by Thomas Moore
‘Twill pale before one glance of thine:
Those lips, too, when their sounds have blest us
With some divine, mellifluous air,
Who would not say that Beauty’s cestus
Had let loose all its witcheries there?
Here, to this conquering host of charms
I now give up my spell-bound heart.
Nor blush to yield even Reason’s arms,
When thou her bright-eyed conqueror art.
Thus to the wind all fears are given;
Henceforth those eyes alone I see.
Where Hope, as in her own blue heaven,
Sits beckoning me to bliss and thee!
WHY DOES SHE SO LONG DELAY?
BY PAUL, THE SILENTIARY.
Why does she so long delay?
Night is waning fast away;
Thrice have I my lamp renewed,
Watching here in solitude,
Where can she so long delay?
Where, so long delay?
Vainly now have two lamps shone;
See the third is nearly gone:
Oh that Love would, like the ray
Of that weary lamp, decay!
But no, alas, it burns still on,
Still, still, burns on.
Gods, how oft the traitress dear
Swore, by Venus, she’d be here!
But to one so false as she
What is man or deity?
Neither doth this proud one fear, —
No, neither doth she fear.
TWIN’ST THOU WITH LOFTY WREATH THY BROW?
BY PAUL, THE SILENTIARY.
Twin’st thou with lofty wreath thy brow?
Such glory then thy beauty sheds,
I almost think, while awed I bow
’Tis Rhea’s self before me treads.
Be what thou wilt, — this heart
Adores whate’er thou art!
Dost thou thy loosened ringlets leave,
Like sunny waves to wander free?
Then, such a chain of charms they weave,
As draws my inmost soul from me.
Do what thou wilt, — I must
Be charm’d by all thou dost!
Even when, enwrapt in silvery veils,
Those sunny locks elude the sight, —
Oh, not even then their glory fails
To haunt me with its unseen light.
Change as thy beauty may,
It charms in every way.
For, thee the Graces still attend,
Presiding o’er each new attire,
And lending every dart they send
Some new, peculiar touch of fire,
Be what thou wilt, — this heart
Adores what’er thou art!
WHEN THE SAD WORD.
BY PAUL, THE SILENTIARY.
When the sad word, “Adieu,” from my lip is nigh falling,
And with it, Hope passes away,
Ere the tongue hath half breathed it, my fond heart recalling
That fatal farewell, bids me stay,
For oh! ’tis a penance so weary
One hour from thy presence to be,
That death to this soul were less dreary,
Less dark than long absence from thee.
Thy beauty, like Day, o’er the dull world breaking.
Brings life to the heart it shines o’er,
And, in mine, a new feeling of happiness waking,
Made light what was darkness before.
But mute is the Day’s sunny glory,
While thine hath a voice, on whose breath,
More sweet than the Syren’s sweet story,
My hopes hang, through life and through death!
MY MOPSA IS LITTLE.
BY PHILODEMUS.
My Mopsa is little, my Mopsa is brown,
But her cheek is as smooth as the peach’s soft down,
And, for blushing, no rose can come near her;
In short, she has woven such nets round my heart,
That I ne’er from my dear little Mopsa can part, —
Unless I can find one that’s dearer.
Her voice hath a music that dwells on the ear,
And her eye from its orb gives a daylight so clear,
That I’m dazzled whenever I meet her;
Her ringlets, so curly, are Cupid’s own net,
And her lips, oh their sweetness I ne’er shall forget —
Till I light upon lips that are sweeter.
But ’tis not her beauty that charms me alone,
’Tis her mind, ’tis that language whose eloquent tone
From the depths of the grave could revive one:
In short, here I swear, that if death were her doom,
I would instantly join my dead love in the tomb —
Unless I could meet with a live
STILL, LIKE DEW IN SILENCE FALLING.
BY MELEAGER.
Still, like dew in silence falling,
Drops for thee the nightly tear
Still that voice the past recalling,
Dwells, like echo, on my ear,
Still, still!
Day and night the spell hangs o’er me,
Here forever fixt thou art:
As thy form first shone before me,
So ’tis graven on this heart,
Deep, deep!
Love, oh Love, whose bitter sweetness,
Dooms me to this lasting pain.
Thou who earnest with so much fleetness,
Why so slow to go again?
Why? why?
UP, SAILOR BOY, ‘TIS DAY.
Up, sailor boy, ’tis day!
The west wind blowing,
The spring tide flowing,
Summon thee hence away.
Didst thou not hear yon soaring swallow sing?
Chirp, chirp, — in every note he seemed to say
’Tis Spring, ’tis Spring.
Up boy, away, —
Who’d stay on land to-day?
The very flowers
Would from their bowers
Delight to wing away!
Leave languid youths to pine
On silken pillows;
But be the billows
Of the great deep thine.
Hark, to the sail the breeze sings, “Let us fly;”
While soft the sail, replying to the breeze,
Says, with a yielding sigh,
“Yes, where you; please.”
Up, boy, the wind, the ray,
The blue sky o’er thee,
The deep before thee,
All cry aloud, “Away!”
IN MYRTLE WREATHS.
BY ALCAEUS.
In myrtle wreaths my votive sword I’ll cover,
Like them of old whose one immortal blow
Struck off the galling fetters that hung over
Their own bright land, and laid her tyrant low.
Yes, loved Harmodius, thou’rt undying;
Still midst the brave and free,
In isles, o’er ocean lying,
Thy home shall ever be.
In myrtle leaves my sword shall hide its lightning,
Like his, the youth, whose ever-glorious blade
Leapt forth like flame, the midnight banquet brightening;’
And in the dust a despot victim laid.
Blest youths; how bright in Freedom’s story
Your wedded names shall be;
A tyrant’s death your glory,
Your meed, a nation free!
JUVENILE POEMS.
1801.
TO JOSEPH ATKINSON, ESQ.
MY DEAR SIR,
I feel a very sincere pleasure in dedicating to you the Second Edition of our friend LITTLE’S Poems. I am not unconscious that there are many in the collection which perhaps it would be prudent to have altered or omitted; and, to say the truth, I more than once revised them for that purpose; but, I know not why, I distrusted either my heart or my judgment; and the consequence
is you have them in their original form:
non possunt nostros multae, Faustine, liturae emendare jocos; una litura potest.
I am convinced, however, that, though not quite a casuiste relâché, 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
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 wingèd 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
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 not 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
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
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,
