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

Pleasure, thou only good on earth[2]
One precious moment given to thee--
Oh! by my Lais' lip, 'tis worth
The sage's immortality.

Then far be all the wisdom hence,
That would our joys one hour delay!
Alas, the feast of soul and sense
Love calls us to in youth's bright day,
If not soon tasted, fleets away.
Ne'er wert thou formed, my Lamp, to shed
Thy splendor on a lifeless page;--
Whate'er my blushing Lais said
Of thoughtful lore and studies sage,
'Twas mockery all--her glance of joy
Told me thy dearest, best employ.
And, soon, as night shall close the eye
Of heaven's young wanderer in the west;
When seers are gazing on the sky,
To find their future orbs of rest;
Then shall I take my trembling way,
Unseen but to those worlds above,
And, led by thy mysterious ray,
Steal to the night-bower of my love.

[1] It does not appear to have been very difficult to become a
philosopher amongst the ancients. A moderate store of learning, with a
considerable portion of confidence, and just wit enough to produce an
occasional apophthegm, seem to have been all the qualifications necessary
for the purpose.

[2] Aristippus considered motion as the principle of happiness,
in which idea he differed from the Epicureans, who looked to a state of
repose as the only true voluptuousness, and avoided even the too lively
agitations of pleasure, as a violent and ungraceful derangement of the
senses.

TO MRS,---.

ON HER BEAUTIFUL TRANSLATION OF VOITURE'S KISS.

_Mon ame sur mon levre etoit lors toute entiere.
Pour savourer le miel qui sur la votre etoit;
Mais en me retirant, elle resta derriere,
Tant de ce doux plaisir l'amorce l'a restoit_.
VOITURE.

How heavenly was the poet's doom,
To breathe his spirit through a kiss:
And lose within so sweet a tomb
The trembling messenger of bliss!

And, sure his soul returned to feel
That it _again_ could ravished be;
For in the kiss that thou didst steal,
His life and soul have fled to thee.

RONDEAU.

"Good night! good night!"--And is it so?
And must I from my Rosa go?
Oh Rosa, say "Good night!" once more,
And I'll repeat it o'er and o'er,
Till the first glance of dawning light
Shall find us saying, still, "Good night."

And still "Good night," my Rosa, say--
But whisper still, "A minute stay;"
And I will stay, and every minute
Shall have an age of transport in it;
Till Time himself shall stay his flight,
To listen to our sweet "Good night."

"Good night!" you'll murmur with a sigh,
And tell me it is time to fly:
And I will vow, will swear to go,
While still that sweet voice murmurs "No!"
Till slumber seal our weary sight--
And then, my love, my soul, "Good night!"

SONG.

Why does azure deck the sky?
'Tis to be like thy looks of blue.
Why is red the rose's dye?
Because it is thy blushes' hue.
All that's fair, by Love's decree,
Has been made resembling thee!

Why is falling snow so white,
But to be like thy bosom fair!
Why are solar beams so bright?
That they may seem thy golden hair!
All that's bright, by Love's decree,
Has been made resembling thee!

Why are nature's beauties felt?
Oh! 'tis thine in her we see!
Why has music power to melt?
Oh! because it speaks like thee.
All that's sweet, by Love's decree,
Has been made resembling thee!

TO ROSA.

Like one who trusts to summer skies,
And puts his little bark to sea,
Is he who, lured by smiling eyes,
Consigns his simple heart to thee.

For fickle is the summer wind,
And sadly may the bark be tost;
For thou art sure to change thy mind,
And then the wretched heart is lost!

WRITTEN IN A COMMONPLACE BOOK, CALLED "THE BOOK OF FOLLIES;"
IN WHICH EVERY ONE THAT OPENED IT WAS TO CONTRIBUTE SOMETHING.

TO THE BOOK OF FOLLIES.

This tribute's from a wretched elf,
Who hails thee, emblem of himself.
The book of life, which I have traced,
Has been, like thee, a motley waste
Of follies scribbled o'er and o'er,
One folly bringing hundreds more.
Some have indeed been writ so neat,
In characters so fair, so sweet,
That those who judge not too severely,
Have said they loved such follies dearly!
Yet still, O book! the allusion stands;
For these were penned by _female_ hands:
The rest--alas! I own the truth--
Have all been scribbled so uncouth
That Prudence, with a withering look,
Disdainful, flings away the book.
Like thine, its pages here and there
Have oft been stained with blots of care;
And sometimes hours of peace, I own,
Upon some fairer leaves have shone,
White as the snowings of that heaven
By which those hours of peace were given;
But now no longer--such, oh, such
The blast of Disappointment's touch!--
No longer now those hours appear;
Each leaf is sullied by a tear:
Blank, blank is every page with care,
Not even a folly brightens there.
Will they yet brighten?--never, never!
Then _shut the book_, O God, for ever!

TO ROSA.

Say, why should the girl of my soul be in tears
At a meeting of rapture like this,
When the glooms of the past and the sorrow of years
Have been paid by one moment of bliss?

Are they shed for that moment of blissful delight,
Which dwells on her memory yet?
Do they flow, like the dews of the love-breathing night,
From the warmth of the sun that has set?

Oh! sweet is the tear on that languishing smile,
That smile, which is loveliest then;
And if such are the drops that delight can beguile,
Thou shalt weep them again and again.

LIGHT SOUNDS THE HARP.

Light sounds the harp when the combat is over,
When heroes are resting, and joy is in bloom;
When laurels hang loose from the brow of the lover,
And Cupid makes wings of the warrior's plume.
But, when the foe returns,
Again the hero burns;
High flames the sword in his hand once more:
The clang of mingling arms
Is then the sound that charms,
And brazen notes of war, that stirring trumpets pour;--
Then, again comes the Harp, when the combat is over--
When heroes are resting, and Joy is in bloom--
When laurels hang loose from the brow of the lover,
And Cupid makes wings of the warrior's plume.
Light went the harp when the War-God, reclining,
Lay lulled on the white arm of Beauty to rest,
When round his rich armor the myrtle hung twining,
And flights of young doves made his helmet their nest.
But, when the battle came,
The hero's eye breathed flame:
Soon from his neck the white arm was flung;
While, to his waking ear,
No other sounds were dear
But brazen notes of war, by thousand trumpets sung.
But then came the light harp, when danger was ended,
And Beauty once more lulled the War-God to rest;
When tresses of gold with his laurels lay blended,
And flights of young doves made his helmet their nest.

FROM THE GREEK OF MELEAGER.

Fill high the cup with liquid flame,
And speak my Heliodora's name.
Repeat its magic o'er and o'er,
And let the sound my lips adore,
Live in the breeze, till every tone,
And word, and breath, speaks her alone.

Give me the wreath that withers there,
It was but last delicious night,
It circled her luxuriant hair,
And caught her eyes' reflected light.
Oh! haste, and twine it round my brow,
'Tis all of her that's left me now.
And see--each rosebud drops a tear,
To find the nymph no longer here--
No longer, where such heavenly charms
As hers _should_ be--within these arms.

SONG.

Fly from the world, O Bessy! to me,
Thou wilt never find any sincerer;
I'll give up the world, O Bessy! for thee,
I can never meet any that's dearer.
Then tell me no more, with a tear and a sigh,
That our loves will be censured by many;
All, all have their follies, and who will deny
That ours is the sweetest of any?

When your lip has met mine, in communion so sweet,
Have we felt as if virtue forbid it?--
Have we felt as if heaven denied them to meet?--
No, rather 'twas heaven that did it.
So innocent, love, is the joy we then sip,
So little of wrong is there in it,
That I wish all my errors were lodged on your lip,
And I'd kiss them away in a minute.

Then come to your lover, oh! fly to his shed,
From a world which I know thou despisest;
And slumber will hover as light o'er our bed!
As e'er on the couch of the wisest.
And when o'er our pillow the tempest is driven,
And thou, pretty innocent, fearest,
I'll tell thee, it is not the chiding of heaven,
'Tis only our lullaby, dearest.

And, oh! while, we lie on our deathbed, my love,
Looking back on the scene of our errors,
A sigh from my Bessy shall plead then above,
And Death be disarmed of his terrors,
And each to the other embracing will say,
"Farewell! let us hope we're forgiven."
Thy last fading glance will illumine the way,
And a kiss be our passport to heaven!

THE RESEMBLANCE.

_---- vo cercand' io,
Donna quant' e possibile in altrui
La desiata vostra forma vera_.
PETRARC, _Sonett_. 14.

Yes, if 'twere any common love,
That led my pliant heart astray,
I grant, there's not a power above
Could wipe the faithless crime away.

But 'twas my doom to err with one
In every look so like to thee
That, underneath yon blessed sun
So fair there are but thou and she

Both born of beauty, at a birth,
She held with thine a kindred sway,
And wore the only shape on earth
That could have lured my soul to stray.

Then blame me not, if false I be,
'Twas love that waked the fond excess;
My heart had been more true to thee,
Had mine eye prized thy beauty less.

FANNY, DEAREST.

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

Reflected bright in this heart of mine,
Fanny, dearest, thy image lies;
But, ah, the mirror would cease to shine,
If dimmed too often with sighs.
They lose the half of beauty's light,
Who view it through sorrow's tear;
And 'tis but to see thee truly bright
That I keep my eye-beam clear.
Then wait no longer till tears shall flow,
Fanny, dearest--the hope is vain;
If sunshine cannot dissolve thy snow,
I shall never attempt it with rain.

THE RING.

TO .... ....

No--Lady! Lady! keep the ring:
Oh! think, how many a future year,
Of placid smile and downy wing,
May sleep within its holy sphere.

Do not disturb their tranquil dream,
Though love hath ne'er the mystery warmed;
Yet heaven will shed a soothing beam,
To bless the bond itself hath formed.

But then, that eye, that burning eye,--
Oh! it doth ask, with witching power,
If heaven can ever bless the tie
Where love inwreaths no genial flower?

Away, away, bewildering look,
Or all the boast of virtue's o'er;
Go--hie thee to the sage's book,
And learn from him to feel no more.

I cannot warn thee: every touch,
That brings my pulses close to thine,
Tells me I want thy aid as much--
Even more, alas, than thou dost mine.

Yet, stay,--one hope, one effort yet--
A moment turn those eyes a way,
And let me, if I can, forget
The light that leads my soul astray.

Thou sayest, that we were born to meet,
That our hearts bear one common seal;--
Think, Lady, think, how man's deceit
Can seem to sigh and feign to feel.

When, o'er thy face some gleam of thought,
Like daybeams through the morning air,
Hath gradual stole, and I have caught
The feeling ere it kindled there;

The sympathy I then betrayed,
Perhaps was but the child of art,
The guile of one, who long hath played
With all these wily nets of heart.

Oh! thine is not my earliest vow;
Though few the years I yet have told,
Canst thou believe I've lived till now,
With loveless heart or senses cold?

No--other nymphs to joy and pain
This wild and wandering heart hath moved;
With some it sported, wild and vain,
While some it dearly, truly, loved.

The cheek to thine I fondly lay,
To theirs hath been as fondly laid;
The words to thee I warmly say,
To them have been as warmly said.

Then, scorn at once a worthless heart,
Worthless alike, or fixt or free;
Think of the pure, bright soul thou art,
And--love not me, oh love not me.

Enough--now, turn thine eyes again;
What, still that look and still that sigh!
Dost thou not feel my counsel then?
Oh! no, beloved,--nor do I.

TO THE INVISIBLE GIRL.

They try to persuade me, my dear little sprite,
That you're not a true daughter of ether and light,
Nor have any concern with those fanciful forms
That dance upon rainbows and ride upon storms;
That, in short, you're a woman; your lip and your eye
As mortal as ever drew gods from the sky.
But I _will_ not believe them--no, Science, to you
I have long bid a last and a careless adieu:
Still flying from Nature to study her laws,
And dulling delight by exploring its cause,
You forget how superior, for mortals below,
Is the fiction they dream to the truth that they know.
Oh! who, that has e'er enjoyed rapture complete,
Would ask _how_ we feel it, or _why_ it is sweet;
How rays are confused, or how particles fly
Through the medium refined of a glance or a sigh;
Is there one, who but once would not rather have known it,
Than written, with Harvey, whole volumes upon it?

As for you, my sweet-voiced and invisible love,
You must surely be one of those spirits, that rove
By the bank where, at twilight, the poet reclines,
When the star of the west on his solitude shines,
And the magical fingers of fancy have hung
Every breeze with a sigh, every leaf with a tongue.
Oh! hint to him then, 'tis retirement alone
Can hallow his harp or ennoble its tone;
Like you, with a veil of seclusion between,
His song to the world let him utter unseen,
And like you, a legitimate child of the spheres,
Escape from the eye to enrapture the ears.

Sweet spirit of mystery! how I should love,
In the wearisome ways I am fated to rove,
To have you thus ever invisibly nigh,
Inhaling for ever your song and your sigh!
Mid the crowds of the world and the murmurs of care,
I might sometimes converse with my nymph of the air,
And turn with distaste from the clamorous crew,
To steal in the pauses one whisper from you.
Then, come and be near me, for ever be mine,
We shall hold in the air a communion divine,
As sweet as, of old, was imagined to dwell
In the grotto of Numa, or Socrates' cell.
And oft, at those lingering moments of night,
When the heart's busy thoughts have put slumber to flight,
You shall come to my pillow and tell me of love,
Such as angel to angel might whisper above.
Sweet spirit!--and then, could you borrow the tone
Of that voice, to my ear like some fairy-song known,
The voice of the one upon earth, who has twined
With her being for ever my heart and my mind,
Though lonely and far from the light of her smile,
An exile, and weary and hopeless the while,
Could you shed for a moment her voice on my ear.
I will think, for that moment, that Cara is near;
That she comes with consoling enchantment to speak,
And kisses my eyelid and breathes on my cheek,
And tells me the night shall go rapidly by,
For the dawn of our hope, of our heaven is nigh.

Fair spirit! if such be your magical power,
It will lighten the lapse of full many an hour;
And, let fortune's realities frown as they will,
Hope, fancy, and Cara may smile for me still.

THE RING[1]

A TALE

_Annulus ille viri._
OVID. _"Amor." lib. ii. eleg. 15_.

The happy day at length arrived
When Rupert was to wed
The fairest maid in Saxony,
And take her to his bed.

As soon as morn was in the sky,
The feast and sports began;
The men admired the happy maid,
The maids the happy man.

In many a sweet device of mirth
The day was past along;
And some the featly dance amused,
And some the dulcet song.

The younger maids with Isabel
Disported through the bowers,
And decked her robe, and crowned her head
With motley bridal flowers.

The matrons all in rich attire,
Within the castle walls,
Sat listening to the choral strains
That echoed, through the halls.

Young Rupert and his friends repaired
Unto a spacious court,
To strike the bounding tennis-ball
In feat and manly sport.

The bridegroom on his finger wore
The wedding-ring so bright,
Which was to grace the lily hand
Of Isabel that night.

And fearing he might break the gem,
Or lose it in the play,
Hie looked around the court, to see
Where he the ring might lay.

Now, in the court a statue stood,
Which there full long had been;
It might a Heathen goddess be,
Or else, a Heathen queen.

Upon its marble finger then
He tried the ring to fit;
And, thinking it was safest there,
Thereon he fastened it.

And now the tennis sports went on,
Till they were wearied all,
And messengers announced to them
Their dinner in the hall,

Young Rupert for his wedding-ring
Unto the statue went;
But, oh, how shocked was he to find
The marble finger bent!

The hand was closed upon the ring
With firm and mighty clasp;
In vain he tried and tried and tried,
He could not loose the grasp!

Then sore surprised was Rupert's mind--
As well his mind might be;
"I'll come," quoth he, "at night again,
"When none are here to see."

He went unto the feast, and much
He thought upon his ring;
And marvelled sorely what could mean
So very strange a thing!

The feast was o'er, and to the court
He hied without delay,
Resolved to break the marble hand
And force the ring away.

But, mark a stranger wonder still--
The ring was there no more
And yet the marble hand ungrasped,
And open as before!

He searched the base, and all the court,
But nothing could he find;
Then to the castle hied he back
With sore bewildered mind.

Within he found them all in mirth,
The night in dancing flew:
The youth another ring procured,
And none the adventure knew.

And now the priest has joined their hands,
The hours of love advance:
Rupert almost forgets to think
Upon the morn's mischance.

Within the bed fair Isabel
In blushing sweetness lay,
Like flowers, half-opened by the
dawn,
And waiting for the day.

And Rupert, by her lovely side,
In youthful beauty glows,
Like Phoebus, when he bends to cast
His beams upon a rose.

And here my song would leave them both,
Nor let the rest be told,
If 'twere not for the horrid tale
It yet has to unfold.

Soon Rupert, 'twixt his bride and him
A death cold carcass found;
He saw it not, but thought he felt
Its arms embrace him round.

He started up, and then returned,
But found the phantom still;
In vain he shrunk, it clipt him
round,
With damp and deadly chill!

And when he bent, the earthy lips
A kiss of horror gave;
'Twas like the smell from charnel vaults,
Or from the mouldering grave!

Ill-fated Rupert!--wild and loud
Then cried he to his wife,
"Oh! save me from this horrid fiend,
"My Isabel! my life!"

But Isabel had nothing seen,
She looked around in vain;
And much she mourned the mad conceit
That racked her Rupert's brain.

At length from this invisible
These words to Rupert came:
(Oh God! while he did hear the words
What terrors shook his frame!)

"Husband, husband, I've the ring
"Thou gavest to-day to me;
"And thou'rt to me for ever wed,
"As I am wed to thee!"

And all the night the demon lay
Cold-chilling by his side,
And strained him with such deadly grasp,
He thought he should have died.

But when the dawn of day was near,
The horrid phantom fled,
And left the affrighted youth to weep
By Isabel in bed.

And all that day a gloomy cloud
Was seen on Rupert's brows;
Fair Isabel was likewise sad,
But strove to cheer her spouse.

And, as the day advanced, he thought
Of coming night with fear:
Alas, that he should dread to view
The bed that should be dear!

At length the second night arrived,
Again their couch they prest;
Poor Rupert hoped that all was o'er,
And looked for love and rest.

But oh! when midnight came, again
The fiend was at his side,
And, as it strained him in its grasp,
With howl exulting cried:--

"Husband, husband, I've the ring,
"The ring thou gavest to me;
"And thou'rt to me for ever wed,
"As I am wed to thee!",

In agony of wild despair,
He started from the bed;
And thus to his bewildered wife
The trembling Rupert said;

"Oh Isabel! dost thou not see
"A shape of horrors here,
"That strains me to its deadly kiss,
"And keeps me from my dear?"

"No, no, my love! my Rupert, I
"No shape of horrors see;
"And much I mourn the fantasy
"That keeps my dear from me."

This night, just like the night before,
In terrors past away.
Nor did the demon vanish thence
Before the dawn of day.

Said Rupert then, "My Isabel,
"Dear partner of my woe.
"To Father Austin's holy cave
"This instant will I go."

Now Austin was a reverend man,
Who acted wonders maint--
Whom all the country round believed
A devil or a saint!

To Father Austin's holy cave
Then Rupert straightway went;
And told him all, and asked him how
These horrors to prevent.

The father heard the youth, and then
Retired awhile to pray:
And, having prayed for half an hour
Thus to the youth did say:

"There is a place where four roads meet,
"Which I will tell to thee;
"Be there this eve, at fall of night,
"And list what thou shalt see.

"Thou'lt see a group of figures pass
"In strange disordered crowd,
"Travelling by torchlight through the roads,
"With noises strange and loud.

"And one that's high above the rest,
"Terrific towering o'er,
"Will make thee know him at a glance,
"So I need say no more.

"To him from me these tablets give,
"They'll quick be understood;
"Thou need'st not fear, but give them straight,
"I've scrawled them with my blood!"

The night-fall came, and Rupert all
In pale amazement went
To where the cross-roads met, as he
Was by the Father sent.

And lo! a group of figures came
In strange disordered crowd.
Travelling by torchlight through the roads,
With noises strange and loud.

And, as the gloomy train advanced,
Rupert beheld from far
A female form of wanton mien
High seated on a car.

And Rupert, as he gazed upon
The loosely-vested dame,
Thought of the marble statue's look,
For hers was just the same.

Behind her walked a hideous form,
With eyeballs flashing death;
Whene'er he breathed, a sulphured smoke
Came burning in his breath.

He seemed the first of all the crowd,
Terrific towering o'er;
"Yes, yes," said Rupert, "this is he,
"And I need ask no more."

Then slow he went, and to this fiend
The tablets trembling gave,
Who looked and read them with a yell
That would disturb the grave.

And when he saw the blood-scrawled name,
His eyes with fury shine;
"I thought," cries he, "his time was out,
"But he must soon be mine!"

Then darting at the youth a look
Which rent his soul with fear,
He went unto the female fiend,
And whispered in her ear.

The female fiend no sooner heard
Than, with reluctant look,
The very ring that Rupert lost,
She from her finger took.

And, giving it unto the youth,
With eyes that breathed of hell,
She said, in that tremendous voice,
Which he remembered well:

"In Austin's name take back the ring,
"The ring thou gavest to me;
"And thou'rt to me no longer wed,
"Nor longer I to thee."

He took the ring, the rabble past.
He home returned again;
His wife was then the happiest fair,
The happiest he of men.

[1] I should be sorry to think that my friend had any serious intentions
of frightening the nursery by this story; I rather hope--though the manner
of it leads me to doubt--that his design was to ridicule that distempered
taste which prefers those monsters of the fancy to the _"speciosa
miracula"_ of true poetic imagination.

TO .... ....

ON SEEING HER WITH A WHITE VEIL AND A RICH GIRDLE.

Put off the vestal Veil, nor, oh!
Let weeping angels View it;
Your cheeks belie its virgin snow.
And blush repenting through it.

Put off the fatal zone you wear;
The shining pearls around it
Are tears, that fell from Virtue there,
The hour when Love unbound it.

WRITTEN IN THE BLANK LEAF OF A LADY'S COMMONPLACE BOOK.

Here is one leaf reserved for me,
From all thy sweet memorials free;
And here my simple song might tell
The feelings thou must guess so well.
But could I thus, within thy mind,
One little vacant corner find,
Where no impression yet is seen,
Where no memorial yet hath been,
Oh! it should be my sweetest care
To _write my name_ for ever _there_!

TO MRS. BL----.

WRITTEN IN HER ALBUM.

They say that Love had once a book
(The urchin likes to copy you),
Where, all who came, the pencil took,
And wrote, like us, a line or two.

'Twas Innocence, the maid divine,
Who kept this volume bright and fair.
And saw that no unhallowed line
Or thought profane should enter there;

And daily did the pages fill
With fond device and loving lore,
And every leaf she turned was still
More bright than that she turned before.