Susanna Moodie - "Life in the Backwoods"

Louisa Stuart Costello - "Béarn and the Pyrenees"

George S. Harney - "David Lannarck, Midget"

John Ruskin - "Val d'Arno"

Annual Bibliography of Commonwealth Literature 2007
This paper argues that discourses of love in Ghanaian market literature for youth offer a view into complex negotiations of agency and empowerment. Drawing on Deborah Durham's notion of youth as "social `shifters'" and Francis Nyamnjoh's conception of the "interconnectedness" of agency, I take Ghanaian market literature as one specific case of how African literature for youth foregrounds questions of continuity and change as African societies enter into increasingly complex global relations. In this literature for youth, received notions of love, often constructed out of impressions from American pop and hip hop music, carry new notions of agency that compete with existing "domesticated" forms. Authors like Ike Tandoh and Evelyn Tay employ discourses of love to offer youth alternative avenues for empowerment in a context of socio-economic disenfranchizement. In a creative process of "straddling", this writing both reveals and reproduces the contradictions that obtain in youth configurations of agency.

The Complete Poems of Sir Thomas Moore

T >> Thomas Moore et al >> The Complete Poems of Sir Thomas Moore




While the Monarch but traces
Thro' mortals his line,
Beauty, born of the Graces,
Banks next to Divine!


[1] "Thomas, the heir of the Desmond family, had accidentally been so
engaged in the chase, that he was benighted near Tralee, and obliged to
take shelter at the Abbey of Feal, in the house of one of his dependents,
called Mac Cormac. Catherine, a beautiful daughter of his host, instantly
inspired the Earl with a violent passion, which he could not subdue. He
married her, and by this inferior alliance alienated his followers, whose
brutal pride regarded this indulgence of his love as an unpardonable
degradation of his family."--_Leland_, vol. ii.






THEY KNOW NOT MY HEART.


They know not my heart, who believe there can be
One stain of this earth in its feelings for thee;
Who think, while I see thee in beauty's young hour,
As pure as the morning's first dew on the flower,
I could harm what I love,--as the sun's wanton ray
But smiles on the dew-drop to waste it away.

No--beaming with light as those young features are,
There's a light round thy heart which is lovelier far:
It is not that cheek--'tis the soul dawning clear
Thro' its innocent blush makes thy beauty so dear:
As the sky we look up to, tho' glorious and fair,
Is looked up to the more, because Heaven lies there!






I WISH I WAS BY THAT DIM LAKE.


I wish I was by that dim Lake,[1]
Where sinful souls their farewell take
Of this vain world, and half-way lie
In death's cold shadow, ere they die.
There, there, far from thee,
Deceitful world, my home should be;
Where, come what might of gloom and pain,
False hope should ne'er deceive again.

The lifeless sky, the mournful sound
Of unseen waters falling round;
The dry leaves, quivering o'er my head,
Like man, unquiet even when dead!
These, ay, these shall wean
My soul from life's deluding scene,
And turn each thought, o'ercharged with gloom,
Like willows, downward towards the tomb.

As they, who to their couch at night
Would win repose, first quench the light,
So must the hopes, that keep this breast
Awake, be quenched, ere it can rest.
Cold, cold, this heart must grow,
Unmoved by either joy or woe,
Like freezing founts, where all that's thrown
Within their current turns to stone.


[1] These verses are meant to allude to that ancient haunt of
superstition, called Patrick's Purgatory. "In the midst of these gloomy
regions of Donegall (says Dr. Campbell) lay a lake, which was to become
the mystic theatre of this fabled and intermediate state. In the lake were
several islands; but one of them was dignified with that called the Mouth
of Purgatory, which, during the dark ages, attracted the notice of all
Christendom, and was the resort of penitents and pilgrims from almost
every country in Europe."






SHE SUNG OF LOVE.


She sung of Love, while o'er her lyre
The rosy rays of evening fell,
As if to feed with their soft fire
The soul within that trembling shell.
The same rich light hung o'er her cheek,
And played around those lips that sung
And spoke, as flowers would sing and speak,
If Love could lend their leaves a tongue.

But soon the West no longer burned,
Each rosy ray from heaven withdrew;
And, when to gaze again I turned,
The minstrel's form seemed fading too.
As if _her_ light and heaven's were one,
The glory all had left that frame;
And from her glimmering lips the tone,
As from a parting spirit, came.

Who ever loved, but had the thought
That he and all he loved must part?
Filled with this fear, I flew and caught
The fading image to my heart--
And cried, "Oh Love! is this thy doom?
"Oh light of youth's resplendent day!
"Must ye then lose your golden bloom,
"And thus, like sunshine, die away?"






SING--SING--MUSIC WAS GIVEN.


Sing--sing--Music was given,
To brighten the gay, and kindle the loving;
Souls here, like planets in Heaven,
By harmony's laws alone are kept moving.
Beauty may boast of her eyes and her cheeks,
But Love from the lips his true archery wings;
And she, who but feathers the dart when she speaks,
At once sends it home to the heart when she sings.
Then sing--sing--Music was given,
To brighten the gay, and kindle the loving;
Souls here, like planets in Heaven,
By harmony's laws alone are kept moving.

When Love, rocked by his mother,
Lay sleeping as calm as slumber could make him,
"Hush, hush," said Venus, "no other
"Sweet voice but his own is worthy to wake him."
Dreaming of music he slumbered the while
Till faint from his lip a soft melody broke,
And Venus, enchanted, looked on with a smile,
While Love to his own sweet singing awoke.
Then sing--sing--Music was given,
To brighten the gay, and kindle the loving;
Souls here, like planets in Heaven,
By harmony's laws alone are kept moving.






THO' HUMBLE THE BANQUET.


Tho' humble the banquet to which I invite thee,
Thou'lt find there the best a poor bard can command:
Eyes, beaming with welcome, shall throng round, to light thee,
And Love serve the feast with his own willing hand.

And tho' Fortune may seem to have turned from the dwelling
Of him thou regardest her favoring ray,
Thou wilt find there a gift, all her treasures excelling,
Which, proudly he feels, hath ennobled his way.

'Tis that freedom of mind, which no vulgar dominion
Can turn from the path a pure conscience approves;
Which, with hope in the heart, and no chain on the pinion,
Holds upwards its course to the light which it loves.

'Tis this makes the pride of his humble retreat,
And, with this, tho' of all other treasures bereaved,
The breeze of his garden to him is more sweet
Than the costliest incense that Pomp e'er received.

Then, come,--if a board so untempting hath power
To win thee from grandeur, its best shall be thine;
And there's one, long the light of the bard's happy bower,
Who, smiling, will blend her bright welcome with mine.






SING, SWEET HARP.


Sing, sweet Harp, oh sing to me
Some song of ancient days,
Whose sounds, in this sad memory,
Long buried dreams shall raise;--
Some lay that tells of vanished fame,
Whose light once round us shone;
Of noble pride, now turned to shame,
And hopes for ever gone.--
Sing, sad Harp, thus sing to me;
Alike our doom is cast,
Both lost to all but memory,
We live but in the past.

How mournfully the midnight air
Among thy chords doth sigh,
As if it sought some echo there
Of voices long gone by;--
Of Chieftains, now forgot, who seemed
The foremost then in fame;
Of Bards who, once immortal deemed,
Now sleep without a name.--
In vain, sad Harp, the midnight air
Among thy chords doth sigh;
In vain it seeks an echo there
Of voices long gone by.

Couldst thou but call those spirits round.
Who once, in bower and hall,
Sat listening to thy magic sound,
Now mute and mouldering all;--
But, no; they would but wake to weep
Their children's slavery;
Then leave them in their dreamless sleep,
The dead, at least, are free!--
Hush, hush, sad Harp, that dreary tone,
That knell of Freedom's day;
Or, listening to its death-like moan,
Let me, too, die away.






SONG OF THE BATTLE EVE.

TIME--THE NINTH CENTURY.


To-morrow, comrade, we
On the battle-plain must be,
There to conquer, or both lie low!
The morning star is up,--
But there's wine still in the cup,
And we'll take another quaff, ere we go, boy, go;
We'll take another quaff, ere we go.

'Tis true, in manliest eyes
A passing tear will rise,
When we think of the friends we leave lone;
But what can wailing do?
See, our goblet's weeping too!
With its tears we'll chase away our own, boy, our own;
With its tears we'll chase away our own.

But daylight's stealing on;--
The last that o'er us shone
Saw our children around us play;
The next--ah! where shall we
And those rosy urchins be?
But--no matter--grasp thy sword and away, boy, away;
No matter--grasp thy sword and away!

Let those, who brook the chain
Of Saxon or of Dane,
Ignobly by their firesides stay;
One sigh to home be given,
One heartfelt prayer to heaven,
Then, for Erin and her cause, boy, hurra! hurra! hurra!
Then, for Erin and her cause, hurra!






THE WANDERING BARD.


What life like that of the bard can be--
The wandering bard, who roams as free
As the mountain lark that o'er him sings,
And, like that lark, a music brings
Within him, where'er he comes or goes,--
A fount that for ever flows!
The world's to him like some playground,
Where fairies dance their moonlight round;--
If dimmed the turf where late they trod,
The elves but seek some greener sod;
So, when less bright his scene of glee,
To another away flies he!

Oh, what would have been young Beauty's doom,
Without a bard to fix her bloom?
They tell us, in the moon's bright round,
Things lost in this dark world are found;
So charms, on earth long past and gone,
In the poet's lay live on.--
Would ye have smiles that ne'er grow dim?
You've only to give them all to him.
Who, with but a touch of Fancy's wand,
Can lend them life, this life beyond,
And fix them high, in Poesy's sky,--
Young stars that never die!

Then, welcome the bard where'er he comes,--
For, tho' he hath countless airy homes,
To which his wing excursive roves,
Yet still, from time to time, he loves
To light upon earth and find such cheer
As brightens our banquet here.
No matter how far, how fleet he flies,
You've only to light up kind young eyes,
Such signal-fires as here are given,--
And down he'll drop from Fancy's heaven,
The minute such call to love or mirth
Proclaims he's wanting on earth!






ALONE IN CROWDS TO WANDER ON.


Alone in crowds to wander on,
And feel that all the charm is gone
Which voices dear and eyes beloved
Shed round us once, where'er we roved--
This, this the doom must be
Of all who've loved, and lived to see
The few bright things they thought would stay
For ever near them, die away.

Tho' fairer forms around us throng,
Their smiles to others all belong,
And want that charm which dwells alone
Round those the fond heart calls its own.
Where, where the sunny brow?
The long-known voice--where are they now?
Thus ask I still, nor ask in vain,
The silence answers all too plain.

Oh, what is Fancy's magic worth,
If all her art can not call forth
One bliss like those we felt of old
From lips now mute, and eyes now cold?
No, no,--her spell is vain,--
As soon could she bring back again
Those eyes themselves from out the grave,
As wake again one bliss they gave.






I'VE A SECRET TO TELL THEE.


I've a secret to tell thee, but hush! not here,--
Oh! not where the world its vigil keeps:
I'll seek, to whisper it in thine ear,
Some shore where the Spirit of Silence sleeps;
Where summer's wave unmurmuring dies,
Nor fay can hear the fountain's gush;
Where, if but a note her night-bird sighs,
The rose saith, chidingly, "Hush, sweet, hush!"

There, amid the deep silence of that hour,
When stars can be heard in ocean dip,
Thyself shall, under some rosy bower,
Sit mute, with thy finger on thy lip:
Like him, the boy,[1] who born among
The flowers that on the Nile-stream blush,
Sits ever thus,--his only song
To earth and heaven, "Hush, all, hush!"


[1] The God of Silence, thus pictured by the Egyptians.






SONG OF INNISFAIL.


They came from a land beyond the sea,
And now o'er the western main
Set sail, in their good ships, gallantly,
From the sunny land of Spain.
"Oh, where's the Isle we've seen in dreams,
Our destined home or grave?"[1]
Thus sung they as, by the morning's beams,
They swept the Atlantic wave.

And, lo, where afar o'er ocean shines
A sparkle of radiant green,
As tho' in that deep lay emerald mines,
Whose light thro' the wave was seen.
"'Tis Innisfail[2]--'tis Innisfail!"
Rings o'er the echoing sea;
While, bending to heaven, the warriors hail
That home of the brave and free.

Then turned they unto the Eastern wave,
Where now their Day-God's eye
A look of such sunny-omen gave
As lighted up sea and sky.
Nor frown was seen thro' sky or sea,
Nor tear o'er leaf or sod,
When first on their Isle of Destiny
Our great forefathers trod.


[1] Milesius remembered the remarkable prediction of the principal Druid,
who foretold that the posterity of Gadelus should obtain the possession of
a Western Island (which was Ireland), and there inhabit.--_Keating_.

[2] The Island of Destiny, one of the ancient names of Ireland.






THE NIGHT DANCE.


Strike the gay harp! see the moon is on high,
And, as true to her beam as the tides of the ocean,
Young hearts, when they feel the soft light of her eye,
Obey the mute call and heave into motion.
Then, sound notes--the gayest, the lightest,
That ever took wing, when heaven looked brightest!
Again! Again!

Oh! could such heart-stirring music be heard
In that City of Statues described by romancers,
So wakening its spell, even stone would be stirred,
And statues themselves all start into dancers!

Why then delay, with such sounds in our ears,
And the flower of Beauty's own garden before us,--
While stars overhead leave the song of their spheres,
And listening to ours, hang wondering o'er us?
Again, that strain!--to hear it thus sounding
Might set even Death's cold pulses bounding--
Again! Again!

Oh, what delight when the youthful and gay,
Each with eye like a sunbeam and foot like a feather,
Thus dance, like the Hours to the music of May,
And mingle sweet song and sunshine together!






THERE ARE SOUNDS OF MIRTH.


There are sounds of mirth in the night-air ringing,
And lamps from every casement shown;
While voices blithe within are singing,
That seem to say "Come," in every tone.
Ah! once how light, in Life's young season,
My heart had leapt at that sweet lay;
Nor paused to ask of graybeard Reason
Should I the syren call obey.

And, see--the lamps still livelier glitter,
The syren lips more fondly sound;
No, seek, ye nymphs, some victim fitter
To sink in your rosy bondage bound.
Shall a bard, whom not the world in arms
Could bend to tyranny's rude control,
Thus quail at sight of woman's charms
And yield to a smile his freeborn soul?

Thus sung the sage, while, slyly stealing,
The nymphs their fetters around him cast,
And,--their laughing eyes, the while, concealing,--
Led Freedom's Bard their slave at last.
For the Poet's heart, still prone to loving,
Was like that rack of the Druid race,[1]
Which the gentlest touch at once set moving,
But all earth's power couldn't cast from its base.


[1] The Rocking Stones of the Druids, some of which no force is able to
dislodge from their stations.






OH, ARRANMORE, LOVED ARRANMORE.


Oh! Arranmore, loved Arranmore,
How oft I dream of thee,
And of those days when, by thy shore,
I wandered young and free.
Full many a path I've tried, since then,
Thro' pleasure's flowery maze,
But ne'er could find the bliss again
I felt in those sweet days.

How blithe upon thy breezy cliffs,
At sunny morn I've stood,
With heart as bounding as the skiffs
That danced along thy flood;
Or, when the western wave grew bright
With daylight's parting wing,
Have sought that Eden in its light,
Which dreaming poets sing;[1]--

That Eden where the immortal brave
Dwell in a land serene,--
Whose bowers beyond the shining wave,
At sunset, oft are seen.
Ah dream too full of saddening truth!
Those mansions o'er the main
Are like the hopes I built in youth,--
As sunny and as vain!


[1] "The inhabitants of Arranmore are still persuaded that, in a clear
day, they can see from this coast Hy Brysail or the Enchanted Island, the
paradise of the Pagan Irish, and concerning which they relate a number of
romantic stories",--_Beaufort's "Ancient Topography of Ireland_."






LAY HIS SWORD BY HIS SIDE.


Lay his sword by his side,[1]--it hath served him too well
Not to rest near his pillow below;
To the last moment true, from his hand ere it fell,
Its point was still turned to a flying foe.
Fellow-laborers in life, let them slumber in death,
Side by side, as becomes the reposing brave,--
That sword which he loved still unbroke in its sheath,
And himself unsubdued in his grave.

Yet pause--for, in fancy, a still voice I hear,
As if breathed from his brave heart's remains;--
Faint echo of that which, in Slavery's ear,
Once sounded the war-word, "Burst your chains!"
And it cries from the grave where the hero lies deep,
"Tho' the day of your Chieftain for ever hath set,
"Oh leave not his sword thus inglorious to sleep,--
"It hath victory's life in it yet!"

"Should some alien, unworthy such weapon to wield,
"Dare to touch thee, my own gallant sword,
"Then rest in thy sheath, like a talisman sealed,
Or return to the grave of thy chainless lord.
But, if grasped by a hand that hath learned the proud use
Of a falchion, like thee, on the battle-plain,--
Then, at Liberty's summons, like lightning let loose,
Leap forth from thy dark sheath again!"


[1] It was the custom of the ancient Irish, in the manner of the
Scythians, to bury the favorite swords of their heroes along with them.






OH, COULD WE DO WITH THIS WORLD OF OURS.


Oh, could we do with this world of ours
As thou dost with thy garden bowers,
Reject the weeds and keep the flowers,
What a heaven on earth we'd make it!
So bright a dwelling should be our own,
So warranted free from sigh or frown,
That angels soon would be coming down,
By the week or month to take it.

Like those gay flies that wing thro' air,
And in themselves a lustre bear,
A stock of light, still ready there,
Whenever they wish to use it;
So, in this world I'd make for thee,
Our hearts should all like fire-flies be,
And the flash of wit or poesy
Break forth whenever we choose it.

While every joy that glads our sphere
Hath still some shadow hovering near,
In this new world of ours, my dear,
Such shadows will all be omitted:--
Unless they're like that graceful one,
Which, when thou'rt dancing in the sun.
Still near thee, leaves a charm upon
Each spot where it hath flitted.






THE WINE-CUP IS CIRCLING.


The wine-cup is circling in Almhin's hall,[1]
And its Chief, mid his heroes reclining,
Looks up with a sigh, to the trophied wall,
Where his sword hangs idly shining.
When, hark! that shout
From the vale without,--
"Arm ye quick, the Dane, the Dane is nigh!"
Every Chief starts up
From his foaming cup,
And "To battle, to battle!" is the Finian's cry.

The minstrels have seized their harps of gold,
And they sing such thrilling numbers,
'Tis like the voice of the Brave, of old,
Breaking forth from the place of slumbers!
Spear to buckler rang,
As the minstrels sang,
And the Sun-burst[2] o'er them floated wide;
While remembering the yoke
Which their father's broke,
"On for liberty, for liberty!" the Finians cried.

Like clouds of the night the Northmen came,
O'er the valley of Almhin lowering;
While onward moved, in the light of its fame,
That banner of Erin, towering.
With the mingling shock
Rung cliff and rock,
While, rank on rank, the invaders die:
And the shout, that last,
O'er the dying past,
Was "victory! victory!"--the Finian's cry.


[1] The Palace of Fin Mac-Cumhal (the Fingal of Macpherson) in Leinster.
It was built on the top of the hill, which has retained from thence the
name of the Hill of Allen, in the county of Kildare. The Finians, or
Fenii, were the celebrated National Militia of Ireland, which this chief
commanded. The introduction of the Danes in the above song is an
anachronism common to most of the Finian and Ossianic legends.

[2] The name given to the banner of the Irish.






THE DREAM OF THOSE DAYS.


The dream of those days when first I sung thee is o'er,
Thy triumph hath stained the charm thy sorrows then wore;
And even of the light which Hope once shed o'er thy chains,
Alas, not a gleam to grace thy freedom remains.

Say, is it that slavery sunk so deep in thy heart,
That still the dark brand is there, though chainless thou art;
And Freedom's sweet fruit, for which thy spirit long burned,
Now, reaching at last thy lip, to ashes hath turned?

Up Liberty's steep by Truth and Eloquence led,
With eyes on her temple fixt, how proud was thy tread!
Ah, better thou ne'er hadst lived that summit to gain
Or died in the porch than thus dishonor the fane.






FROM THIS HOUR THE PLEDGE IS GIVEN.


From this hour the pledge is given,
From this hour my soul is thine:
Come what will, from earth or heaven,
Weal or woe, thy fate be mine.
When the proud and great stood by thee,
None dared thy rights to spurn;
And if now they're false and fly thee,
Shall I, too, basely turn?
No;--whate'er the fires that try thee,
In the same this heart shall burn.

Tho' the sea, where thou embarkest,
Offers now no friendly shore,
Light may come where all looks darkest,
Hope hath life when life seems o'er.
And, of those past ages dreaming,
When glory decked thy brow,
Oft I fondly think, tho' seeming
So fallen and clouded now,
Thou'lt again break forth, all beaming,--
None so bright, so blest as thou!






SILENCE IS IN OUR FESTAL HALLS.[1]


Silence is in our festal halls,--
Sweet Son of Song! thy course is o'er;
In vain on thee sad Erin calls,
Her minstrel's voice responds no more;--
All silent as the Eolian shell
Sleeps at the close of some bright day,
When the sweet breeze that waked its swell
At sunny morn hath died away.

Yet at our feasts thy spirit long
Awakened by music's spell shall rise;
For, name so linked with deathless song
Partakes its charm and never dies:
And even within the holy fane
When music wafts the soul to heaven,
One thought to him whose earliest strain
Was echoed there shall long be given.

But, where is now the cheerful day.
The social night when by thy side
He who now weaves this parting lay
His skilless voice with thine allied;
And sung those songs whose every tone,
When bard and minstrel long have past,
Shall still in sweetness all their own
Embalmed by fame, undying last.

Yes, Erin, thine alone the fame,--
Or, if thy bard have shared the crown,
From thee the borrowed glory came,
And at thy feet is now laid down.
Enough, if Freedom still inspire
His latest song and still there be.
As evening closes round his lyre,
One ray upon its chords from thee.


[1] It is hardly necessary, perhaps, to inform the reader, that these
lines are meant as a tribute of sincere friendship to the memory of an old
and valued colleague in this work, Sir John Stevenson.








NATIONAL AIRS




ADVERTISEMENT.


It is Cicero, I believe, who says "_natura, ad modes ducimur;_" and the
abundance of wild, indigenous airs, which almost every country, except
England, possesses, sufficiently proves the truth of his assertion. The
lovers of this simple, but interesting kind of music, are here presented
with the first number of a collection, which, I trust, their contributions
will enable us to continue. A pretty air without words resembles one of
those _half_ creatures of Plato, which are described as wandering in
search of the remainder of themselves through the world. To supply this
other half, by uniting with congenial words the many fugitive melodies
which have hitherto had none,--or only such as are unintelligible to the
generality of their hearers,--it is the object and ambition of the present
work. Neither is it our intention to confine ourselves to what are
strictly called National Melodies, but, wherever we meet with any
wandering and beautiful air, to which poetry has not yet assigned a worthy
home, we shall venture to claim it as an _estray_ swan, and enrich our
humble Hippocrene with its song.


T.M.






NATIONAL AIRS






A TEMPLE TO FRIENDSHIP.

(SPANISH AIR.)


"A Temple to Friendship;" said Laura, enchanted,
"I'll build in this garden,--the thought is divine!"
Her temple was built and she now only wanted
An image of Friendship to place on the shrine.
She flew to a sculptor, who set down before her
A Friendship, the fairest his art could invent;
But so cold and so dull, that the youthful adorer
Saw plainly this was not the idol she meant.

"Oh! never," she cried, "could I think of enshrining
"An image whose looks are so joyless and dim;--
"But yon little god, upon roses reclining,
"We'll make, if you please, Sir, a Friendship of him."
So the bargain was struck; with the little god laden
She joyfully flew to her shrine in the grove:
"Farewell," said the sculptor, "you're not the first maiden
"Who came but for Friendship and took away Love."






FLOW ON, THOU SHINING RIVER.

(PORTUGUESE AIR.)


Flow on, thou shining river;
But ere thou reach the sea
Seek Ella's bower and give her
The wreaths I fling o'er thee
And tell her thus, if she'll be mine
The current of our lives shall be,
With joys along their course to shine,
Like those sweet flowers on thee.

But if in wandering thither
Thou find'st she mocks my prayer,
Then leave those wreaths to wither
Upon the cold bank there;
And tell her thus, when youth is o'er,
Her lone and loveless Charms shall be
Thrown by upon life's weedy shore.
Like those sweet flowers from thee.

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