The Complete Poems of Sir Thomas Moore

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

Pages:
1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17 | 18 | 19 | 20 | 21 | 22 | 23 | 24 | 25 | 26 | 27 | 28 | 29 | 30 | 31 | 32 | 33 | 34 | 35 | 36 | 37 | 38 | 39 | 40 | 41 | 42 | 43 | 44 | 45 | 46 | 47 | 48 | 49 | 50 | 51 | 52 | 53 | 54 | 55 | 56 | 57 | 58 | 59 | 60 | 61 | 62 | 63 | 64 | 65 | 66 | 67 | 68 | 69 | 70 | 71 | 72 | 73 | 74 | 75 | 76 | 77 | 78 | 79 | 80 | 81 | 82 | 83 | 84

"Fond girls!" an aged Zean said--
One who himself had fought and bled,
And now with feelings half delight,
Half sadness, watched their mimic fight--
"Fond maids! who thus with War can jest--
"Like Love in Mar's helmet drest,
"When, in his childish innocence,
"Pleased with the shade that helmet flings,
"He thinks not of the blood that thence
"Is dropping o'er his snowy wings.
"Ay--true it is, young patriot maids,
"If Honor's arm still won the fray,
"If luck but shone on righteous blades,
"War were a game for gods to play!
"But, no, alas!--hear one, who well
"Hath tracked the fortunes of the brave--
"Hear _me_, in mournful ditty, tell
"What glory waits the patriot's grave."

SONG.

As by the shore, at break of day,
A vanquished chief expiring lay.
Upon the sands, with broken sword,
He traced his farewell to the Free;
And, there, the last unfinished word
He dying wrote was "Liberty!"

At night a Sea-bird shrieked the knell
Of him who thus for Freedom fell;
The words he wrote, ere evening came,
Were covered by the sounding sea;--
So pass away the cause and name
Of him who dies for Liberty!

* * * * *

That tribute of subdued applause
A charmed but timid audience pays,
That murmur which a minstrel draws
From hearts that feel but fear to praise,
Followed this song, and left a pause
Of silence after it, that hung
Like a fixt spell on every tongue.

At length a low and tremulous sound
Was heard from midst a group that round
A bashful maiden stood to hide
Her blushes while the lute she tried--
Like roses gathering round to veil
The song of some young nightingale,
Whose trembling notes steal out between
The clustered leaves, herself unseen.
And while that voice in tones that more
Thro' feeling than thro' weakness erred,
Came with a stronger sweetness o'er
The attentive ear, this strain was heard:--

SONG.

I saw from yonder silent cave,[12]
Two Fountains running side by side;
The one was Memory's limpid wave,
The other cold Oblivion's tide.
"Oh Love!" said I, in thoughtless mood,
As deep I drank of Lethe's stream,
"Be all my sorrows in this flood
"Forgotten like a vanisht dream!"

But who could bear that gloomy blank
Where joy was lost as well as pain?
Quickly of Memory's fount I drank.
And brought the past all back again;
And said, "Oh Love! whate'er my lot,
"Still let this soul to thee be true--
"Rather than have one bliss forgot,
"Be all my pains remembered too!"

* * * * *

The group that stood around to shade
The blushes of that bashful maid,
Had by degrees as came the lay
More strongly forth retired away,
Like a fair shell whose valves divide
To show the fairer pearl inside:
For such she was--a creature, bright
And delicate as those day-flowers,
Which while they last make up in light
And sweetness what they want in hours.

So rich upon the ear had grown
Her voice's melody--its tone
Gathering new courage as it found
An echo in each bosom round--
That, ere the nymph with downcast eye
Still on the chords, her lute laid by,
"Another song," all lips exclaimed,
And each some matchless favorite named;
while blushing as her fingers ran
O'er the sweet chords she thus began:--

SONG.

Oh, Memory, how coldly
Thou paintest joy gone by:
Like rainbows, thy pictures
But mournfully shine and die.
Or if some tints thou keepest
That former days recall,
As o'er each line thou weepest,
Thy tears efface them all.

But, Memory, too truly
Thou paintest grief that's past;
Joy's colors are fleeting,
But those of Sorrow last.
And, while thou bringst before us
Dark pictures of past ill,
Life's evening closing o'er us
But makes them darker still.

* * * * *

So went the moonlight hours along,
In this sweet glade; and so with song
And witching sounds--not such as they,
The cymbalists of Ossa, played,
To chase the moon's eclipse away,[13]
But soft and holy--did each maid
Lighten her heart's eclipse awhile,
And win back Sorrow to a smile.

Not far from this secluded place,
On the sea-shore a ruin stood;--
A relic of the extinguisht race,
Who once o'er that foamy flood,
When fair Ioulis[14] by the light
Of golden sunset on the sight
Of mariners who sailed that sea,
Rose like a city of chrysolite
Called from the wave by witchery.
This ruin--now by barbarous hands
Debased into a motley shed,
Where the once splendid column stands
Inverted on its leafy head--
Formed, as they tell in times of old
The dwelling of that bard whose lay
Could melt to tears the stern and cold,
And sadden mid their mirth the gay--
Simonides,[15] whose fame thro' years
And ages past still bright appears--
Like Hesperus, a star of tears!

'Twas hither now--to catch a view
Of the white waters as they played
Silently in the light--a few
Of the more restless damsels strayed;
And some would linger mid the scent
Of hanging foliage that perfumed
The ruined walls; while others went
Culling whatever floweret bloomed

In the lone leafy space between,
Where gilded chambers once had been;
Or, turning sadly to the sea,
Sent o'er the wave a sigh unblest
To some brave champion of the Free--
Thinking, alas, how cold might be
At that still hour his place of rest!

Meanwhile there came a sound of song
From the dark ruins--a faint strain,
As if some echo that among
Those minstrel halls had slumbered long
Were murmuring into life again.

But, no--the nymphs knew well the tone--
A maiden of their train, who loved
Like the night-bird to sing alone.
Had deep into those ruins roved,
And there, all other thoughts forgot,
Was warbling o'er, in lone delight,
A lay that, on that very spot,
Her lover sung one moonlight night:--

SONG.

Ah! where are they, who heard, in former hours,
The voice of Song in these neglected bowers?
They are gone--all gone!

The youth who told his pain in such sweet tone
That all who heard him wisht his pain their own--
He is gone--he is gone!

And she who while he sung sat listening by
And thought to strains like these 'twere sweet to die--
She is gone--she too is gone!

'Tis thus in future hours some bard will say
Of her who hears and him who sings this lay--
They are gone--they both are gone!

* * * * *

The moon was now, from heaven's steep,
Bending to dip her silvery urn
Into the bright and silent deep--
And the young nymphs, on their return
From those romantic ruins, found
Their other playmates ranged around
The sacred Spring, prepared to tune
Their parting hymn,[16] ere sunk the moon,
To that fair Fountain by whose stream
Their hearts had formed so many a dream.

Who has not read the tales that tell
Of old Eleusis' sacred Well,
Or heard what legend-songs recount
Of Syra and its holy Fount,[17]
Gushing at once from the hard rock
Into the laps of living flowers--
Where village maidens loved to flock,
On summer-nights and like the Hours
Linked in harmonious dance and song,
Charmed the unconscious night along;
While holy pilgrims on their way
To Delos' isle stood looking on,
Enchanted with a scene so gay,
Nor sought their boats till morning shone.

Such was the scene this lovely glade
And its fair inmates now displayed.
As round the Fount in linked ring
They went in cadence slow and light
And thus to that enchanted Spring
Warbled their Farewell for the night:--

SONG.

Here, while the moonlight dim
Falls on that mossy brim,
Sing we our Fountain Hymn,
Maidens of Zea!
Nothing but Music's strain,
When Lovers part in pain,
Soothes till they meet again,
Oh, Maids of Zea!

Bright Fount so clear and cold
Round which the nymphs of old
Stood with their locks of gold,
Fountain of Zea!
Not even Castaly,
Famed tho' its streamlet be,
Murmurs or shines like thee,
Oh, Fount of Zea!

Thou, while our hymn we sing,
Thy silver voice shalt bring,
Answering, answering,
Sweet Fount of Zea!
For of all rills that run
Sparkling by moon or sun
Thou art the fairest one,
Bright Fount of Zea!

Now, by those stars that glance
Over heaven's still expanse
Weave we our mirthful dance,
Daughters of Zea!
Such as in former days
Danced they by Dian's rays
Where the Eurotas strays,
Oh, Maids of Zea!

But when to merry feet
Hearts with no echo beat,
Say, can the dance be sweet?
Maidens of Zea!
No, naught but Music's strain,
When lovers part in pain,
Soothes till they meet again,
Oh, Maids of Zea!

SECOND EVENING.

SONG.

When evening shades are falling
O'er Ocean's sunny sleep,
To pilgrims' hearts recalling
Their home beyond the deep;
When rest o'er all descending
The shores with gladness smile,
And lutes their echoes blending
Are heard from isle to isle,
Then, Mary, Star of the Sea,
We pray, we pray, to thee!

The noon-day tempest over,
Now Ocean toils no more,
And wings of halcyons hover
Where all was strife before.
Oh thus may life in closing
Its short tempestuous day
Beneath heaven's smile reposing
Shine all its storms away:
Thus, Mary, Star of the Sea,
We pray, we pray, to thee!

On Helle's sea the light grew dim
As the last sounds of that sweet hymn
Floated along its azure tide--
Floated in light as if the lay
Had mixt with sunset's fading ray
And light and song together died.
So soft thro' evening's air had breathed
That choir of youthful voices wreathed
In many-linked harmony,
That boats then hurrying o'er the sea
Paused when they reached this fairy shore,
And lingered till the strain was o'er.

Of those young maids who've met to fleet
In song and dance this evening's hours,
Far happier now the bosoms beat
Than when they last adorned these bowers;
For tidings of glad sound had come,
At break of day from the far isles--
Tidings like breath of life to some--
That Zea's sons would soon wing home,
Crowded with the light of Victory's smiles
To meet that brightest of all meeds
That wait on high, heroic deeds.
When gentle eyes that scarce for tears
Could trace the warrior's parting track,
Shall like a misty morn that clears
When the long-absent sun appears
Shine out all bliss to hail him back.

How fickle still the youthful breast!--
More fond of change than a young moon,
No joy so new was e'er possest
But Youth would leave for newer soon.
These Zean nymphs tho' bright the spot
Where first they held their evening play
As ever fell to fairy's lot
To wanton o'er by midnight's ray,
Had now exchanged that sheltered scene
For a wide glade beside the sea--
A lawn whose soft expanse of green
Turned to the west sun smilingly
As tho' in conscious beauty bright
It joyed to give him light for light.

And ne'er did evening more serene
Look down from heaven on lovelier scene.
Calm lay the flood around while fleet
O'er the blue shining element
Light barks as if with fairy feet
That stirred not the husht waters went;
Some, that ere rosy eve fell o'er
The blushing wave, with mainsail free,
Had put forth from the Attic shore,
Or the near Isle of Ebony;--
Some, Hydriot barks that deep in caves
Beneath Colonna's pillared cliffs,
Had all day lurked and o'er the waves
Now shot their long and dart-like skiffs.
Woe to the craft however fleet
These sea-hawks in their course shall meet,
Laden with juice of Lesbian vines,
Or rich from Naxos' emery mines;
For not more sure, when owlets flee
O'er the dark crags of Pendelee,
Doth the night-falcon mark his prey,
Or pounce on it more fleet than they.

And what a moon now lights the glade
Where these young island nymphs are met!
Full-orbed yet pure as if no shade
Had touched its virgin lustre yet;
And freshly bright as if just made
By Love's own hands of new-born light
Stolen from his mother's star tonight.

On a bold rock that o'er the flood
Jutted from that soft glade there stood
A Chapel, fronting towards the sea,--
Built in some by-gone century,--
Where nightly as the seaman's mark
When waves rose high or clouds were dark,
A lamp bequeathed by some kind Saint
Shed o'er the wave its glimmer faint.
Waking in way-worn men a sigh
And prayer to heaven as they went by.
'Twas there, around that rock-built shrine
A group of maidens and their sires
Had stood to watch the day's decline,
And as the light fell o'er their lyres
Sung to the Queen-Star of the Sea
That soft and holy melody.

But lighter thoughts and lighter song
Now woo the coming hours along.
For mark, where smooth the herbage lies,
Yon gay pavilion curtained deep
With silken folds thro' which bright eyes
From time to time are seen to peep;
While twinkling lights that to and fro
Beneath those veils like meteors go,
Tell of some spells at work and keep
Young fancies chained in mute suspense,
Watching what next may shine from thence,
Nor long the pause ere hands unseen
That mystic curtain backward drew,
And all that late but shone between
In half-caught gleams now burst to view.

A picture 'twas of the early days
Of glorious Greece ere yet those rays
Of rich, immortal Mind were hers
That made mankind her worshippers;
While yet unsung her landscapes shone
With glory lent by heaven alone;
Nor temples crowned her nameless hills,
Nor Muse immortalized her rills;
Nor aught but the mute poesy
Of sun and stars and shining sea
Illumed that land of bards to be.
While prescient of the gifted race
That yet would realm so blest adorn,
Nature took pains to deck the place
Where glorious Art was to be born.

Such was the scene that mimic stage
Of Athens and her hills portrayed
Athens in her first, youthful age,
Ere yet the simple violet braid,[18]
Which then adorned her had shone down
The glory of earth's loftiest crown.
While yet undreamed, her seeds of Art
Lay sleeping in the marble mine--
Sleeping till Genius bade them start
To all but life in shapes divine;
Till deified the quarry shone
And all Olympus stood in stone!

There in the foreground of that scene,
On a soft bank of living green
Sate a young nymph with her lap full
Of the newly gathered flowers, o'er which
She graceful leaned intent to cull
All that was there of hue most rich,
To form a wreath such as the eye
Of her young lover who stood by,
With pallet mingled fresh might choose
To fix by Painting's rainbow hues.

The wreath was formed; the maiden raised
Her speaking eyes to his, while he--
Oh _not_ upon the flowers now gazed,
But on that bright look's witchery.
While, quick as if but then the thought
Like light had reached his soul, he caught
His pencil up and warm and true
As life itself that love-look drew:
And, as his raptured task went on,
And forth each kindling feature shone,
Sweet voices thro' the moonlight air
From lips as moonlight fresh and pure
Thus hailed the bright dream passing there,
And sung the Birth of Portraiture.[19]

SONG.

As once a Grecian maiden wove
Her garland mid the summer bowers,
There stood a youth with eyes of love
To watch her while she wreathed the flowers.
The youth was skilled in Painting's art,
But ne'er had studied woman's brow,
Nor knew what magic hues the heart
Can shed o'er Nature's charms till now.

CHORUS.

Blest be Love to whom we owe
All that's fair and bright below.

His hand had pictured many a rose
And sketched the rays that light the brook;
But what were these or what were those
To woman's blush, to woman's look?
"Oh, if such magic power there be,
"This, this," he cried, "is all my prayer,
"To paint that living light I see
"And fix the soul that sparkles there."

His prayer as soon as breathed was heard;
His pallet touched by Love grew warm,
And Painting saw her hues transferred
From lifeless flowers to woman's form.
Still as from tint to tint he stole,
The fair design shone out the more,
And there was now a life, a soul,
Where only colors glowed before.

Then first carnations learned to speak
And lilies into life were brought;
While mantling on the maiden's cheek
Young roses kindled into thought.
Then hyacinths their darkest dyes
Upon the locks of Beauty threw;
And violets transformed to eyes
Inshrined a soul within their blue.

CHORUS.

Blest be Love to whom we owe,
All that's fair and bright below.
Song was cold and Painting dim
Till Song and Painting learned from him.

* * * * *

Soon as the scene had closed, a cheer
Of gentle voices old and young
Rose from the groups that stood to hear
This tale of yore so aptly sung;
And while some nymphs in haste to tell
The workers of that fairy spell
How crowned with praise their task had been
Stole in behind the curtained scene,
The rest in happy converse strayed--
Talking that ancient love-tale o'er--
Some to the groves that skirt the glade,
Some to the chapel by the shore,
To look what lights were on the sea.
And think of the absent silently.

But soon that summons known so well
Thro' bower and hall in Eastern lands,
Whose sound more sure than gong or bell
Lovers and slaves alike commands,--
The clapping of young female hands,
Calls back the groups from rock and field
To see some new-formed scene revealed;--
And fleet and eager down the slopes
Of the green glades like antelopes
When in their thirst they hear the sound
Of distant rills, the light nymphs bound.

Far different now the scene--a waste
Of Libyan sands, by moonlight's ray;
An ancient well, whereon were traced
The warning words, for such as stray
Unarmed there, "Drink and away!"[20]
While near it from the night-ray screened,
And like his bells in husht repose,
A camel slept--young as if weaned
When last the star Canopus rose.[21]

Such was the back-ground's silent scene;--
While nearer lay fast slumbering too
In a rude tent with brow serene
A youth whose cheeks of wayworn hue
And pilgrim-bonnet told the tale
That he had been to Mecca's Vale:
Haply in pleasant dreams, even now
Thinking the long wished hour is come
When o'er the well-known porch at home
His hand shall hang the aloe bough--
Trophy of his accomplished vow.[22]

But brief his dream--for now the call
Of the camp-chiefs from rear to van,
"Bind on your burdens,"[23] wakes up all
The widely slumbering caravan;
And thus meanwhile to greet the ear
Of the young pilgrim as he wakes,
The song of one who lingering near
Had watched his slumber, cheerly breaks.

SONG.

Up and march! the timbrel's sound
Wakes the slumbering camp around;
Fleet thy hour of rest hath gone,
Armed sleeper, up, and on!
Long and weary is our way
O'er the burning sands to-day;
But to pilgrim's homeward feet
Even the desert's path is sweet.

When we lie at dead of night,
Looking up to heaven's light,
Hearing but the watchman's tone
Faintly chanting "God is one,"[24]
Oh what thoughts then o'er us come
Of our distant village home,
Where that chant when evening sets
Sounds from all the minarets.

Cheer thee!--soon shall signal lights,
Kindling o'er the Red Sea heights,
Kindling quick from man to man,
Hail our coming caravan:[25]
Think what bliss that hour will be!
Looks of home again to see,
And our names again to hear
Murmured out by voices dear.

* * * * *

So past the desert dream away,
Fleeting as his who heard this lay,
Nor long the pause between, nor moved
The spell-bound audience from that spot;
While still as usual Fancy roved
On to the joy that yet was not;--
Fancy who hath no present home,
But builds her bower in scenes to come,
Walking for ever in a light
That flows from regions out of sight.

But see by gradual dawn descried
A mountain realm-rugged as e'er
Upraised to heaven its summits bare,
Or told to earth with frown of pride
That Freedom's falcon nest was there,
Too high for hand of lord or king
To hood her brow, or chain her wing.

'Tis Maina's land--her ancient hills,
The abode of nymphs--her countless rills
And torrents in their downward dash
Shining like silver thro' the shade
Of the sea-pine and flowering ash--
All with a truth so fresh portrayed
As wants but touch of life to be
A world of warm reality.

And now light bounding forth a band
Of mountaineers, all smiles, advance--
Nymphs with their lovers hand in hand
Linked in the Ariadne dance;
And while, apart from that gay throng,
A minstrel youth in varied song
Tells of the loves, the joys, the ills
Of these wild children of the hills,
The rest by turns or fierce or gay
As war or sport inspires the lay
Follow each change that wakes the strings
And act what thus the lyrist sings:--

SONG.

No life is like the mountaineer's,
His home is near the sky,
Where throned above this world he hears
Its strife at distance die,
Or should the sound of hostile drum
Proclaim below, "We come--we come,"
Each crag that towers in air
Gives answer, "Come who dare!"
While like bees from dell and dingle,
Swift the swarming warriors mingle,
And their cry "Hurra!" will be,
"Hurra, to victory!"

Then when battle's hour is over
See the happy mountain lover
With the nymph who'll soon be bride
Seated blushing by his side,--
Every shadow of his lot
In her sunny smile forgot.
Oh, no life is like the mountaineer's.
His home is near the sky,
Where throned above this world he hears
Its strife at distance die.
Nor only thus thro' summer suns
His blithe existence cheerly runs--
Even winter bleak and dim
Brings joyous hours to him;
When his rifle behind him flinging
He watches the roe-buck springing,
And away, o'er the hills away
Re-echoes his glad "hurra."

Then how blest when night is closing,
By the kindled hearth reposing,
To his rebeck's drowsy song,
He beguiles the hour along;
Or provoked by merry glances
To a brisker movement dances,
Till, weary at last, in slumber's chain,
He dreams o'er chase and dance again,
Dreams, dreams them o'er again.

* * * * *

As slow that minstrel at the close
Sunk while he sung to feigned repose,
Aptly did they whose mimic art
Followed the changes of his lay
Portray the lull, the nod, the start,
Thro' which as faintly died away
His lute and voice, the minstrel past,
Till voice and lute lay husht at last.

But now far other song came o'er
Their startled ears--song that at first
As solemnly the night-wind bore
Across the wave its mournful burst,
Seemed to the fancy like a dirge
Of some lone Spirit of the Sea,
Singing o'er Helle's ancient surge
The requiem of her Brave and Free.

Sudden amid their pastime pause
The wondering nymphs; and as the sound
Of that strange music nearer draws,
With mute inquiring eye look round,
Asking each other what can be
The source of this sad minstrelsy?
Nor longer can they doubt, the song
Comes from some island-bark which now
Courses the bright waves swift along
And soon perhaps beneath the brow
Of the Saint's Bock will shoot its prow.

Instantly all with hearts that sighed
'Twixt fear's and fancy's influence,
Flew to the rock and saw from thence
A red-sailed pinnace towards them glide,
Whose shadow as it swept the spray
Scattered the moonlight's smiles away.
Soon as the mariners saw that throng
From the cliff gazing, young and old,
Sudden they slacked their sail and song,
And while their pinnace idly rolled
On the light surge, these tidings told:--

'Twas from an isle of mournful name,
From Missolonghi, last they came--
Sad Missolonghi sorrowing yet
O'er him, the noblest Star of Fame
That e'er in life's young glory set!--
And now were on their mournful way,
Wafting the news thro' Helle's isles;--
News that would cloud even Freedom's ray
And sadden Victory mid her smiles.

Their tale thus told and heard with pain,
Out spread the galliot's wings again;
And as she sped her swift career
Again that Hymn rose on the ear--
"Thou art not dead--thou art not dead!"
As oft 'twas sung in ages flown
Of him, the Athenian, who to shed
A tyrant's blood poured out his own.

SONG.

Thou art not dead--thou art not dead!
No, dearest Harmodius, no.
Thy soul to realms above us fled
Tho' like a star it dwells o'er head
Still lights this world below.
Thou art _not_ dead--thou art not dead!
No, dearest Harmodius, no.

Thro' isles of light where heroes tread
And flowers ethereal blow,
Thy god-like Spirit now is led,
Thy lip with life ambrosial fed
Forgets all taste of woe.
Thou art not dead--thou art not dead!
No, dearest Harmodius, no.

The myrtle round that falchion spread
Which struck the immortal blow,
Throughout all time with leaves unshed--
The patriot's hope, the tyrant's dread--
Round Freedom's shrine shall grow.
Thou art not dead--thou art not dead!
No, dearest Harmodius, no.

Where hearts like thine have broke or bled,
Tho' quenched the vital glow,
Their memory lights a flame instead,
Which even from out the narrow bed
Of death its beams shall throw.
Thou art not dead--thou art not dead!
No, dearest Harmodius, no.

Thy name, by myriads sung and said,
From age to age shall go,
Long as the oak and ivy wed,
As bees shall haunt Hymettus' head,
Or Helle's waters flow.
Thou art not dead--thou art not dead!
No, dearest Harmodius, no.