by Thomas Moore
Which once has harbingered my rest,
When the still soothing voice of Heaven
Hath seemed to whisper in my breast,
“Sleep on, thy errors are forgiven!”
No, though I still in semblance pray,
My thoughts are wandering far away,
And even the name of Deity
Is murmured out in sighs for thee.
A NIGHT THOUGHT.
How oft a cloud, with envious veil,
Obscures yon bashful light,
Which seems so modestly to steal
Along the waste of night!
’Tis thus the world’s obtrusive wrongs
Obscure with malice keen
Some timid heart, which only longs
To live and die unseen.
THE KISS.
Grow to my lip, thou sacred kiss,
On which my soul’s beloved swore
That there should come a time of bliss,
When she would mock my hopes no more.
And fancy shall thy glow renew,
In sighs at morn, and dreams at night,
And none shall steal thy holy dew
Till thou’rt absolved by rapture’s rite.
Sweet hours that are to make me blest,
Fly, swift as breezes, to the goal,
And let my love, my more than soul,
Come blushing to this ardent breast.
Then, while in every glance I drink
The rich overflowing of her mind,
Oh! let her all enamored sink
In sweet abandonment resigned,
Blushing for all our struggles past,
And murmuring, “I am thine at last!”
SONG. THINK ON THAT LOOK WHOSE MELTING RAY
Think on that look whose melting ray
For one sweet moment mixt with mine,
And for that moment seemed to say,
“I dare not, or I would be thine!”
Think on thy every smile and glance,
On all thou hast to charm and move;
And then forgive my bosom’s trance,
Nor tell me it is sin to love.
Oh, not to love thee were the sin;
For sure, if Fate’s decrees be done,
Thou, thou art destined still to win,
As I am destined to be won!
THE CATALOGUE.
“Come, tell me,” says Rosa, as kissing and kist,
One day she reclined on my breast;
“Come, tell me the number, repeat me the list
“Of the nymphs you have loved and carest.” —
Oh Rosa! ’twas only my fancy that roved,
My heart at the moment was free;
But I’ll tell thee, my girl, how many I’ve loved,
And the number shall finish with thee.
My tutor was Kitty; in infancy wild
She taught me the way to be blest;
She taught me to love her, I loved like a child,
But Kitty could fancy the rest.
This lesson of dear and enrapturing lore
I have never forgot, I allow:
I have had it by rote very often before,
But never by heart until now.
Pretty Martha was next, and my soul was all flame,
But my head was so full of romance
That I fancied her into some chivalry dame,
And I was her knight of the lance.
But Martha was not of this fanciful school,
And she laughed at her poor little knight;
While I thought her a goddess, she thought me a fool,
And I’ll swear she was most in the right.
My soul was now calm, till, by Cloris’s looks,
Again I was tempted to rove;
But Cloris, I found, was so learned in books
That she gave me more logic than love.
So I left this young Sappho, and hastened to fly
To those sweeter logicians in bliss,
Who argue the point with a soul-telling eye,
And convince us at once with a kiss.
Oh! Susan was then all the world unto me,
But Susan was piously given;
And the worst of it was, we could never agree
On the road that was shortest to Heaven.
“Oh, Susan!” I’ve said, in the moments of mirth,
“What’s devotion to thee or to me?
“I devoutly believe there’s a heaven on earth,
“And believe that that heaven’s in thee!”
IMITATION OF CATULLUS. TO HIMSELF.
Miser Catulle, desinas ineptire, etc.
Cease the sighing fool to play;
Cease to trifle life away;
Nor vainly think those joys thine own,
Which all, alas, have falsely flown.
What hours, Catullus, once were thine.
How fairly seemed thy day to shine,
When lightly thou didst fly to meet
The girl whose smile was then so sweet —
The girl thou lovedst with fonder pain
Than e’er thy heart can feel again.
Ye met — your souls seemed all in one,
Like tapers that commingling shone;
Thy heart was warm enough for both,
And hers, in truth, was nothing loath.
Such were the hours that once were thine;
But, ah! those hours no longer shine.
For now the nymph delights no more
In what she loved so much before;
And all Catullus now can do,
Is to be proud and frigid too;
Nor follow where the wanton flies,
Nor sue the bliss that she denies.
False maid! he bids farewell to thee,
To love, and all love’s misery;
The heyday of his heart is o’er,
Nor will he court one favor more.
Fly, perjured girl! — but whither fly?
Who now will praise thy cheek and eye?
Who now will drink the syren tone,
Which tells him thou art all his own?
Oh, none: — and he who loved before
Can never, never love thee more.
* * * * *
“Neither do I condemn thee; go, and sin no more!”
— ST. JOHN, chap. viii.
Oh woman, if through sinful wile
Thy soul hath strayed from honor’s track,
’Tis mercy only can beguile,
By gentle ways, the wanderer back.
The stain that on thy virtue lies,
Washed by those tears, not long will stay;
As clouds that sully morning skies
May all be wept in showers away.
Go, go, be innocent, — and live;
The tongues of men may wound thee sore;
But Heaven in pity can forgive,
And bids thee “go, and sin no more!”
NONSENSE.
Good reader! if you e’er have seen,
When Phoebus hastens to his pillow,
The mermaids, with their tresses green,
Dancing upon the western billow:
If you have seen, at twilight dim,
When the lone spirit’s vesper hymn
Floats wild along the winding shore,
If you have seen, through mist of eve,
The fairy train their ringlets weave,
Glancing along the spangled green: —
If you have seen all this, and more,
God bless me, what a deal you’ve seen!
EPIGRAM. FROM THE FRENCH.
“I never gave a kiss (says Prue),
“To naughty man, for I abhor it.”
She will not give a kiss, ’tis true;
She’ll take one though, and thank you for it.
ON A SQUINTING POETESS.
To no one Muse does she her glance confine,
But has an eye, at once, to all the Nine!
TO ——
Ma
ria pur quando vuol, non è bisogna mutar ni faccia ni voce per esser un Angelo.1
Die when you will, you need not wear
At Heaven’s Court a form more fair
Than Beauty here on earth has given;
Keep but the lovely looks we see —
The voice we hear — and you will be
An angel ready-made for Heaven!
1 The words addressed by Lord Herbert of Cherbury to the beautiful Nun at Murano. — See his Life.
TO ROSA.
A far conserva, e cumulo d’amanti.
“Past. Fid.”
And are you then a thing of art,
Seducing all, and loving none;
And have I strove to gain a heart
Which every coxcomb thinks his own?
Tell me at once if this be true,
And I will calm my jealous breast;
Will learn to join the dangling crew,
And share your simpers with the rest.
But if your heart be not so free, —
Oh! if another share that heart,
Tell not the hateful tale to me,
But mingle mercy with your art.
I’d rather think you “false as hell,”
Than find you to be all divine, —
Than know that heart could love so well,
Yet know that heart would not be mine!
TO PHILLIS.
Phillis, you little rosy rake,
That heart of yours I long to rifle;
Come, give it me, and do not make
So much ado about a trifle!
TO A LADY.
ON HER SINGING.
Thy song has taught my heart to feel
Those soothing thoughts of heavenly love,
Which o’er the sainted spirits steal
When listening to the spheres above!
When, tired of life and misery,
I wish to sigh my latest breath,
Oh, Emma! I will fly to thee,
And thou shalt sing me into death.
And if along thy lip and cheek
That smile of heavenly softness play,
Which, — ah! forgive a mind that’s weak, —
So oft has stolen my mind away.
Thou’lt seem an angel of the sky,
That comes to charm me into bliss:
I’ll gaze and die — Who would not die,
If death were half so sweet as this?
SONG. ON THE BIRTHDAY OF MRS. —— .
WRITTEN IN IRELAND. 1799.
Of all my happiest hours of joy,
And even I have had my measure,
When hearts were full, and every eye
Hath kindled with the light of pleasure,
An hour like this I ne’er was given,
So full of friendship’s purest blisses;
Young Love himself looks down from heaven,
To smile on such a day as this is.
Then come, my friends, this hour improve,
Let’s feel as if we ne’er could sever;
And may the birth of her we love
Be thus with joy remembered ever!
Oh! banish every thought to-night,
Which could disturb our soul’s communion;
Abandoned thus to dear delight,
We’ll even for once forget the Union!
On that let statesmen try their powers,
And tremble o’er the rights they’d die for;
The union of the soul be ours,
And every union else we sigh for.
Then come, my friends, etc.
In every eye around I mark
The feelings of the heart o’er-flowing;
From every soul I catch the spark
Of sympathy, in friendship glowing.
Oh! could such moments ever fly;
Oh! that we ne’er were doomed to lose ’em;
And all as bright as Charlotte’s eye,
And all as pure as Charlotte’s bosom.
Then come, my friends, etc.
For me, whate’er my span of years,
Whatever sun may light my roving;
Whether I waste my life in tears,
Or live, as now, for mirth and loving;
This day shall come with aspect kind,
Wherever fate may cast your rover;
He’ll think of those he left behind,
And drink a health to bliss that’s over!
Then come, my friends, etc.
SONG.1
Mary, I believed thee true,
And I was blest in thus believing
But now I mourn that e’er I knew
A girl so fair and so deceiving.
Fare thee well.
Few have ever loved like me, —
Yes, I have loved thee too sincerely!
And few have e’er deceived like thee. —
Alas! deceived me too severely.
Fare thee well! — yet think awhile
On one whose bosom bleeds to doubt thee:
Who now would rather trust that smile,
And die with thee than live without thee.
Fare thee well! I’ll think of thee.
Thou leavest me many a bitter token;
For see, distracting woman, see,
My peace is gone, my heart is broken! —
Fare thee well!
1 These words were written to the pathetic Scotch air “Galla Water.”
MORALITY.
A FAMILIAR EPISTLE.
ADDRESSED TO J. ATKINSON, ESQ. M. R. I. A.
Though long at school and college dozing.
O’er books of verse and books of prosing,
And copying from their moral pages
Fine recipes for making sages;
Though long with’ those divines at school,
Who think to make us good by rule;
Who, in methodic forms advancing,
Teaching morality like dancing,
Tell us, for Heaven or money’s sake.
What steps we are through life to take:
Though thus, my friend, so long employed,
With so much midnight oil destroyed,
I must confess my searches past,
I’ve only learned to doubt at last
I find the doctors and the sages
Have differed in all climes and ages,
And two in fifty scarce agree
On what is pure morality.
’Tis like the rainbow’s shifting zone,
And every vision makes its own.
The doctors of the Porch advise,
As modes of being great and wise,
That we should cease to own or know
The luxuries that from feeling flow;
“Reason alone must claim direction,
“And Apathy’s the soul’s perfection.
“Like a dull lake the heart must lie;
“Nor passion’s gale nor pleasure’s sigh,
“Though Heaven the breeze, the breath, supplied,
“Must curl the wave or swell the tide!”
Such was the rigid Zeno’s plan
To form his philosophic man;
Such were the modes he taught mankind
To weed the garden of the mind;
They tore from thence some weeds, ’tis true,
But all the flowers were ravaged too!
Now listen to the wily strains,
Which, on Cyrene’s sandy plains,
When Pleasure, nymph with loosened zone,
Usurped the philosophic throne, —
Hear what the courtly sage’s1 tongue
To his surrounding pupils sung: —
“Pleasure’s the only noble end
“To which all human powers should tend,
“And Virtue gives her heavenly lore,
“But to make Pleasure please us more.
“Wisdom and she were both designed
“To make the senses more refined,
“That man might revel, free from cloying,
&n
bsp; “Then most a sage when most enjoying!”
Is this morality? — Oh, no!
Even I a wiser path could show.
The flower within this vase confined,
The pure, the unfading flower of mind,
Must not throw all its sweets away
Upon a mortal mould of clay;
No, no, — its richest breath should rise
In virtue’s incense to the skies.
But thus it is, all sects we see
Have watchwords of morality:
Some cry out Venus, others Jove;
Here ’tis Religion, there ’tis Love.
But while they thus so widely wander,
While mystics dream and doctors ponder:
And some, in dialectics firm,
Seek virtue in a middle term;
While thus they strive, in Heaven’s defiance,
To chain morality with science;
The plain good man, whose action teach
More virtue than a sect can preach
Pursues his course, unsagely blest
His tutor whispering in his breast;
Nor could he act a purer part,
Though he had Tully all by heart.
And when he drops the tear on woe,
He little knows or cares to know
That Epictetus blamed that tear,
By Heaven approved, to virtue dear!
Oh! when I’ve seen the morning beam
Floating within the dimpled stream;
While Nature, wakening from the night,
Has just put on her robes of light,
Have I, with cold optician’s gaze,
Explored the doctrine of those rays?
No, pedants, I have left to you
Nicely to separate hue from hue.
Go, give that moment up to art,
When Heaven and nature claim the heart;
And, dull to all their best attraction,
Go — measure angles of refraction.
While I, in feeling’s sweet romance,
Look on each daybeam as a glance
From the great eye of Him above,
Wakening his world with looks of love!
1 Aristippus.
THE TELL-TALE LYRE.
I’ve heard, there was in ancient days
A Lyre of most melodious spell;
’Twas heaven to hear its fairy lays,
If half be true that legends tell.
’Twas played on by the gentlest sighs,
And to their breath it breathed again
