The Complete Poems of Sir Thomas Moore

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NE'ER ASK THE HOUR.

Ne'er ask the hour--what is it to us
How Time deals out his treasures?
The golden moments lent us thus,
Are not _his_ coin, but Pleasure's.
If counting them o'er could add to their blisses,
I'd number each glorious second:
But moments of joy are, like Lesbia's kisses,
Too quick and sweet to be reckoned.
Then fill the cup--what is it to us
How time his circle measures?
The fairy hours we call up thus,
Obey no wand but Pleasure's.

Young Joy ne'er thought of counting hours,
Till Care, one summer's morning,
Set up, among his smiling flowers,
A dial, by way of warning.
But Joy loved better to gaze on the sun,
As long as its light was glowing,
Than to watch with old Care how the shadows stole on,
And how fast that light was going.
So fill the cup--what is it to us
How Time his circle measures?
The fairy hours we call up thus,
Obey no wand but Pleasure's.

SAIL ON, SAIL ON.

Sail on, sail on, thou fearless bark--
Wherever blows the welcome wind,
It cannot lead to scenes more dark,
More sad than those we leave behind.
Each wave that passes seems to say,
"Tho' death beneath our smile may be,
Less cold we are, less false than they,
Whose smiling wrecked thy hopes and thee."
Sail on, sail on,--thro' endless space--
Thro' calm--thro' tempest--stop no more:
The stormiest sea's a resting place
To him who leaves such hearts on shore.
Or--if some desert land we meet,
Where never yet false-hearted men
Profaned a world, that else were sweet,--
Then rest thee, bark, but not till then.

THE PARALLEL.

Yes, sad one of Sion,[1] if closely resembling,
In shame and in sorrow, thy withered-up heart--
If drinking deep, deep, of the same "cup of trembling"
Could make us thy children, our parent thou art,

Like thee doth our nation lie conquered and broken,
And fallen from her head is the once royal crown;
In her streets, in her halls, Desolation hath spoken,
And "while it is day yet, her sun hath gone down."[2]

Like thine doth her exile, mid dreams of returning,
Die far from the home it were life to behold;
Like thine do her sons, in the day of their mourning,
Remember the bright things that blest them of old.

Ah, well may we call her, like thee "the Forsaken,"[3]
Her boldest are vanquished, her proudest are slaves;
And the harps of her minstrels, when gayest they waken,
Have tones mid their mirth like the wind over graves!

Yet hadst thou thy vengeance--yet came there the morrow,
That shines out, at last, on the longest dark night,
When the sceptre, that smote thee with slavery and sorrow,
Was shivered at once, like a reed, in thy sight.

When that cup, which for others the proud Golden City[4]
Had brimmed full of bitterness, drenched her own lips;
And the world she had trampled on heard, without pity,
The howl in her halls, and the cry from her ships.

When the curse Heaven keeps for the haughty came over
Her merchants rapacious, her rulers unjust,
And, a ruin, at last, for the earthworm to cover,[5]
The Lady of Kingdoms[6] lay low in the dust.

[1] These verses were written after the perusal of a treatise by Mr.
Hamilton, professing to prove that the Irish were originally Jews.

[2] 1 "Her sun is gone down while it was yet day."--_Jer_. xv. 9.

[3] "Thou shalt no more be termed Forsaken."--_Isaiah_, lxii. 4.

[4] "How hath the oppressor ceased! the golden city ceased!"--
_Isaiah_, xiv. 4.

[5] "Thy pomp is brought down to the grave . . . and the worms cover
thee."--_Isaiah_, xiv. 11.

[6] "Thou shalt no more be called the Lady of Kingdoms."--_Isaiah_,
xlvil. 5.

DRINK OF THIS CUP.

Drink of this cup;--you'll find there's a spell in
Its every drop 'gainst the ills of mortality;
Talk of the cordial that sparkled for Helen!
Her cup was a fiction, but this is reality.
Would you forget the dark world we are in,
Just taste of the bubble that gleams on the top of it;
But would you rise above earth, till akin
To Immortals themselves, you must drain every drop of it;
Send round the cup--for oh there's a spell in
Its every drop 'gainst the ills of mortality;
Talk of the cordial that sparkled for Helen!
Her cup was a fiction, but this is reality.

Never was philter formed with such power
To charm and bewilder as this we are quaffing;
Its magic began when, in Autumn's rich hour,
A harvest of gold in the fields it stood laughing.
There having, by Nature's enchantment, been filled
With the balm and the bloom of her kindliest weather,
This wonderful juice from its core was distilled
To enliven such hearts as are here brought together.
Then drink of the cup--you'll find there's a spell in
Its every drop 'gainst the ills of mortality;
Talk of the cordial that sparkled for Helen!
Her cup was a fiction, but this is reality.

And tho' perhaps--but breathe it to no one--
Like liquor the witch brews at midnight so awful,
This philter in secret was first taught to flow on,
Yet 'tisn't less potent for being unlawful.
And, even tho' it taste of the smoke of that flame,
Which in silence extracted its virtue forbidden--
Fill up--there's a fire in some hearts I could name,
Which may work too its charm, tho' as lawless and hidden.
So drink of the cup--for oh there's a spell in
Its every drop 'gainst the ills of mortality;
Talk of the cordial that sparkled for Helen!
Her cup was a fiction, but this is reality.

THE FORTUNE-TELLER.

Down in the valley come meet me to-night,
And I'll tell you your fortune truly
As ever 'twas told, by the new-moon's light,
To a young maiden, shining as newly.

But, for the world, let no one be nigh,
Lest haply the stars should deceive me;
Such secrets between you and me and the sky
Should never go farther, believe me.

If at that hour the heavens be not dim,
My science shall call up before you
A male apparition,--the image of him
Whose destiny 'tis to adore you.

And if to that phantom you'll be kind,
So fondly around you he'll hover,
You'll hardly, my dear, any difference find
'Twixt him and a true living lover.

Down at your feet, in the pale moonlight,
He'll kneel, with a warmth of devotion--
An ardor, of which such an innocent sprite
You'd scarcely believe had a notion.

What other thoughts and events may arise,
As in destiny's book I've not seen them,
Must only be left to the stars and your eyes
To settle, ere morning, between them.

OH, YE DEAD!

Oh, ye Dead! oh, ye Dead![1] whom we know by the light you give
From your cold gleaming eyes, tho' you move like men who live,
Why leave you thus your graves,
In far off fields and waves,
Where the worm and the sea-bird only know your bed,
To haunt this spot where all
Those eyes that wept your fall,
And the hearts that wailed you, like your own, lie dead?

It is true, it is true, we are shadows cold and wan;
And the fair and the brave whom we loved on earth are gone;
But still thus even in death,
So sweet the living breath
Of the fields and the flowers in our youth we wander'd o'er,
That ere, condemned, we go
To freeze mid Hecla's snow,
We would taste it awhile, and think we live once more!

[1] Paul Zealand mentions that there is a mountain in some part of
Ireland, where the ghosts of persons who have died in foreign lands walk
about and converse with those they meet, like living people. If asked why
they do not return to their homes, they say they are obliged to go to
Mount Hecla, and disappear immediately.

O'DONOHUE'S MISTRESS.

Of all the fair months, that round the sun
In light-linked dance their circles run,
Sweet May, shine thou for me;
For still, when thy earliest beams arise,
That youth, who beneath the blue lake lies,
Sweet May, returns to me.

Of all the bright haunts, where daylight leaves
Its lingering smile on golden eyes,
Fair Lake, thou'rt dearest to me;
For when the last April sun grows dim,
Thy Naiads prepare his steed[1] for him
Who dwells, bright Lake, in thee.

Of all the proud steeds, that ever bore
Young plumed Chiefs on sea or shore,
White Steed, most joy to thee;
Who still, with the first young glance of spring,
From under that glorious lake dost bring
My love, my chief, to me.

While, white as the sail some bark unfurls,
When newly launched, thy long mane[2] curls,
Fair Steed, as white and free;
And spirits, from all the lake's deep bowers,
Glide o'er the blue wave scattering flowers,
Around my love and thee.

Of all the sweet deaths that maidens die,
Whose lovers beneath the cold wave lie,
Most sweet that death will be,
Which, under the next May evening's light,
When thou and thy steed are lost to sight,
Dear love, I'll die for thee.

[1] The particulars of the tradition respecting Donohue and his White
Horse, may be found in Mr. Weld's Account of Killarney, or more fully
detailed in Derrick's Letters. For many years after his death, the spirit
of this hero is supposed to have been seen on the morning of Mayday,
gliding over the lake on his favorite white horse to the sound of sweet
unearthly music, and preceded by groups of youths and maidens, who flung
wreaths of delicate spring flowers in his path.

[2] The boatmen at Killarney call those waves which come on a windy day,
crested with foam, "O'Donohue's White Horses."

ECHO.

How sweet the answer Echo makes
To music at night,
When, roused by lute or horn, she wakes,
And far away, o'er lawns and lakes,
Goes answering light.

Yet Love hath echoes truer far,
And far more sweet,
Than e'er beneath the moonlight star,
Of horn or lute, or soft guitar,
The songs repeat.

'Tis when the sigh, in youth sincere,
And only then,--
The sigh that's breath'd for one to hear,
Is by that one, that only dear,
Breathed back again!

OH BANQUET NOT.

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 valor sleeps, unnamed, forgot.

THEE, THEE, ONLY THEE.

The dawning of morn, the daylight's sinking,
The night's long hours still find me thinking
Of thee, thee, only thee.
When friends are met, and goblets crowned,
And smiles are near, that once enchanted,
Unreached by all that sunshine round,
My soul, like some dark spot, is haunted
By thee, thee, only thee.

Whatever in fame's high path could waken
My spirit once, is now forsaken
For thee, thee, only thee.
Like shores, by which some headlong bark
To the ocean hurries, resting never,
Life's scenes go by me, bright or dark,
I know not, heed not, hastening ever
To thee, thee, only thee.

I have not a joy but of thy bringing,
And pain itself seems sweet when springing
From thee, thee, only thee.
Like spells, that naught on earth can break,
Till lips, that know the charm, have spoken,
This heart, howe'er the world may wake
Its grief, its scorn, can but be broken
By thee, thee, only thee.

SHALL THE HARP THEN BE SILENT.

Shall the Harp then be silent, when he who first gave
To our country a name, is withdrawn from all eyes?
Shall a Minstrel of Erin stand mute by the grave,
Where the first--where the last of her Patriots lies?

No--faint tho' the death-song may fall from his lips,
Tho' his Harp, like his soul, may with shadows be crost,
Yet, yet shall it sound, mid a nation's eclipse,
And proclaim to the world what a star hath been lost;--[1]

What a union of all the affections and powers
By which life is exalted, embellished, refined,
Was embraced in that spirit--whose centre was ours,
While its mighty circumference circled mankind.

Oh, who that loves Erin, or who that can see,
Thro' the waste of her annals, that epoch sublime--
Like a pyramid raised in the desert--where he
And his glory stand out to the eyes of all time;

That _one_ lucid interval, snatched from the gloom
And the madness of ages, when filled with his soul,
A Nation o'erleaped the dark bounds of her doom,
And for _one_ sacred instant, touched Liberty's goal?

Who, that ever hath heard him--hath drank at the source
Of that wonderful eloquence, all Erin's own,
In whose high-thoughted daring, the fire, and the force,
And the yet untamed spring of her spirit are shown?

An eloquence rich, wheresoever its wave
Wandered free and triumphant, with thoughts that shone thro',
As clear as the brook's "stone of lustre," and gave,
With the flash of the gem, its solidity too.

Who, that ever approached him, when free from the crowd,
In a home full of love, he delighted to tread
'Mong the trees which a nation had given, and which bowed,
As if each brought a new civic crown for his head--

Is there one, who hath thus, thro' his orbit of life
But at distance observed him--thro' glory, thro' blame,
In the calm of retreat, in the grandeur of strife,
Whether shining or clouded, still high and the same,--

Oh no, not a heart, that e'er knew him, but mourns
Deep, deep o'er the grave, where such glory is shrined--
O'er a monument Fame will preserve, 'mong the urns
Of the wisest, the bravest, the best of mankind!

[1] These lines were written on the death of our great patriot, Grattan,
in the year 1820. It is only the two first verses that are either intended
or fitted to be sung.

OH, THE SIGHT ENTRANCING.

Oh, the sight entrancing,
When morning's beam is glancing,
O'er files arrayed
With helm and blade,
And plumes, in the gay wind dancing!
When hearts are all high beating,
And the trumpet's voice repeating
That song, whose breath
May lead to death,
But never to retreating.
Oh the sight entrancing,
When morning's beam is glancing
O'er files arrayed
With helm and blade,
And plumes, in the gay wind dancing.

Yet, 'tis not helm or feather--
For ask yon despot, whether
His plumed bands
Could bring such hands
And hearts as ours together.
Leave pomps to those who need 'em--
Give man but heart and freedom,
And proud he braves
The gaudiest slaves
That crawl where monarchs lead 'em.
The sword may pierce the beaver,
Stone walls in time may sever,
'Tis mind alone,
Worth steel and stone,
That keeps men free for ever.
Oh that sight entrancing,
When the morning's beam is glancing,
O'er files arrayed
With helm and blade,
And in Freedom's cause advancing!

SWEET INNISFALLEN.

Sweet Innisfallen, fare thee well,
May calm and sunshine long be thine!
How fair thou art let others tell,--
To _feel_ how fair shall long be mine.

Sweet Innisfallen, long shall dwell
In memory's dream that sunny smile,
Which o'er thee on that evening fell,
When first I saw thy fairy isle.

'Twas light, indeed, too blest for one,
Who had to turn to paths of care--
Through crowded haunts again to run,
And leave thee bright and silent there;

No more unto thy shores to come,
But, on the world's rude ocean tost,
Dream of thee sometimes, as a home
Of sunshine he had seen and lost.

Far better in thy weeping hours
To part from thee, as I do now,
When mist is o'er thy blooming bowers,
Like sorrow's veil on beauty's brow.

For, though unrivalled still thy grace,
Thou dost not look, as then, _too_ blest,
But thus in shadow, seem'st a place
Where erring man might hope to rest--

Might hope to rest, and find in thee
A gloom like Eden's on the day
He left its shade, when every tree,
Like thine, hung weeping o'er his way.

Weeping or smiling, lovely isle!
And all the lovelier for thy tears--
For tho' but rare thy sunny smile,
'Tis heaven's own glance when it appears.

Like feeling hearts, whose joys are few,
But, when _indeed_ they come divine--
The brightest light the sun e'er threw
Is lifeless to one gleam of thine!

'TWAS ONE OF THOSE DREAMS.[1]

'Twas one of those dreams, that by music are brought,
Like a bright summer haze, o'er the poet's warm thought--
When, lost in the future, his soul wanders on,
And all of this life, but its sweetness, is gone.

The wild notes he heard o'er the water were those
He had taught to sing Erin's dark bondage and woes,
And the breath of the bugle now wafted them o'er
From Dinis' green isle, to Glena's wooded shore.

He listened--while, high o'er the eagle's rude nest,
The lingering sounds on their way loved to rest;
And the echoes sung back from their full mountain choir,
As if loath to let song so enchanting expire.

It seemed as if every sweet note, that died here,
Was again brought to life in some airier sphere,
Some heaven in those hills, where the soul of the strain
They had ceased upon earth was awaking again!

Oh forgive, if, while listening to music, whose breath
Seemed to circle his name with a charm against death,
He should feel a proud Spirit within him proclaim,
"Even so shalt thou live in the echoes of Fame:

"Even so, tho' thy memory should now die away,
'Twill be caught up again in some happier day,
And the hearts and the voices of Erin prolong,
Through the answering Future, thy name and thy song."

[1] Written during a visit to Lord Kenmare, at Killarney.

FAIREST! PUT ON AWHILE.

Fairest! put on awhile
These pinions of light I bring thee,
And o'er thy own green isle
In fancy let me wing thee.
Never did Ariel's plume,
At golden sunset hover
O'er scenes so full of bloom,
As I shall waft thee over.

Fields, where the Spring delays
And fearlessly meets the ardor
Of the warm Summer's gaze,
With only her tears to guard her.
Rocks, thro' myrtle boughs
In grace majestic frowning;
Like some bold warrior's brows
That Love hath just been crowning.

Islets, so freshly fair,
That never hath bird come nigh them,
But from his course thro' air
He hath been won down by them;--[1]
Types, sweet maid, of thee,
Whose look, whose blush inviting,
Never did Love yet see
From Heaven, without alighting.

Lakes, where the pearl lies hid,[2]
And caves, where the gem is sleeping,
Bright as the tears thy lid
Lets fall in lonely weeping.
Glens,[3] where Ocean comes,
To 'scape the wild wind's rancor,
And harbors, worthiest homes
Where Freedom's fleet can anchor.

Then, if, while scenes so grand,
So beautiful, shine before thee,
Pride for thy own dear land
Should haply be stealing o'er thee,
Oh, let grief come first,
O'er pride itself victorious--
Thinking how man hath curst
What Heaven had made so glorious!

[1] In describing the Skeligs (islands of the Barony of Forth), Dr.
Keating says, "There is a certain attractive virtue in the soil which
draws down all the birds that attempt to fly over it, and obliges them to
light upon the rock."

[2] "Nennius, a British writer of the ninth century, mentions the
abundance of pearls in Ireland. Their princes, he says, hung them behind
their ears: and this we find confirmed by a present made A.C. 1094, by
Gilbert, Bishop of Limerick, to Anselm, Archbishop of Canterbury, of a
considerable quantity of Irish pearls."--_O'Halloran_.

[3] Glengariff.

QUICK! WE HAVE BUT A SECOND.

Quick! we have but a second,
Fill round the cup, while you may;
For Time, the churl, hath beckoned,
And we must away, away!
Grasp the pleasure that's flying,
For oh, not Orpheus' strain
Could keep sweet hours from dying,
Or charm them to life again.
Then, quick! we have but a second,
Fill round the cup while you may;
For Time, the churl, hath beckoned,
And we must away, away!

See the glass, how it flushes.
Like some young Hebe's lip,
And half meets thine, and blushes
That thou shouldst delay to sip.
Shame, oh shame unto thee,
If ever thou see'st that day,
When a cup or lip shall woo thee,
And turn untouched away!
Then, quick! we have but a second,
Fill round, fill round, while you may;
For Time, the churl, hath beckoned,
And we must away, away!

AND DOTH NOT A MEETING LIKE THIS.

And doth not a meeting like this make amends,
For all the long years I've been wandering away--
To see thus around me my youth's early friends,
As smiling and kind as in that happy day?
Tho' haply o'er some of your brows, as o'er mine,
The snow-fall of time may be stealing--what then?
Like Alps in the sunset, thus lighted by wine,
We'll wear the gay tinge of youth's roses again.

What softened remembrances come o'er the heart,
In gazing on those we've been lost to so long!
The sorrows, the joys, of which once they were part,
Still round them, like visions of yesterday, throng,
As letters some hand hath invisibly traced,
When held to the flame will steal out on the sight,
So many a feeling, that long seemed effaced,
The warmth of a moment like this brings to light.

And thus, as in memory's bark we shall glide,
To visit the scenes of our boyhood anew,
Tho' oft we may see, looking down on the tide,
The wreck of full many a hope shining thro';
Yet still, as in fancy we point to the flowers,
That once made a garden of all the gay shore,
Deceived for a moment, we'll think them still ours,
And breathe the fresh air of life's morning once more.

So brief our existence, a glimpse, at the most,
Is all we can have of the few we hold dear;
And oft even joy is unheeded and lost,
For want of some heart, that could echo it, near.
Ah, well may we hope, when this short life is gone,
To meet in some world of more permanent bliss,
For a smile, or a grasp of the hand, hastening on,
Is all we enjoy of each other in this.

But, come, the more rare such delights to the heart,
The more we should welcome and bless them the more;
They're ours, when we meet,--they are lost when we part,
Like birds that bring summer, and fly when 'tis o'er.
Thus circling the cup, hand in hand, ere we drink,
Let Sympathy pledge us, thro' pleasure, thro' pain,
That, fast as a feeling but touches one link,
Her magic shall send it direct thro' the chain.

THE MOUNTAIN SPRITE.

In yonder valley there dwelt, alone,
A youth, whose moments had calmly flown,
Till spells came o'er him, and, day and night,
He was haunted and watched by a Mountain Sprite.

As once, by moonlight, he wander'd o'er
The golden sands of that island shore,
A foot-print sparkled before his sight--
'Twas the fairy foot of the Mountain Sprite!

Beside a fountain, one sunny day,
As bending over the stream he lay,
There peeped down o'er him two eyes of light,
And he saw in that mirror the Mountain Sprite.

He turned, but, lo, like a startled bird,
That spirit fled!--and the youth but heard
Sweet music, such as marks the flight
Of some bird of song, from the Mountain Sprite.

One night, still haunted by that bright look,
The boy, bewildered, his pencil took,
And, guided only by memory's light,
Drew the once-seen form of the Mountain Sprite.

"Oh thou, who lovest the shadow," cried
A voice, low whispering by his side,
"Now turn and see,"--here the youth's delight
Sealed the rosy lips of the Mountain Sprite.

"Of all the Spirits of land and sea,"
Then rapt he murmured, "there's none like thee,
"And oft, oh oft, may thy foot thus light
"In this lonely bower, sweet Mountain Sprite!"

AS VANQUISHED ERIN.

As vanquished Erin wept beside
The Boyne's ill-fated river,
She saw where Discord, in the tide,
Had dropt his loaded quiver.
"Lie hid," she cried, "ye venomed darts,
"Where mortal eye may shun you;
"Lie hid--the stain of manly hearts,
"That bled for me, is on you."

But vain her wish, her weeping vain,--
As Time too well hath taught her--
Each year the Fiend returns again,
And dives into that water;
And brings, triumphant, from beneath
His shafts of desolation,
And sends them, winged with worse than death,
Through all her maddening nation.

Alas for her who sits and mourns,
Even now, beside that river--
Unwearied still the Fiend returns,
And stored is still his quiver.
"When will this end, ye Powers of Good?"
She weeping asks for ever;
But only hears, from out that flood,
The Demon answer, "Never!"

DESMOND'S SONG.[1]

By the Feal's wave benighted,
No star in the skies,
To thy door by Love lighted,
I first saw those eyes.
Some voice whispered o'er me,
As the threshold I crost,
There was ruin before me,
If I loved, I was lost.

Love came, and brought sorrow
Too soon in his train;
Yet so sweet, that to-morrow
'Twere welcome again.
Though misery's full measure
My portion should be,
I would drain it with pleasure,
If poured out by thee.

You, who call it dishonor
To bow to this flame,
If you've eyes, look but on her,
And blush while you blame.
Hath the pearl less whiteness
Because of its birth?
Hath the violet less brightness
For growing near earth?

No--Man for his glory
To ancestry flies;
But Woman's bright story
Is told in her eyes.