Thomas Moore- Collected Poetical Works

by Thomas Moore

  I took the harp and would have sung

  As if ‘twere not of her I sang;

  But still the notes on Lamia hung —

  On whom but Lamia could they hang?

  Those eyes of hers, that floating shine,

  Like diamonds in some eastern river;

  That kiss, for which, if worlds were mine,

  A world for every kiss I’d give her.

  That frame so delicate, yet warmed

  With flushes of love’s genial hue;

  A mould transparent, as if formed

  To let the spirit’s light shine through.

  Of these I sung, and notes and words

  Were sweet, as if the very air

  From Lamia’s lip hung o’er the chords,

  And Lamia’s voice still warbled there!

  But when, alas, I turned the theme,

  And when of vows and oaths I spoke,

  Of truth and hope’s seducing dream —

  The chord beneath my finger broke.

  False harp! false woman! such, oh, such

  Are lutes too frail and hearts too willing;

  Any hand, whate’er its touch,

  Can set their chords or pulses thrilling.

  And when that thrill is most awake,

  And when you think Heaven’s joys await you,

  The nymph will change, the chord will break —

  Oh Love, oh Music, how I hate you!

  TO JULIA.

  I saw the peasant’s hand unkind

  From yonder oak the ivy sever;

  They seemed in very being twined;

  Yet now the oak is fresh as ever!

  Not so the widowed ivy shines:

  Torn from its dear and only stay,

  In drooping widowhood it pines,

  And scatters all its bloom away.

  Thus, Julia, did our hearts entwine,

  Till Fate disturbed their tender ties:

  Thus gay indifference blooms in thine,

  While mine, deserted, droops and dies!

  HYMN OF A VIRGIN OF DELPHI, AT THE TOMB OF HER MOTHER.

  Oh, lost, forever lost — no more

  Shall Vesper light our dewy way

  Along the rocks of Crissa’s shore,

  To hymn the fading fires of day;

  No more to Tempe’s distant vale

  In holy musings shall we roam,

  Through summer’s glow and winter’s gale,

  To bear the mystic chaplets home.1

  ’Twas then my soul’s expanding zeal,

  By nature warmed and led by thee,

  In every breeze was taught to feel

  The breathings of a Deity.

  Guide of my heart! still hovering round.

  Thy looks, thy words are still my own —

  I see thee raising from the ground

  Some laurel, by the winds o’er thrown.

  And hear thee say, “This humble bough

  Was planted for a doom divine;

  And, though it droop in languor now,

  Shall flourish on the Delphic shrine!”

  “Thus, in the vale of earthly sense,

  “Though sunk awhile the spirit lies,

  “A viewless hand shall cull it thence

  “To bloom immortal in the skies!”

  All that the young should feel and know

  By thee was taught so sweetly well,

  Thy words fell soft as vernal snow,

  And all was brightness where they fell!

  Fond soother of my infant tear,

  Fond sharer of my infant joy,

  Is not thy shade still lingering here?

  Am I not still thy soul’s employ?

  Oh yes — and, as in former days,

  When, meeting on the sacred mount,

  Our nymphs awaked their choral lays,

  And danced around Cassotis’ fount;

  As then, ’twas all thy wish and care,

  That mine should be the simplest mien,

  My lyre and voice the sweetest there,

  My foot the lightest o’er the green:

  So still, each look and step to mould,

  Thy guardian care is round me spread,

  Arranging every snowy fold

  And guiding every mazy tread.

  And, when I lead the hymning choir,

  Thy spirit still, unseen and free,

  Hovers between my lip and lyre,

  And weds them into harmony.

  Flow, Plistus, flow, thy murmuring wave

  Shall never drop its silvery tear

  Upon so pure, so blest a grave,

  To memory so entirely dear!

  1 The laurel, for the common uses of the temple, for adorning the altars and sweeping the pavement, was supplied by a tree near the fountain of Castalia; but upon all important occasions, they sent to Tempe for their laurel. We find, in Pausanias; that this valley supplied the branches, of which the temple was originally constructed; and Plutarch says, in his Dialogue on Music, “The youth who brings the Tempic laurel to Delphi is always attended by a player on the flute.”

  SYMPATHY. TO JULIA.

  — sine me sit nulla Venus.

  SULPICIA.

  Our hearts, my love, were formed to be

  The genuine twins of Sympathy,

  They live with one sensation;

  In joy or grief, but most in love,

  Like chords in unison they move,

  And thrill with like vibration.

  How oft I’ve beard thee fondly say,

  Thy vital pulse shall cease to play

  When mine no more is moving;

  Since, now, to feel a joy alone

  Were worse to thee than feeling none,

  So twined are we in loving!

  THE TEAR.

  On beds of snow the moonbeam slept,

  And chilly was the midnight gloom,

  When by the damp grave Ellen wept —

  Fond maid! it was her Lindor’s tomb!

  A warm tear gushed, the wintry air,

  Congealed it as it flowed away:

  All night it lay an ice-drop there,

  At morn it glittered in the ray.

  An angel, wandering from her sphere,

  Who saw this bright, this frozen gem,

  To dew-eyed Pity brought the tear

  And hung it on her diadem!

  THE SNAKE.

  My love and I, the other day,

  Within a myrtle arbor lay,

  When near us, from a rosy bed,

  A little Snake put forth its head.

  “See,” said the maid with thoughtful eyes —

  “Yonder the fatal emblem lies!

  “Who could expect such hidden harm

  “Beneath the rose’s smiling charm?”

  Never did grave remark occur

  Less à-propos than this from her.

  I rose to kill the snake, but she,

  Half-smiling, prayed it might not be.

  “No,” said the maiden — and, alas,

  Her eyes spoke volumes, while she said it —

  “Long as the snake is in the grass,

  “One may, perhaps, have cause to dread it:

  “But, when its wicked eyes appear,

  “And when we know for what they wink so,

  “One must be very simple, dear,

  “To let it wound one — don’t you think so?”

  TO ROSA.

  Is the song of Rosa mute?

  Once such lays inspired her lute!

  Never doth a sweeter song

  Steal the breezy lyre along,

  When the wind, in odors dying,

  Woos it with enamor’d sighing.

  Is my Rosa’s lute unstrung?

  Once a tale of peace it sung

  To her lover’s throbbing breast —

  Then was he divinely blest!

  Ah! but Rosa loves no more,

  Therefore Rosa’s song is o’er;

  And her lute neglected lies;

  And
her boy forgotten sighs.

  Silent lute — forgotten lover —

  Rosa’s love and song are over!

  ELEGIAC STANZAS.

  Sic juvat perire.

  When wearied wretches sink to sleep,

  How heavenly soft their slumbers lie!

  How sweet is death to those who weep,

  To those who weep and long to die!

  Saw you the soft and grassy bed,

  Where flowrets deck the green earth’s breast?

  ’Tis there I wish to lay my head,

  ’Tis there I wish to sleep at rest.

  Oh, let not tears embalm my tomb, —

  None but the dews at twilight given!

  Oh, let not sighs disturb the gloom, —

  None but the whispering winds of heaven!

  LOVE AND MARRIAGE.

  Eque brevi verbo ferre perenne malum.

  SECUNDUS, eleg. vii.

  Still the question I must parry,

  Still a wayward truant prove:

  Where I love, I must not marry;

  Where I marry, can not love.

  Were she fairest of creation,

  With the least presuming mind;

  Learned without affectation;

  Not deceitful, yet refined;

  Wise enough, but never rigid;

  Gay, but not too lightly free;

  Chaste as snow, and yet not frigid:

  Fond, yet satisfied with me:

  Were she all this ten times over,

  All that heaven to earth allows.

  I should be too much her lover

  Ever to become her spouse.

  Love will never bear enslaving;

  Summer garments suit him best;

  Bliss itself is not worth having,

  If we’re by compulsion blest.

  ANACREONTIC.

  I filled to thee, to thee I drank,

  I nothing did but drink and fill;

  The bowl by turns was bright and blank,

  ’Twas drinking, filling, drinking still.

  At length I bade an artist paint

  Thy image in this ample cup,

  That I might see the dimpled saint,

  To whom I quaffed my nectar up.

  Behold, how bright that purple lip

  Now blushes through the wave at me;

  Every roseate drop I sip

  Is just like kissing wine from thee.

  And still I drink the more for this;

  For, ever when the draught I drain,

  Thy lip invites another kiss,

  And — in the nectar flows again.

  So, here’s to thee, my gentle dear,

  And may that eyelid never shine

  Beneath a darker, bitterer tear

  Than bathes it in this bowl of mine!

  THE SURPRISE.

  Chloris, I swear, by all I ever swore,

  That from this hour I shall not love thee more. —

  “What! love no more? Oh! why this altered vow?”

  Because I can not love thee more

  — than now!

  TO MISS —— ON HER ASKING THE AUTHOR WHY SHE HAD SLEEPLESS NIGHTS.

  I’ll ask the sylph who round thee flies,

  And in thy breath his pinion dips,

  Who suns him in thy radiant eyes,

  And faints upon thy sighing lips:

  I’ll ask him where’s the veil of sleep

  That used to shade thy looks of light;

  And why those eyes their vigil keep

  When other suns are sunk in night?

  And I will say — her angel breast

  Has never throbbed with guilty sting;

  Her bosom is the sweetest nest

  Where Slumber could repose his wing!

  And I will say — her cheeks that flush,

  Like vernal roses in the sun,

  Have ne’er by shame been taught to blush,

  Except for what her eyes have done!

  Then tell me, why, thou child of air!

  Does slumber from her eyelids rove?

  What is her heart’s impassioned care?

  Perhaps, oh sylph! perhaps, ’tis love.

  THE WONDER.

  Come, tell me where the maid is found.

  Whose heart can love without deceit,

  And I will range the world around,

  To sigh one moment at her feet.

  Oh! tell me where’s her sainted home,

  What air receives her blessed sigh,

  A pilgrimage of years I’ll roam

  To catch one sparkle of her eye!

  And if her cheek be smooth and bright,

  While truth within her bosom lies,

  I’ll gaze upon her morn and night,

  Till my heart leave me through my eyes.

  Show me on earth a thing so rare,

  I’ll own all miracles are true;

  To make one maid sincere and fair,

  Oh, ’tis the utmost Heaven can do!

  LYING.

  Che con le lor bugie pajon divini.

  MAURO D’ARCANO.

  I do confess, in many a sigh,

  My lips have breathed you many a lie;

  And who, with such delights in view,

  Would lose them for a lie or two?

  Nay, — look not thus, with brow reproving;

  Lies are, my dear, the soul of loving.

  If half we tell the girls were true,

  If half we swear to think and do,

  Were aught but lying’s bright illusion,

  This world would be in strange confusion.

  If ladies’ eyes were, every one,

  As lovers swear, a radiant sun,

  Astronomy must leave the skies,

  To learn her lore in ladies’ eyes.

  Oh, no — believe me, lovely girl,

  When nature turns your teeth to pearl,

  Your neck to snow, your eyes to fire,

  Your amber locks to golden wire,

  Then, only then can Heaven decree,

  That you should live for only me,

  Or I for you, as night and morn,

  We’ve swearing kist, and kissing sworn.

  And now, my gentle hints to clear,

  For once I’ll tell you truth, my dear.

  Whenever you may chance to meet

  Some loving youth, whose love is sweet,

  Long as you’re false and he believes you,

  Long as you trust and he deceives you,

  So long the blissful bond endures,

  And while he lies, his heart is yours:

  But, oh! you’ve wholly lost the youth

  The instant that he tells you truth.

  ANACREONTIC.

  Friend of my soul, this goblet sip,

  ‘Twill chase that pensive tear;

  ’Tis not so sweet as woman’s lip,

  But, oh! ’tis more sincere.

  Like her delusive beam,

  ‘Twill steal away thy mind:

  But, truer than love’s dream,

  It leaves no sting behind.

  Come, twine the wreath, thy brows to shade;

  These flowers were culled at noon; —

  Like woman’s love the rose will fade,

  But, ah! not half so soon.

  For though the flower’s decayed,

  Its fragrance is not o’er;

  But once when love’s betrayed,

  Its sweet life blooms no more.

  THE PHILOSOPHER ARISTIPPUS1

  TO A LAMP WHICH HAD BEEN GIVEN HIM BY LAIS.

  Dulcis conscia lectuli lucerna.

  MARTIAL, lib. xiv. epig. 89.

  “Oh! love the Lamp” (my Mistress said),

  “The faithful Lamp that, many a night,

  “Beside thy Lais’ lonely bed?

  “Has kept its little watch of light.

  “Full often has it seen her weep,

  “And fix her eye upon its flame.

  “Till, weary, she has sunk to sleep,

  “Repeating h
er beloved’s name.

  “Then love the Lamp— ‘twill often lead

  “Thy step through learning’s sacred way;

  “And when those studious eyes shall read,

  “At midnight, by its lonely ray,

  “Of things sublime, of nature’s birth,

  “Of all that’s bright in heaven or earth,

  Oh, think that she, by whom ’twas given,

  “Adores thee more than earth or heaven!”

  Yes — dearest Lamp, by every charm

  On which thy midnight beam has hung;

  The head reclined, the graceful arm

  Across the brow of ivory flung;

  The heaving bosom, partly hid,

  The severed lips unconscious sighs,

  The fringe that from the half-shut lid

  Adown the cheek of roses lies;

  By these, by all that bloom untold,

  And long as all shall charm my heart,

  I’ll love my little Lamp of gold —

  My Lamp and I shall never part.

  And often, as she smiling said,

  In fancy’s hour thy gentle rays

  Shall guide my visionary tread

  Through poesy’s enchanting maze.

  Thy flame shall light the page refined,

  Where still we catch the Chian’s breath,

  Where still the bard though cold in death,

  Has left his soul unquenched behind.

  Or, o’er thy humbler legend shine,

  Oh man of Ascra’s dreary glades,

  To whom the nightly warbling Nine

  A wand of inspiration gave,

  Plucked from the greenest tree, that shades

  The crystal of Castalia’s wave.

  Then, turning to a purer lore,

  We’ll cull the sage’s deep-hid store,

  From Science steal her golden clue,

  And every mystic path pursue,

  Where Nature, far from vulgar eyes,

  Through labyrinths of wonder flies.

  ’Tis thus my heart shall learn to know

  How fleeting is this world below,

  Where all that meets the morning light,

  Is changed before the fall of night!

  I’ll tell thee, as I trim thy fire,

  “Swift, swift the tide of being runs,

  “And Time, who bids thy flame expire,

  “Will also quench yon heaven of suns.”

  Oh, then if earth’s united power

  Can never chain one feathery hour;

  If every print we leave to-day