The Complete Poems of Sir Thomas Moore

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I am convinced, however, that, though not quite a _casuiste relache_, you
have charity enough to forgive such inoffensive follies: you know that the
pious Beza was not the less revered for those sportive Juvenilia which he
published under a fictitious name; nor did the levity of Bembo's poems
prevent him from making a very good cardinal.

Believe me, my dear friend.

With the truest esteem,

Yours,

T. M.

_April 19, 1802_

JUVENILE POEMS

FRAGMENTS OF COLLEGE EXERCISES.

_Nobilitas sola est atque unica virtus_.--JUV.

Mark those proud boasters of a splendid line,
Like gilded ruins, mouldering while they shine,
How heavy sits that weight, of alien show,
Like martial helm upon an infant's brow;
Those borrowed splendors whose contrasting light
Throws back the native shades in deeper night.

Ask the proud train who glory's train pursue,
Where are the arts by which that glory grew?
The genuine virtues with that eagle-gaze
Sought young Renown in all her orient blaze!
Where is the heart by chymic truth refined,
The exploring soul whose eye had read mankind?
Where are the links that twined, with heavenly art,
His country's interest round the patriot's heart?

* * * * *

_Justum bellum quibus necessarium, et pia arma quibus nulla nisi in
armis relinquitur spes_.--LIVY.

* * * * *

Is there no call, no consecrating cause
Approved by Heav'n, ordained by nature's laws,
Where justice flies the herald of our way,
And truth's pure beams upon the banners play?

Yes, there's a call sweet as an angel's breath
To slumbering babes or innocence in death;
And urgent as the tongue of Heaven within,
When the mind's balance trembles upon sin.

Oh! 'tis our country's voice, whose claim should meet
An echo in the soul's most deep retreat;
Along the heart's responding chords should run,
Nor let a tone there vibrate--but the one!

VARIETY.

Ask what prevailing, pleasing power
Allures the sportive, wandering bee
To roam untired, from flower to flower,
He'll tell you, 'tis variety.

Look Nature round; her features trace,
Her seasons, all her changes see;
And own, upon Creation's face,
The greatest charm's variety.

For me, ye gracious powers above!
Still let me roam, unfixt and free;
In all things,--but the nymph I love
I'll change, and taste variety.

But, Patty, not a world of charms
Could e'er estrange my heart from thee;--
No, let me ever seek those arms.
There still I'll find variety.

TO A BOY, WITH A WATCH,

WRITTEN FOR A FRIEND

Is it not sweet, beloved youth,
To rove through Erudition's bowers,
And cull the golden fruits of truth,
And gather Fancy's brilliant flowers?

And is it not more sweet than this,
To feel thy parents' hearts approving,
And pay them back in sums of bliss
The dear, the endless debt of loving?

It must be so to thee, my youth;
With this idea toil is lighter;
This sweetens all the fruits of truth,
And makes the flowers of fancy brighter.

The little gift we send thee, boy,
May sometimes teach thy soul to ponder,
If indolence or siren joy
Should ever tempt that soul to wander.

'Twill tell thee that the winged day
Can, ne'er be chain'd by man's endeavor;
That life and time shall fade away,
While heaven and virtue bloom forever!

SONG.

If I swear by that eye, you'll allow,
Its look is so shifting and new,
That the oath I might take on it now
The very next glance would undo.

Those babies that nestle so sly
Such thousands of arrows have got,
That an oath, on the glance of an eye
Such as yours, may be off in a shot.

Should I swear by the dew on your lip,
Though each moment the treasure renews,
If my constancy wishes to trip,
I may kiss off the oath when I choose.

Or a sigh may disperse from that flower;
Both the dew and the oath that are there;
And I'd make a new vow every hour,
To lose them so sweetly in air.

But clear up the heaven of your brow,
Nor fancy my faith is a feather;
On my heart I will pledge you my vow,
And they both must be broken together!

TO .......

Remember him thou leavest behind,
Whose heart is warmly bound to thee,
Close as the tenderest links can bind
A heart as warm as heart can be.

Oh! I had long in freedom roved,
Though many seemed my soul to snare;
'Twas passion when I thought I loved,
'Twas fancy when I thought them fair.

Even she, my muse's early theme,
Beguiled me only while she warmed;
Twas young desire that fed the dream,
And reason broke what passion formed.

But thou-ah! better had it been
If I had still in freedom roved,
If I had ne'er thy beauties seen,
For then I never should have loved.

Then all the pain which lovers feel
Had never to this heart been known;
But then, the joys that lovers steal,
Should _they_ have ever been my own?

Oh! trust me, when I swear thee this,
Dearest! the pain of loving thee,
The very pain is sweeter bliss
Than passion's wildest ecstasy.

That little cage I would hot part,
In which my soul is prisoned now,
For the most light and winged heart
That wantons on the passing vow.

Still, my beloved! still keep in mind,
However far removed from me,
That there is one thou leavest behind,
Whose heart respires for only thee!

And though ungenial ties have bound
Thy fate unto another's care,
That arm, which clasps thy bosom round,
Cannot confine the heart that's there.

No, no! that heart is only mine
By ties all other ties above,
For I have wed it at a shrine
Where we have had no priest but Love.

SONG.

When Time who steals our years away
Shall steal our pleasures too,
The memory of the past will stay
And half our joys renew,
Then, Julia, when thy beauty's flower
Shall feel the wintry air,
Remembrance will recall the hour
When thou alone wert fair.
Then talk no more of future gloom;
Our joys shall always last;
For Hope shall brighten days to come,
And Memory gild the past.

Come, Chloe, fill the genial bowl,
I drink to Love and thee:
Thou never canst decay in soul,
Thou'lt still be young for me.
And as thy; lips the tear-drop chase,
Which on my cheek they find,
So hope shall steal away the trace
That sorrow leaves behind.
Then fill the bowl--away with gloom!
Our joys shall always last;
For Hope shall brighten days to come,
And Memory gild the past.

But mark, at thought of future years
When love shall lose its soul,
My Chloe drops her timid tears,
They mingle with my bowl.
How like this bowl of wine, my fair,
Our loving life shall fleet;
Though tears may sometimes mingle there,
The draught will still be sweet.
Then fill the cup--away with gloom!
Our joys shall always last;
For Hope will brighten days to come,
And Memory gild the past.

SONG.

Have you not seen the timid tear,
Steal trembling from mine eye?
Have you not marked the flush of fear,
Or caught the murmured sigh?
And can you think my love is chill,
Nor fixt on you alone?
And can you rend, by doubting still,
A heart so much your own?

To you my soul's affections move,
Devoutly, warmly true;
My life has been a task of love,
One long, long thought of you.
If all your tender faith be o'er,
If still my truth you'll try;
Alas, _I_ know but _one_ proof more--
I'll bless your name, and die!

REUBEN AND ROSE.

A TALE OF ROMANCE.

The darkness that hung upon Willumberg's walls
Had long been remembered with awe and dismay;
For years not a sunbeam had played in its halls,
And it seemed as shut out from the regions of day.

Though the valleys were brightened by many a beam,
Yet none could the woods of that castle illume;
And the lightning which flashed on the neighboring stream
Flew back, as if fearing to enter the gloom!

"Oh! when shall this horrible darkness disperse!"
Said Willumberg's lord to the Seer of the Cave;--
"It can never dispel," said the wizard of verse,
"Till the bright star of chivalry sinks in the wave!"

And who was the bright star of chivalry then?
Who _could_ be but Reuben, the flower of the age?
For Reuben was first in the combat of men,
Though Youth had scarce written his name on her page.

For Willumberg's daughter his young heart had beat,
For Rose, who was bright as the spirit of dawn,
When with wand dropping diamonds, and silvery feet,
It walks o'er the flowers of the mountain and lawn.

Must Rose, then, from Reuben so fatally sever?
Sad, sad were the words of the Seer of the Cave,
That darkness should cover that castle forever,
Or Reuben be sunk in the merciless wave!

To the wizard she flew, saying, "Tell me, oh, tell?
Shall my Reuben no more be restored to my eyes?"
"Yes, yes--when a spirit shall toll the great bell
Of the mouldering abbey, your Reuben shall rise!"

Twice, thrice he repeated "Your Reuben shall rise!"
And Rose felt a moment's release from her pain;
And wiped, while she listened, the tears from her eyes.
And hoped she might yet see her hero again.

That hero could smite at the terrors of death,
When he felt that he died for the sire of his Rose;
To the Oder he flew, and there, plunging beneath,
In the depth of the billows soon found his repose.--

How strangely the order of destiny falls!
Not long in the waters the warrior lay,
When a sunbeam was seen to glance over the walls,
And the castle of Willumberg basked in the ray!

All, all but the soul of the maid was in light,
There sorrow and terror lay gloomy and blank:
Two days did she wander, and all the long night,
In quest of her love, on the wide river's bank.

Oft, oft did she pause for the toll of the bell,
And heard but the breathings of night in the air;
Long, long did she gaze on the watery swell,
And saw but the foam of the white billow there.

And often as midnight its veil would undraw,
As she looked at the light of the moon in the stream,
She thought 'twas his helmet of silver she saw,
As the curl of the surge glittered high in the beam.

And now the third night was begemming the sky;
Poor Rose, on the cold dewy margent reclined,
There wept till the tear almost froze in her eye,
When--hark!--'twas the bell that came deep in the wind!

She startled, and saw, through the glimmering shade,
A form o'er the waters in majesty glide;
She knew 'twas her love, though his cheek was decayed,
And his helmet of silver was washed by the tide.

Was this what the Seer of the Cave had foretold?--
Dim, dim through the phantom the moon shot a gleam;
'Twas Reuben, but, ah! he was deathly and cold,
And fleeted away like the spell of a dream!

Twice, thrice did he rise, and as often she thought
From the bank to embrace him, but vain her endeavor!
Then, plunging beneath, at a billow she caught,
And sunk to repose on its bosom forever!

DID NOT.

'Twas a new feeling--something more
Than we had dared to own before.
Which then we hid not;
We saw it in each other's eye,
And wished, in every half-breathed sigh,
To speak, but did not.

She felt my lips' impassioned touch--
'Twas the first time I dared so much,
And yet she chid not;
But whispered o'er my burning brow,
"Oh! do you doubt I love you now?"
Sweet soul! I did not.

Warmly I felt her bosom thrill,
I prest it closer, closer still,
Though gently bid not;
Till--oh! the world hath seldom heard
Of lovers, who so nearly erred,
And yet, who did not.

TO .......

That wrinkle, when first I espied it,
At once put my heart out of pain;
Till the eye, that was glowing beside it,
Disturbed my ideas again.

Thou art just in the twilight at present,
When woman's declension begins;
When, fading from all that is pleasant,
She bids a good night to her sins.

Yet thou still art so lovely to me,
I would sooner, my exquisite mother!
Repose in the sunset of thee,
Than bask in the noon of another.

TO MRS. .......

ON SOME CALUMNIES AGAINST HER CHARACTER.

Is not thy mind a gentle mind?
Is not that heart a heart refined?
Hast thou not every gentle grace,
We love in woman's mind and face?
And, oh! art _thou_ a shrine for Sin
To hold her hateful worship in?

No, no, be happy--dry that tear--
Though some thy heart hath harbored near,
May now repay its love with blame;
Though man, who ought to shield thy fame,
Ungenerous man, be first to shun thee;
Though all the world look cold upon thee,
Yet shall thy pureness keep thee still
Unharmed by that surrounding chill;
Like the famed drop, in crystal found,[1]
Floating, while all was frozen round,--
Unchilled unchanging shalt thou be,
Safe in thy own sweet purity.

[1] This alludes to a curious gem, upon which Claudian has left
us some very elaborate epigrams. It was a drop of pure water enclosed
within a piece of crystal. Addison mentions a curiosity of this kind at
Milan; and adds; "It is such a rarity as this that I saw at Vendoeme in
France, which they there pretend is a tear that our Saviour shed over
Lazarus, and was gathered up by an angel, who put it into a little crystal
vial, and made a present of it to Mary Magdalen".

ANACREONTIC.

--_in lachrymas verterat omne merum_.
TIB. lib. i. eleg. 5.

Press the grape, and let it pour
Around the board its purple shower:
And, while the drops my goblet steep,
I'll think in woe the clusters weep.

Weep on, weep on, my pouting vine!
Heaven grant no tears, but tears of wine.
Weep on; and, as thy sorrows flow,
I'll taste the luxury of woe.

TO .......

When I loved you, I can't but allow
I had many an exquisite minute;
But the scorn that I feel for you now
Hath even more luxury in it.

Thus, whether we're on or we're off,
Some witchery seems to await you;
To love you was pleasant enough,
And, oh! 'tis delicious hate you!

TO JULIA.

IN ALLUSION TO SOME ILLIBERAL CRITICISMS.

Why, let the stingless critic chide
With all that fume of vacant pride
Which mantles o'er the pendant fool,
Like vapor on a stagnant pool.
Oh! if the song, to feeling true,
Can please the elect, the sacred few,
Whose souls, by Taste and Nature taught,
Thrill with the genuine pulse of thought--
If some fond feeling maid like thee,
The warm-eyed child of Sympathy,
Shall say, while o'er my simple theme
She languishes in Passion's dream,
"He was, indeed, a tender soul--
No critic law, no chill control,
Should ever freeze, by timid art,
The flowings of so fond a heart!"
Yes, soul of Nature! soul of Love!
That, hovering like a snow-winged dove,
Breathed o'er my cradle warblings wild,
And hailed me Passion's warmest child,--
Grant me the tear from Beauty's eye,
From Feeling's breast the votive sigh;
Oh! let my song, my memory find,
A shrine within the tender mind!
And I will smile when critics chide,
And I will scorn the fume of pride
Which mantles o'er the pendant fool,
Like vapor round some stagnant pool!

TO JULIA.

Mock me no more with Love's beguiling dream,
A dream, I find, illusory as sweet:
One smile of friendship, nay, of cold esteem,
Far dearer were than passion's bland deceit!

I've heard you oft eternal truth declare;
Your heart was only mine, I once believed.
Ah! shall I say that all your vows were air?
And _must_ I say, my hopes were all deceived?

Vow, then, no longer that our souls are twined
That all our joys are felt with mutual zeal;
Julia!--'tis pity, pity makes you kind;
You know I love, and you would _seem_ to feel.

But shall I still go seek within those arms
A joy in which affection takes no part?
No, no, farewell! you give me but your charms,
When I had fondly thought you gave your heart.

THE SHRINE.

TO .......

My fates had destined me to rove
A long, long pilgrimage of love;
And many an altar on my way
Has lured my pious steps to stay;
For if the saint was young and fair,
I turned, and sung my vespers there.
This, from a youthful pilgrim's fire,
Is what your pretty saints require:
To pass, nor tell a single bead,
With them would be profane indeed!
But, trust me, all this young devotion
Was but to keep my zeal in motion;
And, every humbler altar past,
I now have reached THE SHRINE at last!

TO A LADY,

WITH SOME MANUSCRIPT POEMS,

ON LEAVING THE COUNTRY.

When, casting many a look behind,
I leave the friends I cherish here--
Perchance some other friends to find,
But surely finding none so dear--

Haply the little simple page,
Which votive thus I've traced for thee,
May now and then a look engage,
And steal one moment's thought for me.

But, oh! in pity let not those
Whose hearts are not of gentle mould,
Let not the eye that seldom flows
With feeling's tear, my song behold.

For, trust me, they who never melt
With pity, never melt with love;
And such will frown at all I've felt,
And all my loving lays reprove.

But if, perhaps, some gentler mind,
Which rather loves to praise than blame,
Should in my page an interest find.
And linger kindly on my name;

Tell him--or, oh! if, gentler still,
By female lips my name be blest:
For where do all affections thrill
So sweetly as in woman's breast?--

Tell her, that he whose loving themes
Her eye indulgent wanders o'er,
Could sometimes wake from idle dreams,
And bolder flights of fancy soar;

That Glory oft would claim the lay,
And Friendship oft his numbers move;
But whisper then, that, "sooth to say,
His sweetest song was given to Love!"

TO JULIA.

Though Fate, my girl, may bid us part,
Our souls it cannot, shall not sever;
The heart will seek its kindred heart,
And cling to it as close as ever.

But must we, must we part indeed?
Is all our dream of rapture over?
And does not Julia's bosom bleed
To leave so dear, so fond a lover?

Does _she_, too, mourn?--Perhaps she may;
Perhaps she mourns our bliss so fleeting;
But why is Julia's eye so gay,
If Julia's heart like mine is beating?

I oft have loved that sunny glow
Of gladness in her blue eye beaming--
But can the bosom bleed with woe
While joy is in the glances beaming?

No, no!--Yet, love, I will not chide;
Although your heart _were_ fond of roving,
Nor that, nor all the world beside
Could keep your faithful boy from loving.

You'll soon be distant from his eye,
And, with you, all that's worth possessing.
Oh! then it will be sweet to die,
When life has lost its only blessing!

TO .......

Sweet lady, look not thus again:
Those bright, deluding smiles recall
A maid remember'd now with pain,
Who was my love, my life, my all!

Oh! while this heart bewildered took
Sweet poison from her thrilling eye,
Thus would she smile and lisp and look,
And I would hear and gaze and sigh!

Yes, I did love her--wildly love--
She was her sex's best deceiver!
And oft she swore she'd never rove--
And I was destined to believe her!

Then, lady, do not wear the smile
Of one whose smile could thus betray;
Alas! I think the lovely wile
Again could steal my heart away.

For, when those spells that charmed my mind
On lips so pure as thine I see,
I fear the heart which she resigned
Will err again and fly to thee!

NATURE'S LABELS.

A FRAGMENT.

In vain we fondly strive to trace
The soul's reflection in the face;
In vain we dwell on lines and crosses,
Crooked mouth or short proboscis;
Boobies have looked as wise and bright
As Plato or the Stagirite:
And many a sage and learned skull
Has peeped through windows dark and dull.
Since then, though art do all it can,
We ne'er can reach the inward man,
Nor (howsoe'er "learned Thebans" doubt)
The inward woman, from without,
Methinks 'twere well if nature could
(And Nature could, if Nature would)
Some pithy, short descriptions write
On tablets large, in black and white,
Which she might hang about our throttles,
Like labels upon physic-bottles;
And where all men might read--but stay--
As dialectic sages say,
The argument most apt and ample
For common use is the example.
For instance, then, if Nature's care
Had not portrayed, in lines so fair,
The inward soul of Lucy Lindon.
_This_ is the label she'd have pinned on.

LABEL FIRST.

Within this form there lies enshrined
The purest, brightest gem of mind.
Though Feeling's hand may sometimes throw
Upon its charms the shade of woe,
The lustre of the gem, when veiled,
Shall be but mellowed, not concealed.

* * * * *

Now, sirs, imagine, if you're able,
That Nature wrote a second label,
They're her own words--at least suppose so--
And boldly pin it on Pomposo.

LABEL SECOND.

When I composed the fustian brain
Of this redoubted Captain Vain.
I had at hand but few ingredients,
And so was forced to use expedients.
I put therein some small discerning,
A grain of sense, a grain of learning;
And when I saw the void behind,
I filled it up with--froth and wind!

* * * * *

TO JULIA

ON HER BIRTHDAY.

When Time was entwining the garland of years,
Which to crown my beloved was given,
Though some of the leaves might be sullied with tears,
Yet the flowers were all gathered in heaven.

And long may this garland be sweet to the eye,
May its verdure forever be new;
Young Love shall enrich it with many a sigh,
And Sympathy nurse it with dew.

A REFLECTION AT SEA.

See how, beneath the moonbeam's smile,
Yon little billow heaves its breast,
And foams and sparkles for awhile,--
Then murmuring subsides to rest.

Thus man, the sport of bliss and care,
Rises on time's eventful sea:
And, having swelled a moment there,
Thus melts into eternity!

CLORIS AND FANNY.

Cloris! if I were Persia's king,
I'd make my graceful queen of thee;
While FANNY, wild and artless thing,
Should but thy humble handmaid be.

There is but _one_ objection in it--
That, verily, I'm much afraid
I should, in some unlucky minute,
Forsake the mistress for the maid.

THE SHIELD.

Say, did you not hear a voice of death!
And did you not mark the paly form
Which rode on the silvery mist of the heath,
And sung a ghostly dirge in the storm?

Was it the wailing bird of the gloom,
That shrieks on the house of woe all night?
Or a shivering fiend that flew to a tomb,
To howl and to feed till the glance of light?

'Twas _not_ the death-bird's cry from the wood,
Nor shivering fiend that hung on the blast;
'Twas the shade of Helderic--man of blood--
It screams for the guilt of days that are past.

See, how the red, red lightning strays,
And scares the gliding ghosts of the heath!
Now on the leafless yew it plays,
Where hangs the shield of this son of death.

That shield is blushing with murderous stains;
Long has it hung from the cold yew's spray;
It is blown by storms and washed by rains,
But neither can take the blood away!

Oft by that yew, on the blasted field,
Demons dance to the red moon's light;
While the damp boughs creak, and the swinging shield
Sings to the raving spirit of night!

TO JULIA WEEPING.

Oh! if your tears are given to care,
If real woe disturbs your peace,
Come to my bosom, weeping fair!
And I will bid your weeping cease.

But if with Fancy's visioned fears,
With dreams of woe your bosom thrill;
You look so lovely in your tears,
That I must bid you drop them still.

DREAMS.

TO ... ....

In slumber, I prithee how is it
That souls are oft taking the air,
And paying each other a visit,
While bodies are heaven knows where?

Last night, 'tis in vain to deny it,
Your soul took a fancy to roam,
For I heard her, on tiptoe so quiet,
Come ask, whether _mine_ was at home.

And mine let her in with delight,
And they talked and they laughed the time through;
For, when souls come together at night,
There is no saying what they mayn't do!

And _your_ little Soul, heaven bless her!
Had much to complain and to say,
Of how sadly you wrong and oppress her
By keeping her prisoned all day.

"If I happen," said she, "but to steal
"For a peep now and then to her eye,
"Or, to quiet the fever I feel,
"Just venture abroad on a sigh;

"In an instant she frightens me in
"With some phantom of prudence or terror,
"For fear I should stray into sin,
"Or, what is still worse, into error!

"So, instead of displaying my graces,
"By daylight, in language and mien,
"I am shut up in corners and places,
"Where truly I blush to be seen!"

Upon hearing this piteous confession,
_My_ Soul, looking tenderly at her,
Declared, as for grace and discretion,
He did not know much of the matter;

"But, to-morrow, sweet Spirit!" he said,
"Be at home, after midnight, and then
"I will come when your lady's in bed,
"And we'll talk o'er the subject again."

So she whispered a word in his ear,
I suppose to her door to direct him,
And, just after midnight, my dear,
Your polite little Soul may expect him.

TO ROSA.

WRITTEN DURING ILLNESS.

The wisest soul, by anguish torn,
Will soon unlearn the lore it knew;
And when the shrining casket's worn,
The gem within will tarnish too.

But love's an essence of the soul,
Which sinks hot with this chain of clay;
Which throbs beyond the chill control
Of withering pain or pale decay.

And surely, when the touch of Death
Dissolves the spirit's earthly ties,
Love still attends the immortal breath,
And makes it purer for the skies!