The Complete Poems of Sir Thomas Moore

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With an ardor for liberty fresh as in youth
It first kindles the bard and gives life to his lyre;
Yet mellowed, even now, by that mildness of truth
Which tempers but chills not the patriot fire;

With an eloquence--not like those rills from a height,
Which sparkle and foam and in vapor are o'er;
But a current that works out its way into light
Thro' the filtering recesses of thought and of lore.

Thus gifted, thou never canst sleep in the shade;
If the stirrings of Genius, the music of fame,
And the charms of thy cause have not power to persuade,
Yet think how to Freedom thou'rt pledged by thy Name.

Like the boughs of that laurel by Delphi's decree
Set apart for the Fane and its service divine,
So the branches that spring from the old Russell tree
Are by Liberty _claimed_ for the use of her Shrine.

MY BIRTH-DAY.

"My birth-day"--what a different sound
That word had in my youthful ears!
And how, each time the day comes round,
Less and less white its mark appears!

"When first our scanty years are told,
It seems like pastime to grow old;
And as Youth counts the shining links
That Time around him binds so fast,
Pleased with the task, he little thinks
How hard that chain will press at last.
Vain was the man, and false as vain,
Who said--"were he ordained to run
"His long career of life again,
"He would do all that he _had_ done."--
Ah, 'tis not thus the voice that dwells
In sober birth-days speaks to me;
Far otherwise--of time it tells,
Lavished unwisely, carelessly:
Of counsel mockt; of talents made
Haply for high and pure designs,
But oft, like Israel's incense, laid
Upon unholy, earthly shrines;
Of nursing many a wrong desire,
Of wandering after Love too far,
And taking every meteor fire
That crost my pathway, for his star.--
All this it tells, and, could I trace
The imperfect picture o'er again.
With power to add, retouch, efface
The lights and shades, the joy and pain,
How little of the past would stay!
How quickly all should melt away--
All--but that Freedom of the Mind
Which hath been more than wealth to me;
Those friendships, in my boyhood twined,
And kept till now unchangingly,
And that dear home, that saving ark,
Where Love's true light at last I've found,
Cheering within, when all grows dark
And comfortless and stormy round!

FANCY.

The more I've viewed this world, the more I've found,
That filled as 'tis with scenes and creatures rare,
Fancy commands within her own bright round
A world of scenes and creatures far more fair.
Nor is it that her power can call up there
A single charm, that's not from Nature won,--
No more than rainbows in their pride can wear
A single tint unborrowed from the sun;
But 'tis the mental medium; it shines thro',
That lends to Beauty all its charm and hue;
As the same light that o'er the level lake
One dull monotony of lustre flings,
Will, entering in the rounded raindrop, make
Colors as gay as those on angels' wings!

SONG.

FANNY, DEAREST.

Yes! had I leisure to sigh and mourn,
Fanny dearest, for thee I'd sigh;
And every smile on my cheek should turn
To tears when thou art nigh.
But between love and wine and sleep,
So busy a life I live,
That even the time it would take to weep
Is more than my heart can give.
Then wish me not to despair and pine,
Fanny, dearest of all the dears!
The Love that's ordered to bathe in wine,
Would be sure to take cold in tears.

Reflected bright in this heart of mine,
Fanny dearest, thy image lies;
But ah! the mirror would cease to shine,
If dimmed too often with sighs.
They lose the half of beauty's light,
Who view it thro' sorrow's tear;
And 'tis but to see thee truly bright
That I keep my eye-beams clear.
Then wait no longer till tears shall flow--

Fanny, dearest! the hope is vain;
If sunshine cannot dissolve thy snow,
I shall never attempt it with rain.

TRANSLATIONS FROM CATULLUS.

CARM. 70.

_dicebas quondam, etc_.

TO LESBIA.

Thou told'st me, in our days of love,
That I had all that heart of thine;
That, even to share the couch of Jove,
Thou wouldst not, Lesbia, part from mine.

How purely wert thou worshipt then!
Not with the vague and vulgar fires
Which Beauty wakes in soulless men,--
But loved, as children by their sires.

That flattering dream, alas, is o'er;--
I know thee now--and tho' these eyes
Doat on thee wildly as before,
Yet, even in doating, I despise.

Yes, sorceress--mad as it may seem--
With all thy craft, such spells adorn thee,
That passion even outlives esteem.
And I at once adore--and scorn thee.

CARM. II.

_pauca nunciate meae puellae_.

Comrades and friends! with whom, where'er
The fates have willed thro' life I've roved,
Now speed ye home, and with you bear
These bitter words to her I've loved.

Tell her from fool to fool to run,
Where'er her vain caprice may call;
Of all her dupes not loving one,
But ruining and maddening all.

Bid her forget--what now is past--
Our once dear love, whose rain lies
Like a fair flower, the meadow's last.
Which feels the ploughshare's edge and dies!

CARM. 29.

_peninsularum Sirmio, insularumque ocelle_.

Sweet Sirmio! thou, the very eye
Of all peninsulas and isles,
That in our lakes of silver lie,
Or sleep enwreathed by Neptune's smiles--

How gladly back to thee I fly!
Still doubting, asking--_can_ it be
That I have left Bithynia's sky,
And gaze in safety upon thee?

Oh! what is happier than to find
Our hearts at ease, our perils past;
When, anxious long, the lightened mind
Lays down its load of care at last:

When tired with toil o'er land and deep,
Again we tread the welcome floor
Of our own home, and sink to sleep
On the long-wished-for bed once more.

This, this it is that pays alone
The ills of all life's former track.--
Shine out, my beautiful, my own
Sweet Sirmio, greet thy master back.

And thou, fair Lake, whose water quaffs
The light of heaven like Lydia's sea,
Rejoice, rejoice--let all that laughs
Abroad, at home, laugh out for me!

TIBULLUS TO SULPICIA.

_nulla tuum nobis subducet femina lectum, etc.,
Lib. iv. Carm. 13_.

"Never shall woman's smile have power
"To win me from those gentle charms!"--
Thus swore I, in that happy hour,
When Love first gave thee to my arms.

And still alone thou charm'st my sight--
Still, tho' our city proudly shine
With forms and faces, fair and bright,
I see none fair or bright but thine.

Would thou wert fair for only me,
And couldst no heart but mine allure!--
To all men else unpleasing be,
So shall I feel my prize secure.

Oh, love like mine ne'er wants the zest
Of others' envy, others' praise;
But, in its silence safely blest,
Broods o'er a bliss it ne'er betrays.

Charm of my life! by whose sweet power
All cares are husht, all ills subdued--
My light in even the darkest hour,
My crowd in deepest solitude!

No, not tho' heaven itself sent down
Some maid of more than heavenly charms,
With bliss undreamt thy bard to crown,
Would he for her forsake those arms!

IMITATION.

FROM THE FRENCH.

With women and apples both Paris and Adam
Made mischief enough in their day:--
God be praised that the fate of mankind, my dear Madam,
Depends not on _us_, the same way.
For, weak as I am with temptation to grapple,
The world would have doubly to rue thee:

Like Adam, I'd gladly take _from_ thee the apple,
Like Paris, at once give it _to_ thee.

INVITATION TO DINNER.

ADDRESSED TO LORD LANSDOWNE.

September, 1818.

Some think we bards have nothing real;
That poets live among the stars so,
Their very dinners are ideal,--
(And, heaven knows, too oft they _are_ so,)--
For instance, that we have, instead
Of vulgar chops and stews and hashes,
First course--a Phoenix, at the head.
Done in its own celestial ashes;
At foot, a cygnet which kept singing
All the time its neck was wringing.
Side dishes, thus--Minerva's owl,
Or any such like learned fowl:
Doves, such as heaven's poulterer gets,
When Cupid shoots his mother's pets.
Larks stewed in Morning's roseate breath,
Or roasted by a sunbeam's splendor;
And nightingales, berhymed to death--
Like young pigs whipt to make them tender.

Such fare may suit those bards, who are able
To banquet at Duke Humphrey's table;
But as for me, who've long been taught
To eat and drink like other people;
And can put up with mutton, bought
Where Bromham[1] rears its ancient steeple--
If Lansdowne will consent to share
My humble feast, tho' rude the fare,
Yet, seasoned by that salt he brings
From Attica's salinest springs,
'Twill turn to dainties;--while the cup,
Beneath his influence brightening up,
Like that of Baucis, touched by Jove,
Will sparkle fit for gods above!

[1] A picturesque village in sight of my cottage, and from which it is
separated out by a small verdant valley.

VERSES TO THE POET CRABBE'S INKSTAND.[1]

(WRITTEN MAY, 1832.)

All, as he left it!--even the pen,
So lately at that mind's command,
Carelessly lying, as if then
Just fallen from his gifted hand.

Have we then lost him? scarce an hour,
A little hour, seems to have past,
Since Life and Inspiration's power
Around that relic breathed their last.

Ah, powerless now--like talisman
Found in some vanished wizard's halls,
Whose mighty charm with him began,
Whose charm with him extinguisht falls.

Yet, tho', alas! the gifts that shone
Around that pen's exploring track,
Be now, with its great master, gone,
Nor living hand can call them back;

Who does not feel, while thus his eyes
Rest on the enchanter's broken wand,
Each earth-born spell it worked arise
Before him in succession grand?

Grand, from the Truth that reigns o'er all;
The unshrinking truth that lets her light
Thro' Life's low, dark, interior fall,
Opening the whole, severely bright:

Yet softening, as she frowns along,
O'er scenes which angels weep to see--
Where Truth herself half veils the Wrong,
In pity of the Misery.

True bard!--and simple, as the race
Of true-born poets ever are,
When, stooping from their starry place,
They're children near, tho' gods afar.

How freshly doth my mind recall,
'Mong the few days I've known with thee,
One that, most buoyantly of all,
Floats in the wake of memory;[2]

When he, the poet, doubly graced,
In life, as in his perfect strain,
With that pure, mellowing power of Taste,
Without which Fancy shines in vain;

Who in his page will leave behind,
Pregnant with genius tho' it be,
But half the treasures of a mind,
Where Sense o'er all holds mastery:--

Friend of long years! of friendship tried
Thro' many a bright and dark event;
In doubts, my judge--in taste, my guide--
In all, my stay and ornament!

He, too, was of our feast that day,
And all were guests of one whose hand
Hath shed a new and deathless ray
Around the lyre of this great land;

In whose sea-odes--as in those shells
Where Ocean's voice of majesty
Seems still to sound--immortal dwells
Old Albion's Spirit of the Sea.

Such was our host; and tho', since then,
Slight clouds have risen 'twixt him and me,
Who would not grasp such hand again,
Stretched forth again in amity?

Who can, in this short life, afford
To let such mists a moment stay,
When thus one frank, atoning word,
Like sunshine, melts them all away?

Bright was our board that day--tho' _one_
Unworthy brother there had place;
As 'mong the horses of the Sun,
One was, they say, of earthly race.

Yet, _next_ to Genius is the power
Of feeling where true Genius lies;
And there was light around that hour
Such as, in memory, never dies;

Light which comes o'er me as I gaze,
Thou Relic of the Dead, on thee,
Like all such dreams of vanisht days,
Brightly, indeed--but mournfully!

[1] Soon after Mr. Crabbe's death, the sons of that gentleman did me the
honor of presenting to me the inkstand, pencil, etc., which their
distinguished father had long been in the habit of using.

[2] The lines that follow allude to a day passed in company with Mr.
Crabbe, many years since, when a party, consisting only of Mr. Rogers, Mr.
Crabbe, and the author of these verses, had the pleasure of dining with
Mr. Thomas Campbell, at his house at Sydenham.

TO CAROLINE, VISCOUNTESS VALLETORT.

WRITTEN AT LACOCK ABBEY, JANUARY, 1832.

When I would sing thy beauty's light,
Such various forms, and all so bright,
I've seen thee, from thy childhood, wear,
I know not which to call most fair,
Nor 'mong the countless charms that spring
For ever round thee, _which_ to sing.

When I would paint thee as thou _art_,
Then all thou _wert_ comes o'er my heart--
The graceful child in Beauty's dawn
Within the nursery's shade withdrawn,
Or peeping out--like a young moon
Upon a world 'twill brighten soon.
Then next in girlhood's blushing hour,
As from thy own loved Abbey-tower
I've seen thee look, all radiant, down,
With smiles that to the hoary frown
Of centuries round thee lent a ray,
Chasing even Age's gloom away;--
Or in the world's resplendent throng,
As I have markt thee glide along,
Among the crowds of fair and great
A spirit, pure and separate,
To which even Admiration's eye
Was fearful to approach too nigh;--
A creature circled by a spell
Within which nothing wrong could dwell;
And fresh and clear as from the source.
Holding through life her limpid course,
Like Arethusa thro' the sea,
Stealing in fountain purity.

Now, too, another change of light!
As noble bride, still meekly bright
Thou bring'st thy Lord a dower above
All earthly price, pure woman's love;
And showd'st what lustre Rank receives,
When with his proud Corinthian leaves
Her rose this high-bred Beauty weaves.

Wonder not if, where all's so fair,
To choose were more than bard can dare;
Wonder not if, while every scene
I've watched thee thro' so bright hath been,
The enamored muse should, in her quest
Of beauty, know not where to rest,
But, dazzled, at thy feet thus fall,
Hailing thee beautiful in all!

A SPECULATION.

Of all speculations the market holds forth,
The best that I know for a lover of pelf,
Is to buy Marcus up, at the price he is worth,
And then sell him at that which he sets on himself.

TO MY MOTHER.

WRITTEN IN A POCKET BOOK, 1822.

They tell us of an Indian tree,
Which, howsoe'er the sun and sky
May tempt its boughs to wander free,
And shoot and blossom wide and high,
Far better loves to bend its arms
Downward again to that dear earth,
From which the life that, fills and warms
Its grateful being, first had birth.
'Tis thus, tho' wooed by flattering friends,
And fed with fame (_if_ fame it be)
This heart, my own dear mother, bends,
With love's true instinct, back to thee!

LOVE AND HYMEN.

Love had a fever--ne'er could close
His little eyes till day was breaking;
And wild and strange enough, Heaven knows,
The things he raved about while waking.

To let him pine so were a sin;--
One to whom all the world's a debtor--
So Doctor Hymen was called in,
And Love that night slept rather better.

Next day the case gave further hope yet,
Tho' still some ugly fever latent;--
"Dose, as before"--a gentle opiate.
For which old Hymen has a patent.

After a month of daily call,
So fast the dose went on restoring,
That Love, who first ne'er slept at all,
Now took, the rogue! to downright snoring.

LINES ON THE ENTRY OF THE AUSTRIANS INTO NAPLES, 1821.

_carbone notati_.

Ay--down to the dust with them, slaves as they are,
From this hour let the blood in their dastardly veins,
That shrunk at the first touch of Liberty's war,
Be wasted for tyrants, or stagnate in chains.

On, on like a cloud, thro' their beautiful vales,
Ye locusts of tyranny, blasting them o'er--
Fill, fill up their wide sunny waters, ye sails
From each slave-mart of Europe and shadow their shore!

Let their fate be a mock-word--let men of all lands
Laugh out with a scorn that shall ring to the poles,
When each sword that the cowards let fall from their hands
Shall be forged into fetters to enter their souls.

And deep, and more deep, as the iron is driven,
Base slaves! let the whet of their agony be,
To think--as the Doomed often think of that heaven
They had once within reach--that they _might_ have been free.

Oh shame! when there was not a bosom whose heat
Ever rose 'bove the _zero_ of Castlereagh's heart.
That did not, like echo, your war-hymn repeat,
And send all its prayers with your Liberty's start;

When the world stood in hope--when a spirit that breathed
The fresh air of the olden time whispered about;
And the swords of all Italy, halfway unsheathed,
But waited one conquering cry to flash out!

When around you the shades of your Mighty in fame,
FILICAJAS and PETRARCHS, seemed bursting to view,
And their words and their warnings, like tongues of bright flame
Over Freedom's apostles, fell kindling on you!

Oh shame! that in such a proud moment of life
Worth the history of ages, when, had you but hurled
One bolt at your tyrant invader, that strife
Between freemen and tyrants had spread thro' the world--

That then--oh! disgrace upon manhood--even then,
You should falter, should cling to your pitiful breath;
Cower down into beasts, when you might have stood men,
And prefer the slave's life of prostration to death.

It is strange, it is dreadful:--shout, Tyranny, shout
Thro' your dungeons and palaces, "Freedom is o'er;"--
If there lingers one spark of her light, tread it out,
And return to your empire of darkness once more.

For if _such_ are the braggarts that claim to be free,
Come, Despot of Russia, thy feet let me kiss;
Far nobler to live the brute bondman of thee,
Than to sully even chains by a struggle like this!

SCEPTICISM.

Ere Psyche drank the cup that shed
Immortal Life into her soul,
Some evil spirit poured, 'tis said,
One drop of Doubt into the bowl--

Which, mingling darkly with the stream,
To Psyche's lips--she knew not why--
Made even that blessed nectar seem
As tho' its sweetness soon would die.

Oft, in the very arms of Love,
A chill came o'er her heart--a fear
That Death might, even yet, remove
Her spirit from that happy sphere.

"Those sunny ringlets," she exclaimed.
Twining them round her snowy fingers;
"That forehead, where a light unnamed,
"Unknown on earth, for ever lingers;

"Those lips, thro' which I feel the breath
"Of Heaven itself, whene'er they sever--
"Say, are they mine, beyond all death,
"My own, hereafter, and for ever?

"Smile not--I know that starry brow,
"Those ringlets, and bright lips of thine,
"Will always shine, as they do now--
"But shall _I_ live to see them shine?"

In vain did Love say, "Turn thine eyes
"On all that sparkles round thee here--
"Thou'rt now in heaven where nothing dies,
"And in these arms--what _canst_ thou fear?"

In vain--the fatal drop, that stole
Into that cup's immortal treasure,
Had lodged its bitter near her soul.
And gave a tinge to every pleasure.

And, tho' there ne'er was transport given
Like Psyche's with that radiant boy,
Here is the only face in heaven,
That wears a cloud amid its joy.

A JOKE VERSIFIED.

"Come, come," said Tom's father, "at your time of life,
"There's no longer excuse for thus playing the rake--
"It is time you should think, boy, of taking a wife"--
"Why, so it is, father--whose wife shall I take?"

ON THE DEATH OF A FRIEND.

Pure as the mantle, which, o'er him who stood
By Jordan's stream, descended from the sky,
Is that remembrance which the wise and good
Leave in the hearts that love them, when they die.

So pure, so precious shall the memory be,
Bequeathed, in dying, to our souls by thee--
So shall the love we bore thee, cherisht warm
Within our souls thro' grief and pain and strife,
Be, like Elisha's cruse, a holy charm,
Wherewith to "heal the waters" of this life!

TO JAMES CORRY, ESQ.

ON HIS MAKING ME A PRESENT OF A WINE STRAINER.

BRIGHTON, JUNE, 1825.

This life, dear Corry, who can doubt?--
Resembles much friend Ewart's[1] wine,
When _first_ the rosy drops come out,
How beautiful, how clear they shine!
And thus awhile they keep their tint,
So free from even a shade with some,
That they would smile, did you but hint,
That darker drops would _ever_ come.

But soon the ruby tide runs short,
Each minute makes the sad truth plainer,
Till life, like old and crusty port,
When near its close, requires a strainer.

_This_ friendship can alone confer,
Alone can teach the drops to pass,
If not as bright as _once_ they were,
At least unclouded, thro' the glass.

Nor, Corry, could a boon be mine.
Of which this heart were fonder, vainer,
Than thus, if life grow like old wine,
To have _thy_ friendship for its strainer.

[1] A wine-merchant.

FRAGMENT OF A CHARACTER.

Here lies Factotum Ned at last;
Long as he breathed the vital air,
Nothing throughout all Europe past
In which Ned hadn't some small share.

Whoe'er was _in_, whoe'er was _out_,
Whatever statesmen did or said,
If not exactly brought about,
'Twas all, at least, contrived by Ned.

With Nap, if Russia went to war,
'Twas owing, under Providence,
To certain hints Ned gave the Tsar--
(Vide his pamphlet--price, sixpence.)

If France was beat at Waterloo--
As all but Frenchmen think she was--
To Ned, as Wellington well knew,
Was owing half that day's applause.

Then for his news--no envoy's bag
E'er past so many secrets thro' it;
Scarcely a telegraph could wag
Its wooden finger, but Ned knew it.

Such tales he had of foreign plots,
With foreign names, one's ear to buzz in!
From Russia, _shefs_ and _ofs_ in lots,
From Poland, _owskis_ by the dozen.

When George, alarmed for England's creed,
Turned out the last Whig ministry,
And men asked--who advised the deed?
Ned modestly confest 'twas he.

For tho', by some unlucky miss,
He had not downright _seen_ the King,
He sent such hints thro' Viscount _This_,
To Marquis _That_, as clenched the thing.

The same it was in science, arts,
The Drama, Books, MS. and printed--
Kean learned from Ned his cleverest parts,
And Scott's last work by him was hinted.

Childe Harold in the proofs he read,
And, here and there infused some soul in't--
Nay, Davy's Lamp, till seen by Ned,
Had--odd enough--an awkward hole in't.

'Twas thus, all-doing and all-knowing,
Wit, statesman, boxer, chymist, singer,
Whatever was the best pie going,
In _that_ Ned--trust him--had his finger.

* * * * *

WHAT SHALL I SING THEE?

TO ----.

What shall I sing thee? Shall I tell
Of that bright hour, remembered well
As tho' it shone but yesterday,

When loitering idly in the ray
Of a spring sun I heard o'er-head,
My name as by some spirit said,
And, looking up, saw two bright eyes
Above me from a casement shine,
Dazzling my mind with such surprise
As they, who sail beyond the Line,
Feel when new stars above them rise;--
And it was thine, the voice that spoke,
Like Ariel's, in the mid-air then;
And thine the eye whose lustre broke--
Never to be forgot again!

What shall I sing thee? Shall I weave
A song of that sweet summer-eve,
(Summer, of which the sunniest part
Was that we, each, had in the heart,)
When thou and I, and one like thee,
In life and beauty, to the sound
Of our own breathless minstrelsy.
Danced till the sunlight faded round,
Ourselves the whole ideal Ball,
Lights, music, company, and all?

Oh, 'tis not in the languid strain
Of lute like mine, whose day is past,
To call up even a dream again
Of the fresh light those moments cast.

COUNTRY DANCE AND QUADRILLE.

One night the nymph called country dance--
(Whom folks, of late, have used so ill,
Preferring a coquette from France,
That mincing thing, _Mamselle_ quadrille)--

Having been chased from London down
To that most humble haunt of all
She used to grace--a Country Town--
Went smiling to the New-Year's Ball.

"Here, here, at least," she cried, tho' driven
"From London's gay and shining tracks--
"Tho', like a Peri cast from heaven,
"I've lost, for ever lost, Almack's--

"Tho' not a London Miss alive
"Would now for her acquaintance own me;
"And spinsters, even, of forty-five,
"Upon their honors ne'er have known me;

"Here, here, at least, I triumph still,
"And--spite of some few dandy Lancers.
"Who vainly try to preach Quadrille--
"See naught but _true-blue_ Country Dancers,

"Here still I reign, and, fresh in charms,
"My throne, like Magna Charta, raise
"'Mong sturdy, free-born legs and arms,
"That scorn the threatened _chaine anglaise_."

'Twas thus she said, as mid the din
Of footmen, and the town sedan,
She lighted at the King's Head Inn,
And up the stairs triumphant ran.

The Squires and their Squiresses all,
With young Squirinas, just _come out_,
And my Lord's daughters from the Hall,
(Quadrillers in their hearts no doubt,)--

All these, as light she tript upstairs,
Were in the cloak-room seen assembling--
When, hark! some new outlandish airs,
From the First Fiddle, set her trembling.