by Thomas Moore
To-morrow’s wave will sweep away;
Who pauses to inquire of heaven
Why were the fleeting treasures given,
The sunny days, the shady nights,
And all their brief but dear delights,
Which heaven has made for man to use,
And man should think it crime to lose?
Who that has culled a fresh-blown rose
Will ask it why it breathes and glows,
Unmindful of the blushing ray,
In which it shines its soul away;
Unmindful of the scented sigh,
With which it dies and loves to die.
Pleasure, thou only good on earth2
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 lèvre étoit lors toute entière.
Pour savourer le miel qui sur la votre étoit;
Mais en me retirant, elle resta derrière,
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?
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
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 ear
liest 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,
