Thomas Moore- Collected Poetical Works
Page 11
’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!
Oh Rosa, when, to seek its sphere,
My soul shall leave this orb of men,
That love which formed its treasure here,
Shall be its best of treasures then!
And as, in fabled dreams of old,
Some air-born genius, child of time,
Presided o’er each star that rolled,
And tracked it through its path sublime;
So thou, fair planet, not unled,
Shalt through thy mortal orbit stray;
Thy lover’s shade, to thee still wed,
Shall linger round thy earthly way.
Let other spirits range the sky,
And play around each starry gem;
I’ll bask beneath that lucid eye,
Nor envy worlds of suns to them.
And when that heart shall cease to beat,
And when that breath at length is free,
Then, Rosa, soul to soul we’ll meet,
And mingle to eternity!
SONG. THE WREATH YOU WOVE, THE WREATH YOU WOVE, The wreath you wove, the wreath you wove,
Is fair — but oh, how fair,
If Pity’s hand had stolen from Love
One leaf, to mingle there!
If every rose with gold were tied,
Did gems for dewdrops fall,
One faded leaf where Love had sighed
Were sweetly worth them all.
The wreath you wove, — the wreath you wove
Our emblem well may be;
Its bloom is yours, but hopeless Love
Must keep its tears for me.
THE SALE OF LOVES.
I dreamt that, in the Paphian groves,
My nets by moonlight laying,
I caught a flight of wanton Loves,
Among the rose-beds playing.
Some just had left their silvery shell,
While some were full in feather;
So pretty a lot of Loves to sell,
Were never yet strung together.
Come buy my Loves,
Come buy my Loves,
Ye dames and rose-lipped misses! —
They’re new and bright,
The cost is light,
For the coin of this isle is kisses.
First Cloris came, with looks sedate.
The coin on her lips was ready;
“I buy,” quoth she, “my Love by weight,
“Full grown, if you please, and steady.”
“Let mine be light,” said Fanny, “pray —
“Such lasting toys undo one;
“A light little Love that will last to-day, —
“To-morrow I’ll sport a new one.”
Come buy my Loves,
Come buy my Loves,
Ye dames and rose-lipped misses! —
There’s some will keep,
Some light and cheap
At from ten to twenty kisses.
The learned Prue took a pert young thing,
To divert her virgin Muse with,
And pluck sometimes a quill from his wing.
To indite her billet-doux with,
Poor Cloe would give for a well-fledged pair
Her only eye, if you’d ask it;
And Tabitha begged, old toothless fair.
For the youngest Love in the basket.
Come buy my Loves, etc.
But one was left, when Susan came,
One worth them all together;
At sight of her dear looks of shame,
He smiled and pruned his feather.
She wished the boy— ’twas more than whim —
Her looks, her sighs betrayed it;
But kisses were not enough for him,
I asked a heart and she paid it!
Good-by, my Loves,
Good-by, my Loves,
’Twould make you smile to’ve seen us
First, trade for this
Sweet child of bliss,
And
then nurse the boy between us.
TO ——
The world has just begun to steal
Each hope that led me lightly on;
I felt not, as I used to feel,
And life grew dark and love was gone.
No eye to mingle sorrow’s tear,
No lip to mingle pleasure’s breath,
No circling arms to draw me near —
’Twas gloomy, and I wished for death.
But when I saw that gentle eye,
Oh! something seemed to tell me then,
That I was yet too young to die,
And hope and bliss might bloom again.
With every gentle smile that crost
Your kindling cheek, you lighted home
Some feeling which my heart had lost
And peace which far had learned to roam.
’Twas then indeed so sweet to live,
Hope looked so new and Love so kind.
That, though I mourn, I yet forgive
The ruin they have left behind.
I could have loved you — oh, so well! —
The dream, that wishing boyhood knows,
Is but a bright, beguiling spell,
That only lives while passion glows.
But, when this early flush declines,
When the heart’s sunny morning fleets,
You know not then how close it twines
Round the first kindred soul it meets.
Yes, yes, I could have loved, as one
Who, while his youth’s enchantments fall,
Finds something dear to rest upon,
Which pays him for the loss of all.
TO ——
Never mind how the pedagogue proses,
You want not antiquity’s stamp;
A lip, that such fragrance discloses,
Oh! never should smell of the lamp.
Old Cloe, whose withering kiss
Hath long set the Loves at defiance,
Now, done with the science of bliss,
May take to the blisses of science.
But for you to be buried in books —
Ah, Fanny, they’re pitiful sages,
Who could not in one of your looks
Read more than in millions of pages.
Astronomy finds in those eyes
Better light than she studies above;
And Music would borrow your sighs
As the melody fittest for Love.
Your Arithmetic only can trip
If to count your own charms you endeavor;
And Eloquence glows on your lip
When you swear that you’ll love me for ever.
Thus you see, what a brilliant alliance
Of arts is assembled in you; —
A course of more exquisite science
Man never need wish to pursue.
And, oh! — if a Fellow like me
May confer a diploma of hearts,
With my lip thus I seal your degree,
My divine little Mistress of Arts!
ON THE DEATH OF A LADY, Sweet spirit! if thy airy sleep
Nor sees my tears not hears my sighs,
Then will I weep, in anguish weep,
Till the last heart’s drop fills mine eyes.
But if thy sainted soul can feel,
And mingles in our misery;
Then, then my breaking heart I’ll seal —
Thou shalt not hear one sigh from me.
The beam of morn was on the stream,
But sullen clouds the day deform;
Like thee was that young, orient beam,
Like death, alas, that sullen storm!
Thou wert not formed for living here,
So linked thy soul was with the sky;
Yet, ah, we held thee all so dear,
We thought thou wert not formed to die.
INCONSTANCY.
And do I then wonder that Julia deceives me,
When surely there’s nothing in nature more common?
She vows to be true, and while vowing she leaves me —
And could I expect any more from a woman?
Oh, woman! your heart is a pitiful treasure;
And Mahomet’s doctrine was not too severe,
When he held that you were but materials of pleasure,
And reason and thinking were out of your sphere.
By your heart, when the fond sighing lover can win it,
He thinks that an age of anxiety’s paid;
But, oh, while he’s blest, let him die at the minute —
If he live but a day, he’ll be surely betrayed.
THE NATAL GENIUS.
A DREAM
TO —— THE MORNING OF HER BIRTHDAY.
In witching slumbers of the night,
I dreamt I was the airy sprite
That on thy natal moment smiled;
And thought I wafted on my wing
Those flowers which in Elysium spring,
To crown my lovely mortal child.
With olive-branch I bound thy head,
Heart’s ease along thy path I shed,
Which was to bloom through all thy years;
Nor yet did I forget to bind
Love’s roses, with his myrtle twined,
And dewed by sympathetic tears.
Such was the wild but precious boon
Which Fancy, at her magic noon,
Bade me to Nona’s image pay;
And were it thus my fate to be
Thy little guardian deity,
How blest around thy steps I’d play!
Thy life should glide in peace along,
Calm as some lonely shepherd’s song
That’s heard at distance in the grove;
No cloud should ever dim thy sky,
No thorns along thy pathway lie,
But all be beauty, peace and love.
Indulgent Time should never bring
To thee one blight upon his wing,
So gently o’er thy brow he’d fly;
And death itself should but be felt
Like that of daybeams, when they melt,
Bright to the last, in evening’s sky!
ELEGIAC STANZAS.
SUPPOSED TO BE WRITTEN BY JULIA,
ON THE DEATH OF HER BROTHER.
Though sorrow long has worn my heart;
Though every day I’ve, counted o’er
Hath brought a new and, quickening smart
To wounds that rankled fresh before;
Though in my earliest life bereft
Of tender links by nature tied;
Though hope deceived, and pleasure left;
Though friends betrayed and foes belied;
I still had hopes — for hope will stay
After the sunset of delight;
So like the star which ushers day,
We scarce can think it heralds night! —
I hoped that, after all its strife,
My weary heart at length should rest.
And, feinting from the waves of life,
Find harbor in a brother’s breast.
That brother’s breast was warm with truth,
Was bright with honor’s purest ray;
He was the dearest, gentlest youth —
Ah, why then was he torn away?
He should have stayed, have lingered here
To soothe his Julia’s every woe;
He should have chased each bitter tear,
And not have caused those tears to flow.
We saw within his soul expand
The fruits of genius, nurst by taste;
While Science, with a fostering hand,
Upon his brow her chaplet placed.
We saw, by bright degrees, his mind
Grow rich in all that makes men dear;
Enlightened, social, and refined,
In friendship firm, in love sincere.
Such was the youth we loved so well,
And such the hopes that fate denied; —
; We loved, but ah! could scarcely tell
How deep, how dearly, till he died!
Close as the fondest links could strain,
Twined with my very heart he grew;
And by that fate which breaks the chain,
The heart is almost broken too.
TO THE LARGE AND BEAUTIFUL MISS —— IN ALLUSION TO SOME PARTNERSHIP IN A LOTTERY SHARE
IMPROMPTU.
— Ego Pars — VIRG.
In wedlock a species of lottery lies,
Where in blanks and in prizes we deal;
But how comes it that you, such a capital prize,
Should so long have remained in the wheel?
If ever, by Fortune’s indulgent decree,
To me such a ticket should roll,
A sixteenth, Heaven knows! were sufficient for me;
For what could I do with the whole?
A DREAM.
I thought this heart enkindled lay
On Cupid’s burning shrine:
I thought he stole thy heart away,
And placed it near to mine.
I saw thy heart begin to melt,
Like ice before the sun;
Till both a glow congenial felt,
And mingled into one!
TO ——
With all my soul, then, let us part,
Since both are anxious to be free;
And I will sand you home your heart,
If you will send mine back to me.
We’ve had some happy hours together,
But joy must often change its wing;
And spring would be but gloomy weather,
If we had nothing else but spring.
’Tis not that I expect to find
A more devoted, fond and true one,
With rosier cheek or sweeter mind —
Enough for me that she’s a new one.
Thus let us leave the bower of love,
Where we have loitered long in bliss;
And you may down that pathway rove,
While I shall take my way through this.
ANACREONTIC.
“She never looked so kind before —
“Yet why the wanton’s smile recall?
“I’ve seen this witchery o’er and o’er,
“’Tis hollow, vain, and heartless all!”
Thus I said and, sighing drained
The cup which she so late had tasted;
Upon whose rim still fresh remained
The breath, so oft in falsehood wasted.