The Complete Poems of Sir Thomas Moore

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Those clasping arms, within whose round--
My heart's horizon--the whole bound
Of its hope, prospect, heaven was found!
Which, even in this dread moment, fond
As when they first were round me cast,
Loosed not in death the fatal bond,
But, burning, held me to the last!
All, all, that, but that morn, had seemed
As if Love's self there breathed and beamed,
Now parched and black before me lay,
Withering in agony away;
And mine, oh misery! mine the flame
From which this desolation came;--
I, the curst spirit whose caress
Had blasted all that loveliness!

'Twas maddening!--but now hear even worse--
Had death, death only, been the curse
I brought upon her--had the doom
But ended here, when her young bloom
Lay in the dust--and did the spirit
No part of that fell curse inherit,
'Twere not so dreadful--but, come near--
Too shocking 'tis for earth to hear--
Just when her eyes in fading took
Their last, keen, agonized farewell,
And looked in mine with--oh, that look!
Great vengeful Power, whate'er the hell
Thou mayst to human souls assign,
The memory of that look is mine!--

In her last struggle, on my brow
Her ashy lips a kiss imprest,
So withering!--I feel it now--
'Twas fire--but fire, even more unblest
Than was my own, and like that flame,
The angels shudder but to name,
Hell's everlasting element!
Deep, deep it pierced into my brain,
Maddening and torturing as it went;
And here, mark here, the brand, the stain
It left upon my front--burnt in
By that last kiss of love and sin--
A brand which all the pomp and pride
Of a fallen Spirit cannot hide!

But is it thus, dread Providence--
_Can_ it indeed be thus, that she
Who, (but for _one_ proud, fond offence,)
Had honored heaven itself, should be
Now doomed--I cannot speak it--no,
Merciful ALLA! _'tis_ not so--
Never could lips divine have said
The fiat of a fate so dread.
And yet, that look--so deeply fraught
With more than anguish, with despair--
That new, fierce fire, resembling naught
In heaven or earth--this scorch I bear!--
Oh--for the first time that these knees
Have bent before thee since my fall,
Great Power, if ever thy decrees
Thou couldst for prayer like mine recall,
Pardon that spirit, and on me,
On me, who taught her pride to err,
Shed out each drop of agony
Thy burning phial keeps for her!
See too where low beside me kneel
Two other outcasts who, tho' gone
And lost themselves, yet dare to feel
And pray for that poor mortal one.
Alas, too well, too well they know
The pain, the penitence, the woe
That Passion brings upon the best,
The wisest, and the loveliest.--
Oh! who is to be saved, if such
Bright, erring souls are not forgiven;
So loath they wander, and so much
Their very wanderings lean towards heaven!
Again I cry. Just Power, transfer
That creature's sufferings all to me--
Mine, mine the guilt, the torment be,
To save one minute's pain to her,
Let mine last all eternity!

He paused and to the earth bent down
His throbbing head; while they who felt
That agony as 'twere their own,
Those angel youths, beside him knelt,
And in the night's still silence there,
While mournfully each wandering air
Played in those plumes that never more
To their lost home in heaven must soar,
Breathed inwardly the voiceless prayer,
Unheard by all but Mercy's ear--
And which if Mercy _did not_ hear,
Oh, God would _not_ be what this bright
And glorious universe of His,
This world of beauty, goodness, light
And endless love proclaims He _is_!

Not long they knelt, when from a wood
That crowned that airy solitude,
They heard a low, uncertain sound,
As from a lute, that just had found
Some happy theme and murmured round
The new-born fancy, with fond tone,
Scarce thinking aught so sweet its own!
Till soon a voice, that matched as well
That gentle instrument, as suits
The sea-air to an ocean-shell,
(So kin its spirit to the lute's),
Tremblingly followed the soft strain,
Interpreting its joy, its pain,
And lending the light wings of words
To many a thought that else had lain
Unfledged and mute among the chords.

All started at the sound--but chief
The third young Angel in whose face,
Tho' faded like the others, grief
Had left a gentler, holier trace;
As if, even yet, thro' pain and ill,
Hope had not fled him--as if still
Her precious pearl in sorrow's cup
Unmelted at the bottom lay,
To shine again, when, all drunk up,
The bitterness should pass away.
Chiefly did he, tho' in his eyes
There shone more pleasure than surprise,
Turn to the wood from whence that sound
Of solitary sweetness broke;
Then, listening, look delighted round
To his bright peers, while thus it spoke:--
"Come, pray with me, my seraph love,
"My angel-lord, come pray with me:
"In vain to-night my lips hath strove
"To send one holy prayer above--
"The knee may bend, the lip may move,
"But pray I cannot, without thee!
"I've fed the altar in my bower
"With droppings from the incense tree;
"I've sheltered it from wind and shower,
"But dim it burns the livelong hour,
"As if, like me, it had no power
"Of life or lustre without thee!

"A boat at midnight sent alone
"To drift upon the moonless sea,
"A lute, whose leading chord is gone,
"A wounded bird that hath but one
"Imperfect wing to soar upon,
"Are like what I am without thee!

"Then ne'er, my spirit-love, divide,
"In life or death, thyself from me;
"But when again in sunny pride
"Thou walk'st thro' Eden, let me glide,
"A prostrate shadow, by thy side--
"Oh happier thus than without thee!"

The song had ceased when from the wood
Which sweeping down that airy height,
Reached the lone spot whereon they stood--
There suddenly shone out a light
From a clear lamp, which, as it blazed
Across the brow of one, who raised
Its flame aloft (as if to throw
The light upon that group below),
Displayed two eyes sparkling between
The dusky leaves, such as are seen
By fancy only, in those faces,
That haunt a poet's walk at even,
Looking from out their leafy places
Upon his dreams of love and heaven.
'Twas but a moment--the blush brought
O'er all her features at the thought
Of being seen thus, late, alone,
By any but the eyes she sought,
Had scarcely for an instant shore
Thro' the dark leaves when she was gone--
Gone, like a meteor that o'erhead
Suddenly shines, and, ere we've said,
"Behold, how beautiful!"--'tis fled,
Yet ere she went the words, "I come,
"I come, my NAMA," reached her ear,
In that kind voice, familiar, dear,
Which tells of confidence, of home,--
Of habit, that hath drawn hearts near,
Till they grow _one_,--of faith sincere,
And all that Love most loves to hear;
A music breathing of the past,
The present and the time to be,
Where Hope and Memory to the last
Lengthen out life's true harmony!

Nor long did he whom call so kind
Summoned away remain behind:
Nor did there need much time to tell
What they--alas! more fallen than he
From happiness and heaven--knew well,
His gentler love's short history!

Thus did it run--_not_ as he told
The tale himself, but as 'tis graved
Upon the tablets that, of old,
By SETH[17] were from the deluge saved,
All written over with sublime
And saddening legends of the unblest
But glorious Spirits of that time,
And this young Angel's 'mong the rest.

THIRD ANGEL'S STORY.

Among the Spirits, of pure flame,
That in the eternal heavens abide--
Circles of light that from the same
Unclouded centre sweeping wide,
Carry its beams on every side--
Like spheres of air that waft around
The undulations of rich sound--

Till the far-circling radiance be
Diffused into infinity!
First and immediate near the Throne
Of ALLA, as if most his own,
The Seraphs stand[18] this burning sign
Traced on their banner, "Love Divine!"
Their rank, their honors, far above
Even those to high-browed Cherubs given,
Tho' knowing all;--so much doth Love
Transcend all Knowledge, even in heaven!

'Mong these was ZARAPH once--and none
E'er felt affection's holy fire,
Or yearned towards the Eternal One,
With half such longing, deep desire.
Love was to his impassioned soul
Not as with others a mere part
Of its existence, but the whole--
The very life-breath of his heart!

Oft, when from ALLA'S lifted brow
A lustre came, too bright to bear,
And all the seraph ranks would bow,
To shade their dazzled sight nor dare
To look upon the effulgence there--
This Spirit's eyes would court the blaze
(Such pride he in adoring took),

And rather lose in that one gaze
The power of looking than _not_ look!
Then too when angel voices sung
The mercy of their God and strung
Their harps to hail with welcome sweet
That moment, watched for by all eyes,
When some repentant sinner's feet
First touched the threshold of the skies,
Oh! then how clearly did the voice
Of ZARAPH above all rejoice!
Love was in every buoyant tone--
Such love as only could belong
To the blest angels and alone
Could, even from angels, bring such song!
Alas! that it should e'er have been
In heaven as 'tis too often here,
Where nothing fond or bright is seen,
But it hath pain and peril near;--
Where right and wrong so close resemble,
That what we take for virtue's thrill
Is often the first downward tremble
Of the heart's balance unto ill;
Where Love hath not a shrine so pure,
So holy, but the serpent, Sin,
In moments, even the most secure,
Beneath his altar may glide in!

So was it with that Angel--such
The charm, that sloped his fall along,
From good to ill, from loving much,
Too easy lapse, to loving wrong.--
Even so that amorous Spirit, bound
By beauty's spell where'er 'twas found,
From the bright things above the moon
Down to earth's beaming eyes descended,
Till love for the Creator soon
In passion for the creature ended.

'Twas first at twilight, on the shore
Of the smooth sea, he heard the lute
And voice of her he loved steal o'er
The silver waters that lay mute,
As loath, by even a breath, to stay
The pilgrimage of that sweet lay;
Whose echoes still went on and on,
Till lost among the light that shone
Far off beyond the ocean's brim--
There where the rich cascade of day
Had o'er the horizon's golden rim,
Into Elysium rolled away!
Of God she sung and of the mild
Attendant Mercy that beside
His awful throne for ever smiled,
Ready with her white hand to guide
His bolts of vengeance to their prey--
That she might quench them on the way!
Of Peace--of that Atoning Love,
Upon whose star, shining above
This twilight world of hope and fear,
The weeping eyes of Faith are fixt
So fond that with her every tear
The light of that love-star is mixt!--
All this she sung, and such a soul
Of piety was in that song
That the charmed Angel as it stole
Tenderly to his ear, along
Those lulling waters where he lay,
Watching the daylight's dying ray,
Thought 'twas a voice from out the wave,
An echo, that some sea-nymph gave
To Eden's distant harmony,
Heard faint and sweet beneath the sea!

Quickly, however, to its source,
Tracking that music's melting course,
He saw upon the golden sands
Of the sea-shore a maiden stand,
Before whose feet the expiring waves
Flung their last offering with a sigh--
As, in the East, exhausted slaves
Lay down the far-brought gift and die--
And while her lute hung by her hushed
As if unequal to the tide
Of song that from her lips still gushed,
She raised, like one beatified,
Those eyes whose light seemed rather given
To be adored than to adore--
Such eyes as may have lookt _from_ heaven
But ne'er were raised to it before!

Oh Love, Religion, Music--all
That's left of Eden upon earth--
The only blessings, since the fall
Of our weak souls, that still recall
A trace of their high, glorious birth--
How kindred are the dreams you bring!
How Love tho' unto earth so prone,
Delights to take Religion's wing,
When time or grief hath stained his own!
How near to Love's beguiling brink
Too oft entranced Religion lies!
While Music, Music is the link
They _both_ still hold by to the skies,
The language of their native sphere
Which they had else forgotten here.

How then could ZARAPH fail to feel
That moment's witcheries?--one, so fair,
Breathing out music, that might steal
Heaven from itself, and rapt in prayer
That seraphs might be proud to share!
Oh, he _did_ feel it, all too well--
With warmth, that far too dearly cost--
Nor knew he, when at last he fell,
To which attraction, to which spell,
Love, Music, or Devotion, most
His soul in that sweet hour was lost.

Sweet was the hour, tho' dearly won,
And pure, as aught of earth could be,
For then first did the glorious sun
Before religion's altar see
Two hearts in wedlock's golden tie
Self-pledged, in love to live and die.
Blest union! by that Angel wove,
And worthy from such hands to come;
Safe, sole, asylum, in which Love,
When fallen or exiled from above,
In this dark world can find a home.

And, tho' the Spirit had transgrest,
Had, from his station 'mong the blest
Won down by woman's smile, allow'd
Terrestrial passion to breathe o'er
The mirror of his heart, and cloud
God's image there so bright before--
Yet never did that Power look down
On error with a brow so mild;
Never did Justice wear a frown,
Thro' which so gently Mercy smiled.

For humble was their love--with awe
And trembling like some treasure kept,
That was not theirs by holy law--
Whose beauty with remorse they saw
And o'er whose preciousness they wept.
Humility, that low, sweet root,
From which all heavenly virtues shoot,
Was in the hearts of both--but most
In NAMA'S heart, by whom alone
Those charms, for which a heaven was lost.
Seemed all unvalued and unknown;
And when her Seraph's eyes she caught,
And hid hers glowing on his breast,
Even bliss was humbled by the thought--
"What claim have I to be so blest"?
Still less could maid, so meek, have nurst
Desire of knowledge--that vain thirst,
With which the sex hath all been curst
From luckless EVE to her who near
The Tabernacle stole to hear
The secrets of the Angels: no--
To love as her own Seraph loved,
With Faith, the same thro' bliss and woe--
Faith that were even its light removed,
Could like the dial fixt remain
And wait till it shone out again;--
With Patience that tho' often bowed
By the rude storm can rise anew;
And Hope that even from Evil's cloud
See sunny Good half breaking thro'!
This deep, relying Love, worth more
In heaven than all a Cherub's lore--
This Faith more sure than aught beside
Was the sole joy, ambition, pride
Of her fond heart--the unreasoning scope
Of all its views, above, below--
So true she felt it that to _hope_,
To _trust_, is happier than to _know_.
And thus in humbleness they trod,
Abasht but pure before their God;
Nor e'er did earth behold a sight
So meekly beautiful as they,
When with the altar's holy light
Full on their brows they knelt to pray,
Hand within hand and side by side,
Two links of love awhile untied
From the great chain above, but fast
Holding together to the last!--
Two fallen Splendors from that tree[19]
Which buds with such eternally,
Shaken to earth yet keeping all
Their light and freshness in the fall.

Their only punishment, (as wrong,
However sweet, must bear its brand.)
Their only doom was this--that, long
As the green earth and ocean stand,
They both shall wander here--the same,
Throughout all time, in heart and frame--
Still looking to that goal sublime,
Whose light remote but sure they see;
Pilgrims of Love whose way is Time,
Whose home is in Eternity!
Subject the while to all the strife
True Love encounters in this life--
The wishes, hopes, he breathes in vain;
The chill that turns his warmest sighs
To earthly vapor ere they rise;
The doubt he feeds on and the pain
That in his very sweetness lies:--
Still worse, the illusions that betray
His footsteps to their shining brink;
That tempt him on his desert way
Thro' the bleak world, to bend and drink,
Where nothing meets his lips, alas!--
But he again must sighing pass
On to that far-off home of peace,
In which alone his thirst will cease.

All this they bear but not the less
Have moments rich in happiness--
Blest meetings, after many a day
Of widowhood past far away,
When the loved face again is seen
Close, close, with not a tear between--
Confidings frank, without control,
Poured mutually from soul to soul;
As free from any fear or doubt
As is that light from chill or strain
The sun into the stars sheds out
To be by them shed back again!--
That happy minglement of hearts,
Where, changed as chymic compounds are,
Each with its own existence parts
To find a new one, happier far!
Such are their joys--and crowning all
That blessed hope of the bright hour,
When, happy and no more to fall,
Their spirits shall with freshened power
Rise up rewarded for their trust
In Him from whom all goodness springs,
And shaking off earth's soiling dust
From their emancipated wings,
Wander for ever thro' those skies
Of radiance where Love never dies!

In what lone region of the earth,
These Pilgrims now may roam or dwell,
God and the Angels who look forth
To watch their steps, alone can tell.
But should we in our wanderings
Meet a young pair whose beauty wants
But the adornment of bright wings
To look like heaven's inhabitants--
Who shine where'er they tread and yet
Are humble in their earthly lot,
As is the way-side violet,
That shines unseen, and were it not
For its sweet breath would be forgot
Whose hearts in every thought are one,
Whose voices utter the same wills--
Answering, as Echo doth some tone
Of fairy music 'mong the hills,
So like itself we seek in vain
Which is the echo, which the strain--
Whose piety is love, whose love
Tho' close as 'twere their souls' embrace.
Is not of earth but from above--
Like two fair mirrors face to face,
Whose light from one to the other thrown,
Is heaven's reflection, not their own--
Should we e'er meet with aught so pure,
So perfect here, we may be sure
'Tis ZARAPH and his bride we see;
And call young lovers round to view
The pilgrim pair as they pursue
Their pathway towards eternity.

[1] "To which will be joined the sound of the bells hanging on the trees,
which will be put in motion by the wind proceeding from the Throne, so
often as the Blessed wish for music."--See _Sale's Koran, Prelim.
Dissert_.

[2] The ancient Persians supposed that this Throne was placed in the Sun,
and that through the stars were distributed the various classes of Angels
that encircled it. The Basilidians supposed that there were three hundred
and sixty-five orders of angels.

[3] It appears that, in most languages, the term employed for an angel
means also a messenger.

[4] The name given by the Mahometans to the infernal regions, over which,
they say, the angel Tabliek presides.

[5] The Kerubilna, as the Mussulmans call them, are often joined
indiscriminately with the Asrafil or Seraphim, under one common name of
Azazil, by which all spirits who approach near the throne of Alla are
designated.

[6] A belief that the stars are either spirits or the vehicles of spirits,
was common to all the religions and heresies of the East. Kircher has
given the names and stations of the seven archangels, who were by the
Cabala of the Jews distributed through the planets.

[7] According to the cosmogony of the ancient Persians, there were four
stars set as sentinels in the four quarters of the heavens, to watch over
the other fixed stars, and superintend the planets in their course. The
names of these four Sentinel stars are, according to the Boundesh,
Taschter, for the east; Satevis, for the west; Venand, for the south; and
Haftorang. for the north.

[8] Chavah, or, as it is Arabic, Havah (the name by which Adam called the
woman after their transgression), means "Life".

[9] Called by the Mussulmans Al Araf--a sort of wall or partition which,
according to the 7th chapter of the Koran, separates hell from paradise,
and where they, who have not merits sufficient to gain them immediate
admittance into heaven, are supposed to stand for a certain period,
alternately tantalized and tormented by the sights that are on either side
presented to them.

[10] I am aware that this happy saying of Lord Albemarle's loses much of
its grace and playfulness, by being put into the mouth of any but a human
lover.

[11] According to Whitehurst's theory, the mention of rainbows by an
antediluvian angel is an anachronism; as he says, "There was no rain
before the flood, and consequently no rainbow, which accounts for the
novelty of this sight after the Deluge."

[12] In acknowledging the authority of the great Prophets who had preceded
him, Mahomet represented his own mission as the final "_Seal_," or
consummation of them all.

[13] The Zodiacal Light.

[14] Pococke, however, gives it as the opinion of the Mahometan doctors,
that all souls, not only of men and of animals, living either on land or
in the sea, but of angels also, must necessarily taste of death.

[15] The Dove, or pigeon which attended Mahomet as his Familiar, and was
frequently seen to whisper into his ear, was, if I recollect right, one of
that select number of animals [including also the ant of Solomon, the dog
of the Seven Sleepers, etc.] which were thought by the Prophet worthy of
admission into Paradise.

[16] "Mohammed [says Sale], though a prophet, was not able to bear the
sight of Gabriel, when he appeared in his proper form, much less would
others be able to support it."

[17] Seth is a favorite personage among the Orientals, and acts a
conspicuous part in many of their most extravagant romances. The Syrians
pretended to have a Testament of this Patriarch in their possession, in
which was explained the whole theology of angels, their different orders,
etc. The Curds, too (as Hyde mentions in his Appendix), have a book, which
contains all the rites of their religion, and which they call Sohuph
Sheit, or the Book of Seth.

[18] The Seraphim, or Spirits of Divine Love.

[19] An allusion to the Sephiroths or Splendors of the Jewish Cabala,
represented as a tree, of which God is the crown or summit.

RHYMES ON THE ROAD.

EXTRACTED FROM THE JOURNAL OF
A TRAVELLING MEMBER OF
THE POCO-CURANTE SOCIETY,

1819.

The greater part of the following Rhymes were written or composed in an
old _caleche_ for the purpose of beguiling the _ennui_ of solitary
travelling; and as verses made by a gentleman in his sleep, have been
lately called "a _psychological_ curiosity," it is to be hoped that
verses, composed by a gentleman to keep himself awake, may be honored with
some appellation equally Greek.

RHYMES ON THE ROAD

INTRODUCTORY RHYMES.

_Different Attitudes in which Authors compose.--Bayes, Henry Stevens,
Herodotus, etc.--Writing in Bed--in the Fields.--Plato and Sir Richard
Blackmore.--Fiddling with Gloves and Twigs.--Madame de Stael.--Rhyming on
the Road, in an old Caleche_.

What various attitudes and ways
And tricks we authors have in writing!
While some write sitting, some like BAYES
Usually stand while they're inditing,
Poets there are who wear the floor out,
Measuring a line at every stride;
While some like HENRY STEPHENS pour out
Rhymes by the dozen while they ride.
HERODOTUS wrote most in bed;
And RICHERAND, a French physician,
Declares the clock-work of the head
Goes best in that reclined position.
If you consult MONTAIGNE and PLINY on
The subject, 'tis their joint opinion
That Thought its richest harvest yields
Abroad among the woods and fields,
That bards who deal in small retail
At home may at their counters stop;
But that the grove, the hill, the vale,
Are Poesy's true wholesale shop.
And verily I think they're right--
For many a time on summer eves,
Just at that closing hour of light,
When, like an Eastern Prince, who leaves
For distant war his Haram bowers,
The Sun bids farewell to the flowers,
Whose heads are sunk, whose tears are flowing
Mid all the glory of his going!--
Even _I_ have felt, beneath those beams,
When wandering thro' the fields alone,
Thoughts, fancies, intellectual gleams,
Which, far too bright to be my own,
Seemed lent me by the Sunny Power
That was abroad at that still hour.

If thus I've felt, how must _they_ feel,
The few whom genuine Genius warms,
Upon whose soul he stamps his seal,
Graven with Beauty's countless forms;--
The few upon this earth, who seem
Born to give truth to PLATO'S dream,
Since in their thoughts, as in a glass,
Shadows of heavenly things appear.
Reflections of bright shapes that pass
Thro' other worlds, above our sphere!
But this reminds me I digress;--
For PLATO, too, produced, 'tis said,
(As one indeed might almost guess),
His glorious visions all in bed.[1]
'Twas in his carriage the sublime
Sir RICHARD BLACKMORE used to rhyme;
And (if the wits don't do him wrong)
Twixt death and epics past his time,[2]
Scribbling and killing all day long--
Like Phoebus in his car, at ease,
Now warbling forth a lofty song,
Now murdering the young Niobes.