles again
In faded eyes that long have wept.

Like the gale, that sighs along
Beds of oriental flowers,
Is the grateful breath of song,
That once was heard in happier hours;
Filled with balm, the gale sighs on,
Tho' the flowers have sunk in death;
So, when pleasure's dream is gone,
Its memory lives in Music's breath.

Music, oh how faint, how weak,
Language fades before thy spell!
Why should Feeling ever speak,
When thou canst breathe her soul so well?
Friendship's balmy words may feign,
Love's are even more false than they;
Oh! 'tis only music's strain
Can sweetly soothe, and not betray.

IT IS NOT THE TEAR AT THIS MOMENT SHED.[1]

It is not the tear at this moment shed,
When the cold turf has just been laid o'er him,
That can tell how beloved was the friend that's fled,
Or how deep in our hearts we deplore him.
'Tis the tear, thro' many a long day wept,
'Tis life's whole path o'ershaded;
'Tis the one remembrance, fondly kept,
When all lighter griefs have faded.

Thus his memory, like some holy light,
Kept alive in our hearts, will improve them,
For worth shall look fairer, and truth more bright,
When we think how we lived but to love them.
And, as fresher flowers the sod perfume
Where buried saints are lying,
So our hearts shall borrow a sweetening bloom
From the image he left there in dying!

[1] These lines were occasioned by the loss of a very near and
dear relative, who had died lately at Madeira.

THE ORIGIN OF THE HARP.

'Tis believed that this Harp, which I wake now for thee,
Was a Siren of old, who sung under the sea;
And who often, at eve, thro' the bright waters roved,
To meet, on the green shore, a youth whom she loved.

But she loved him in vain, for he left her to weep,
And in tears, all the night, her gold tresses to steep;
Till heaven looked with pity on true-love so warm,
And changed to this soft Harp the sea-maiden's form.

Still her bosom rose fair--still her cheeks smiled the same--
While her sea-beauties gracefully formed the light frame;
And her hair, as, let loose, o'er her white arm it fell,
Was changed to bright chords uttering melody's spell.

Hence it came, that this soft Harp so long hath been known
To mingle love's language with sorrow's sad tone;
Till _thou_ didst divide them, and teach the fond lay
To speak love when I'm near thee, and grief when away.

LOVE'S YOUNG DREAM.

Oh! the days are gone, when Beauty bright
My heart's chain wove;
When my dream of life, from morn till night,
Was love, still love.
New hope may bloom,
And days may come,

Of milder, calmer beam,
But there's nothing half so sweet in life
As love's young dream;
No, there's nothing half so sweet in life
As love's young dream.

Tho' the bard to purer fame may soar,
When wild youth's past;
Tho' he win the wise, who frowned before,
To smile at last;
He'll never meet
A joy so sweet,
In all his noon of fame,
As when first he sung to woman's ear
His soul-felt flame,
And, at every close, she blushed to hear
The one lov'd name.

No,--that hallowed form is ne'er forgot
Which first love traced;
Still it lingering haunts the greenest spot
On memory's waste.
'Twas odor fled
As soon as shed;
'Twas morning's winged dream;
'Twas a light, that ne'er can shine again
On life's dull stream:
Oh! 'twas light that ne'er can shine again
On life's dull stream.

THE PRINCE'S DAY.[1]

Tho' dark are our sorrows, to-day we'll forget them,
And smile thro' our tears, like a sunbeam in showers:
There never were hearts, if our rulers would let them,
More formed to be grateful and blest than ours.
But just when the chain
Has ceased to pain,
And hope has enwreathed it round with flowers,
There comes a new link
Our spirits to sink--
Oh! the joy that we taste, like the light of the poles,
Is a flash amid darkness, too brilliant to stay;
But, tho' 'twere the last little spark in our souls,
We must light it up now, on our Prince's Day.

Contempt on the minion, who calls you disloyal!
Tho' fierce to your foe, to your friends you are true;
And the tribute most high to a head that is royal,
Is love from a heart that loves liberty too.
While cowards, who blight
Your fame, your right,
Would shrink from the blaze of the battle array,
The Standard of Green
In front would be seen,--
Oh, my life on your faith! were you summoned this minute,
You'd cast every bitter remembrance away,
And show what the arm of old Erin has in it,
When roused by the foe, on her Prince's Day.

He loves the Green Isle, and his love is recorded
In hearts, which have suffered too much to forget;
And hope shall be crowned, and attachment rewarded,
And Erin's gay jubilee shine out yet.
The gem may be broke
By many a stroke,
But nothing can cloud its native ray:
Each fragment will cast
A light, to the last,--
And thus, Erin, my country tho' broken thou art,
There's a lustre within thee that ne'er will decay;
A spirit, which beams thro' each suffering part,
And now smiles at all pain on the Prince's Day.

[1] This song was written for a _fete_ in honor of the Prince of
Wales's Birthday, given by my friend, Major Bryan, at his seat in the
county of Kilkenny.

WEEP ON, WEEP ON.

Weep on, weep on, your hour is past;
Your dreams of pride are o'er;
The fatal chain is round you cast,
And you are men no more.
In vain the hero's heart hath bled;
The sage's tongue hath warned in vain;--
Oh, Freedom! once thy flame hath fled,
It never lights again.

Weep on--perhaps in after days,
They'll learn to love your name;
When many a deed may wake in praise
That long hath slept in blame.
And when they tread the ruined isle,
Where rest, at length, the lord and slave,
They'll wondering ask, how hands so vile
Could conquer hearts so brave?

"'Twas fate," they'll say, "a wayward fate
"Your web of discord wove;
"And while your tyrants joined in hate,
"You never joined in love.
"But hearts fell off, that ought to twine,
"And man profaned what God had given;
"Till some were heard to curse the shrine,
"Where others knelt to heaven!"

LESBIA HATH A BEAMING EYE.

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.