The Complete Poems of Sir Thomas Moore

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* * * * *

'Mong those who lingered listening there,--
Listening with ear and eye as long
As breath of night could towards them bear
A murmur of that mournful song,--
A few there were in whom the lay
Had called up feelings far too sad
To pass with the brief strain away,
Or turn at once to theme more glad;
And who in mood untuned to meet
The light laugh of the happie train,
Wandered to seek some moonlight seat
Where they might rest, in converse sweet,
Till vanisht smiles should come again.

And seldom e'er hath noon of night
To sadness lent more soothing light.
On one side in the dark blue sky
Lonely and radiant was the eye
Of Jove himself, while on the other
'Mong tiny stars that round her gleamed,
The young moon like the Roman mother
Among her living "jewels" beamed.

Touched by the lovely scenes around,
A pensive maid--one who, tho' young,
Had known what 'twas to see unwound
The ties by which her heart had clung--
Wakened her soft tamboura's sound,
And to its faint accords thus sung:--

SONG.

Calm as beneath its mother's eyes
In sleep the smiling infant lies,
So watched by all the stars of night
Yon landscape sleeps in light.
And while the night-breeze dies away,
Like relics of some faded strain,
Loved voices, lost for many a day,
Seem whispering round again.
Oh youth! oh love! ye dreams that shed
Such glory once--where are ye fled?

Pure ray of light that down the sky
Art pointing like an angel's wand,
As if to guide to realms that lie
In that bright sea beyond:
Who knows but in some brighter deep
Than even that tranquil, moonlit main,
Some land may lie where those who weep
Shall wake to smile again!
With cheeks that had regained their power
And play of smiles,--and each bright eye
Like violets after morning's shower
The brighter for the tears gone by,
Back to the scene such smiles should grace
These wandering nymphs their path retrace,
And reach the spot with rapture new
Just as the veils asunder flew
And a fresh vision burst to view.

There by her own bright Attic flood,
The blue-eyed Queen of Wisdom stood;--
Not as she haunts the sage's dreams,
With brow unveiled, divine, severe;
But softened as on bards she beams
When fresh from Poesy's high sphere
A music not her own she brings,
And thro' the veil which Fancy flings
O'er her stern features gently sings.

But who is he--that urchin nigh,
With quiver on the rose-trees hung,
Who seems just dropt from yonder sky,
And stands to watch that maid with eye
So full of thought for one so young?--
That child--but, silence! lend thine ear,
And thus in song the tale thou'lt hear:--

SONG.

As Love one summer eve was straying,
Who should he see at that soft hour
But young Minerva gravely playing
Her flute within an olive bower.
I need not say, 'tis Love's opinion
That grave or merry, good or ill,
The sex all bow to his dominion,
As woman will be woman still.

Tho' seldom yet the boy hath given
To learned dames his smiles or sighs,
So handsome Pallas looked that even
Love quite forgot the maid was wise.
Besides, a youth of his discerning
Knew well that by a shady rill
At sunset hour whate'er her learning
A woman will be woman still.

Her flute he praised in terms extatic,--
Wishing it dumb, nor cared how soon.--
For Wisdom's notes, howe'er chromatic,
To Love seem always out of tune.
But long as he found face to flatter,
The nymph found breath to shake and thrill;
As, weak or wise--it doesn't matter--
Woman at heart is woman still.

Love changed his plan, with warmth exclaiming,
"How rosy was her lips' soft dye!"
And much that flute the flatterer blaming,
For twisting lips so sweet awry.
The nymph looked down, beheld her features
Reflected in the passing rill,
And started, shocked--for, ah, ye creatures!
Even when divine you're women still.

Quick from the lips it made so odious.
That graceless flute the Goddess took
And while yet filled with breath melodious,
Flung it into the glassy brook;
Where as its vocal life was fleeting
Adown the current, faint and shrill,
'Twas heard in plaintive tone repeating,
"Woman, alas, vain woman still!"

* * * * *

An interval of dark repose--
Such as the summer lightning knows,
Twixt flash and flash, as still more bright
The quick revealment comes and goes,
Opening each time the veils of night,
To show within a world of light--
Such pause, so brief, now past between
This last gay vision and the scene
Which now its depth of light disclosed.
A bower it seemed, an Indian bower,
Within whose shade a nymph reposed,
Sleeping away noon's sunny hour--
Lovely as she, the Sprite, who weaves
Her mansion of sweet Durva leaves,
And there, as Indian legends say,
Dreams the long summer hours away.
And mark how charmed this sleeper seems
With some hid fancy--she, too, dreams!
Oh for a wizard's art to tell
The wonders that now bless her sight!
'Tis done--a truer, holier spell
Than e'er from wizard's lip yet fell.
Thus brings her vision all to light:--

SONG.

"Who comes so gracefully
"Gliding along
"While the blue rivulet
"Sleeps to her song;
"Song richly vying
"With the faint sighing
"Which swans in dying
"Sweetly prolong?"

So sung the shepherd-boy
By the stream's side,
Watching that fairy-boat
Down the flood glide,
Like a bird winging,
Thro' the waves bringing
That Syren, singing
To the husht tide.

"Stay," said the shepherd-boy,
"Fairy-boat, stay,
"Linger, sweet minstrelsy,
"Linger a day."
But vain his pleading,
Past him, unheeding,
Song and boat, speeding,
Glided away.

So to our youthful eyes
Joy and hope shone;
So while we gazed on them
Fast they flew on;--
Like flowers declining
Even in the twining,
One moment shining.
And the next gone!

* * * * *

Soon as the imagined dream went by,
Uprose the nymph, with anxious eye
Turned to the clouds as tho' some boon
She waited from that sun-bright dome,
And marvelled that it came not soon
As her young thoughts would have it come.

But joy is in her glance!--the wing
Of a white bird is seen above;
And oh, if round his neck he bring
The long-wished tidings from her love,
Not half so precious in her eyes
Even that high-omened bird[26] would be.
Who dooms the brow o'er which he flies
To wear a crown of royalty.

She had herself last evening sent
A winged messenger whose flight
Thro' the clear, roseate element,
She watched till lessening out of sight
Far to the golden West it went,
Wafting to him, her distant love,
A missive in that language wrought
Which flowers can speak when aptly wove,
Each hue a word, each leaf a thought.

And now--oh speed of pinion, known
To Love's light messengers alone I--
Ere yet another evening takes
Its farewell of the golden lakes,
She sees another envoy fly,
With the wished answer, thro' the sky.

SONG.

Welcome sweet bird, thro' the sunny air winging,
Swift hast thou come o'er the far-shining sea,
Like Seba's dove on thy snowy neck bringing
Love's written vows from my lover to me.
Oh, in thy absence what hours did I number!--
Saying oft, "Idle bird, how could he rest?"
But thou art come at last, take now thy slumber,
And lull thee in dreams of all thou lov'st best.

Yet dost thou droop--even now while I utter
Love's happy welcome, thy pulse dies away;
Cheer thee, my bird--were it life's ebbing flutter.
This fondling bosom should woo it to stay,
But no--thou'rt dying--thy last task is over--
Farewell, sweet martyr to Love and to me!
The smiles thou hast wakened by news from my lover,
Will now all be turned into weeping for thee.

* * * * *

While thus this scene of song (their last
For the sweet summer season) past,
A few presiding nymphs whose care
Watched over all invisibly,
As do those guardian sprites of air
Whose watch we feel but cannot see,
Had from the circle--scarcely missed,
Ere they were sparkling there again--
Glided like fairies to assist
Their handmaids on the moonlight plain,
Where, hid by intercepting shade
From the stray glance of curious eyes,
A feast of fruits and wines was laid--
Soon to shine out, a glad surprise!

And now the moon, her ark of light
Steering thro' Heaven, as tho' she bore
In safety thro' that deep of night
Spirits of earth, the good, the bright,
To some remote immortal shore,
Had half-way sped her glorious way,
When round reclined on hillocks green
In groups beneath that tranquil ray,
The Zeans at their feast were seen.
Gay was the picture--every maid
Whom late the lighted scene displayed,
Still in her fancy garb arrayed;--
The Arabian pilgrim, smiling here
Beside the nymph of India's sky;
While there the Mainiote mountaineer
Whispered in young Minerva's ear,
And urchin Love stood laughing by.

Meantime the elders round the board,
By mirth and wit themselves made young,
High cups of juice Zacynthian poured,
And while the flask went round thus sung:--

SONG.

Up with the sparkling brimmer,
Up to the crystal rim;
Let not a moonbeam glimmer
'Twixt the flood and brim.
When hath the world set eyes on
Aught to match this light,
Which o'er our cup's horizon
Dawns in bumpers bright?

Truth in a deep well lieth--
So the wise aver;
But Truth the fact denieth--
Water suits not her.
No, her abode's in brimmers,
Like this mighty cup--
Waiting till we, good swimmers,
Dive to bring her up.

* * * * *

Thus circled round the song of glee,
And all was tuneful mirth the while,
Save on the cheeks of some whose smile
As fixt they gaze upon the sea,
Turns into paleness suddenly!
What see they there? a bright blue light
That like a meteor gliding o'er
The distant wave grows on the sight,
As tho' 'twere winged to Zea's shore.
To some, 'mong those who came to gaze,
It seemed the night-light far away
Of some lone fisher by the blaze
Of pine torch luring on his prey;
While others, as 'twixt awe and mirth
They breathed the blest Panaya's[27] name,
Vowed that such light was not of earth
But of that drear, ill-omen'd flame
Which mariners see on sail or mast
When Death is coming in the blast.
While marvelling thus they stood, a maid
Who sate apart with downcast eye,
Not yet had like the rest surveyed
That coming light which now was nigh,
Soon as it met her sight, with cry
Of pain-like joy, "'Tis he! 'tis he!"
Loud she exclaimed, and hurrying by
The assembled throng, rushed towards the sea.
At burst so wild, alarmed, amazed,
All stood like statues mute and gazed
Into each other's eyes to seek
What meant such mood in maid so meek?

Till now, the tale was known to few,
But now from lip to lip it flew:--
A youth, the flower of all the band,
Who late had left this sunny shore,
When last he kist that maiden's hand,
Lingering to kiss it o'er and o'er.
By his sad brow too plainly told
The ill-omened thought which crost him then,
That once those hands should lose their hold,
They ne'er would meet on earth again!
In vain his mistress sad as he,
But with a heart from Self as free
As generous woman's only is,
Veiled her own fears to banish his:--
With frank rebuke but still more vain,
Did a rough warrior who stood by
Call to his mind this martial strain,
His favorite once, ere Beauty's eye
Had taught his soldier-heart to sigh:--

SONG.

March! nor heed those arms that hold thee,
Tho' so fondly close they come;
Closer still will they enfold thee
When thou bring'st fresh laurels home.
Dost thou dote on woman's brow?
Dost thou live but in her breath?
March!--one hour of victory now
Wins thee woman's smile till death.

Oh what bliss when war is over
Beauty's long-missed smile to meet.
And when wreaths our temples cover
Lay them shining at her feet.
Who would not that hour to reach
Breathe out life's expiring sigh,--
Proud as waves that on the beach
Lay their war-crests down and die.

There! I see thy soul is burning--
She herself who clasps thee so
Paints, even now, thy glad returning,
And while clasping bids thee go.
One deep sigh to passion given,
One last glowing tear and then--
March!--nor rest thy sword till Heaven
Brings thee to those arms again.

* * * * *

Even then ere loath their hands could part
A promise the youth gave which bore
Some balm unto the maiden's heart,
That, soon as the fierce fight was o'er,
To home he'd speed, if safe and free--
Nay, even if dying, still would come,
So the blest word of "Victory!"
Might be the last he'd breathe at home.
"By day," he cried, "thou'lt know my bark;
"But should I come thro' midnight dark,
"A blue light on the prow shall tell
"That Greece hath won and all is well!"

Fondly the maiden every night,
Had stolen to seek that promised light;
Nor long her eyes had now been turned
From watching when the signal burned.
Signal of joy--for her, for all--
Fleetly the boat now nears the land,
While voices from the shore-edge call
For tidings of the long-wished band.

Oh the blest hour when those who've been
Thro' peril's paths by land or sea
Locked in our arms again are seen
Smiling in glad security;
When heart to heart we fondly strain,
Questioning quickly o'er and o'er--
Then hold them off to gaze affain
And ask, tho' answered oft before,
If they _indeed_ are ours once more?

Such is the scene so full of joy
Which welcomes now this warrior-boy,
As fathers, sisters, friends all run
Bounding to meet him--all but one
Who, slowest on his neck to fall,
Is yet the happiest of them all.

And now behold him circled round
With beaming faces at that board,
While cups with laurel foliage crowned,
Are to the coming warriors poured--
Coming, as he, their herald, told,
With blades from victory scarce yet cold,
With hearts untouched by Moslem steel
And wounds that home's sweet breath will heal.

"Ere morn," said he,--and while he spoke
Turned to the east, where clear and pale
The star of dawn already broke--
"We'll greet on yonder wave their sail!"
Then wherefore part? all, all agree
To wait them here beneath this bower;
And thus, while even amidst their glee,
Each eye is turned to watch the sea,
With song they cheer the anxious hour.

SONG.

"'Tis the Vine! 'tis the Vine!" said the cup-loving boy
As he saw it spring bright from the earth,
And called the young Genii of Wit, Love, and Joy,
To witness and hallow its birth.
The fruit was full grown, like a ruby it flamed
Till the sunbeam that kist it looked pale;
"'Tis the Vine! 'tis the Vine!" every Spirit exclaimed
"Hail, hail to the Wine-tree, all hail!"

First, fleet as a bird to the summons Wit flew,
While a light on the vine-leaves there broke
In flashes so quick and so brilliant all knew
T'was the light from his lips as he spoke.
"Bright tree! let thy nectar but cheer me," he cried,
"And the fount of Wit never can fail:"
"'Tis the Vine! 'tis the Vine!" hills and valleys reply,
"Hail, hail to the Wine-tree, all hail!"

Next Love as he leaned o'er the plant to admire
Each tendril and cluster it wore,
From his rosy mouth sent such a breath of desire,
As made the tree tremble all o'er.
Oh! never did flower of the earth, sea, or sky,
Such a soul-giving odor inhale:
"'Tis the Vine! 'tis the Vine!" all re-echo the cry,
"Hail, hail to the Wine-tree, all hail!"

Last, Joy, without whom even Love and Wit die,
Came to crown the bright hour with his ray;
And scarce had that mirth-waking tree met his eye,
When a laugh spoke what Joy could not say;--
A laugh of the heart which was echoed around
Till like music it swelled on the gale:
"T is the Vine! 'tis the Vine!" laughing myriads resound,
"Hail, hail to the Wine-tree, all hail!"

[1] "_Nerium Oleander_. In Cyprus it retains its ancient name,
Rhododaphne, and the Cypriots adorn their churches with the flowers on
feast-days."--_Journal of Dr. Sibthorpe, Walpole's, Turkey_.

[2] _Lonicera caprifolium_, used by the girls of Patmos for garlands.

[3] _Cuscuta europoea_. "From the twisting and twining of the stems, it is
compared by the Greeks to the dishevelled hair of the Nereids."--
_Walpole's Turkey_.

[4] "The produce of the island in these acorns alone amounts annually to
fifteen thousand quintals."--_Clarke's Travels_.

[5] Now Santa Maura--the island, from whose cliffs Sappho leaped into the
sea.

[6] "The precipice, which is fearfully dizzy, is about one hundred and
fourteen feet from the water, which is of a profound depth, as appears
from the dark blue color and the eddy that plays round the pointed and
projecting rocks."--_Goodisson's Ionian Isles_.

[7] This word is defrauded here, I suspect, of a syllable; Dr. Clarke, if
I recollect right, makes it "Balalaika."

[8] "I saw above thirty parties engaged in dancing the Romaika upon the
sand; in some of these groups, the girl who led them chased the retreating
wave."--Douglas on the Modern Greeks.

[9] "In dancing the Romaika [says Mr. Douglas] they begin in slow and
solemn step till they have gained the time, but by degrees the air becomes
more sprightly; the conductress of the dance sometimes setting to her
partners, sometimes darting before the rest, and leading them through the
most rapid revolutions: sometimes crossing under the hands, which are held
up to let her pass, and giving as much liveliness and intricacy as she can
to the figures, into which she conducts her companions, while their
business is to follow her in all her movements, without breaking the
chain, or losing the measure,"

[10] The sword was the weapon chiefly used in this dance.

[11] It is said that Leonidas and his companions employed themselves, on
the eve of the battle, in music and the gymnastic exercises of their
country.

[12] "This morning we paid our visit to the Cave of Trophonius, and the
Fountains of Memory and Oblivion, just upon the water of Hercyna, which
flows through stupendous rocks."--_Williams's Travels in Greece_.

[13] This superstitious custom of the Thessalians exists also, as Pietro
dello Valle tells us, among the Persians.

[14] An ancient city of Zea, the walls of which were of marble. Its
remains (says Clarke) "extend from the shore, quite into a valley watered
by the streams of a fountain, whence Ioulis received its name."

[15] Zea was the birthplace of this poet, whose verses are by Catullus
called "tears."

[16] These "Songs of the Well," as they were called among the ancients,
still exist in Greece. _De Guys_ tells us that he has seen "the young
women in Prince's Island, assembled in the evening at a public well,
suddenly strike up a dance, while others sung in concert to them."

[17] "The inhabitants of Syra, both ancient and modern, may be considered
as the worshippers of water. The old fountain, at which the nymphs of the
island assembled in the earliest ages, exists in its original state; the
same rendezvous as it was formerly, whether of love and gallantry, or of
gossiping and tale-telling. It is near to the town, and the most limpid
water gushes continually from the solid rock. It is regarded by the
inhabitants with a degree of religious veneration; and they p reserve a
tradition, that the pilgrims of old time, in their way to Delos, resorted
hither for purification."_--Clarke_.

[18] "Violet-crowned Athens."--_Pindar_.

[19] The whole of this scene was suggested by Pliny's account of the
artist Pausias and his mistress Glycera, _Lib_. 35 c. 40.

[20] The traveller Shaw mentions a beautiful rill In Barbary, which is
received into a large basin called _Shrub wee krub_, "Drink and away"--
there being great danger of meeting with thieves and assassins in such
places.

[21] The Arabian shepherd has a peculiar ceremony in weaning the young
camel; when the proper time arrives, he turns the camel towards the rising
star, Canopus, and says, "Do you see Canopus? from this moment you taste
not another drop of milk."--_Richardson_.

[22] "Whoever returns from a pilgrimage to Mecca hangs this plant (the
mitre-shaped Aloe) over his street door, as a token of his having
performed this holy journey."--_Hasselquist_.

[23] This form of notice to the caravans to prepare for marching was
applied by Hafiz to the necessity of relinquishing the pleasures of this
world, and preparing for death:--"For me what room is there for pleasure
in the bower of Beauty, when every moment the bell makes proclamation,
'Bind on your burden'?"

[24] The watchmen, in the camp of the caravans, go their rounds, crying
one after another, "God is one," etc.

[25] "It was customary," says Irwin, "to light up fires on the mountains,
within view of Cosseir, to give notice of the approach of the caravans
that came from the Nile."

[26] the Hume.

[27] The name which the Greeks give to the Virgin Mary.

ALCIPHRON: A FRAGMENT.

LETTER I.

FROM ALCIPHRON AT ALEXANDRIA TO CLEON AT ATHENS.

Well may you wonder at my flight
From those fair Gardens in whose bowers
Lingers whate'er of wise and bright,
Of Beauty's smile or Wisdom's light,
Is left to grace this world of ours.
Well may my comrades as they roam
On such sweet eyes as this inquire
Why I have left that happy home
Where all is found that all desire,
And Time hath wings that never tire:
Where bliss in all the countless shapes
That Fancy's self to bliss hath given
Comes clustering round like roadside grapes
That woo the traveller's lip at even;
Where Wisdom flings not joy away--
As Pallas in the stream they say
Once flung her flute--but smiling owns
That woman's lip can send forth tones
Worth all the music of those spheres
So many dream of but none hears;
Where Virtue's self puts on so well
Her sister Pleasure's smile that, loath
From either nymph apart to dwell,
We finish by embracing both.
Yes, such the place of bliss, I own
From all whose charms I just have flown;
And even while thus to thee I write,
And by the Nile's dark flood recline,
Fondly, in thought I wing my flight
Back to those groves and gardens bright,
And often think by this sweet light
How lovelily they all must shine;
Can see that graceful temple throw
Down the green slope its lengthened shade,
While on the marble steps below
There sits some fair Athenian maid,
Over some favorite volume bending;
And by her side a youthful sage
Holds back the ringlets that descending
Would else o'ershadow all the page.
But hence such thoughts!--nor let me grieve
O'er scenes of joy that I but leave,
As the bird quits awhile its nest
To come again with livelier zest.

And now to tell thee--what I fear
Thou'lt gravely smile at--_why_ I'm here
Tho' thro' my life's short, sunny dream,
I've floated without pain or care
Like a light leaf down pleasure's stream,
Caught in each sparkling eddy there;
Tho' never Mirth awaked a strain
That my heart echoed not again;
Yet have I felt, when even most gay,
Sad thoughts--I knew not whence or why--
Suddenly o'er my spirit fly,
Like clouds that ere we've time to say
"How bright the sky is!" shade the sky.
Sometimes so vague, so undefined
Were these strange darkenings of my mind--
"While naught but joy around me beamed
So causelessly they've come and flown,
That not of life or earth they seemed,
But shadows from some world unknown.
More oft, however, 'twas the thought
How soon that scene with all its play
Of life and gladness must decay--
Those lips I prest, the hands I caught--
Myself--the crowd that mirth had brought
Around me--swept like weeds away!

This thought it was that came to shed
O'er rapture's hour its worst alloys;
And close as shade with sunshine wed
Its sadness with my happiest joys.
Oh, but for this disheartening voice
Stealing amid our mirth to say
That all in which we most rejoice
Ere night may be the earthworm's prey--
_But_ for this bitter--only this--
Full as the world is brimmed with bliss,
And capable as feels my soul
Of draining to its dregs the whole,
I should turn earth to heaven and be,
If bliss made Gods, a Deity?

Thou know'st that night--the very last
That 'mong my Garden friends I past--
When the School held its feast of mirth
To celebrate our founder's birth.
And all that He in dreams but saw
When he set Pleasure on the throne
Of this bright world and wrote her law
In human hearts was felt and known--
_Not_ in unreal dreams but true,
Substantial joy as pulse e'er knew--
By hearts and bosoms, that each felt
_Itself_ the realm where Pleasure dwelt.

That night when all our mirth was o'er,
The minstrels silent, and the feet
Of the young maidens heard no more--
So stilly was the time, so sweet,
And such a calm came o'er that scene,
Where life and revel late had been--
Lone as the quiet of some bay
From which the sea hath ebbed away--
That still I lingered, lost in thought,
Gazing upon the stars of night,
Sad and intent as if I sought
Some mournful secret in their light;
And asked them mid that silence why
Man, glorious man, alone must die
While they, less wonderful than he,
Shine on thro' all eternity.