Thomas Moore- Collected Poetical Works

by Thomas Moore

  As if, passion all chastened and error forgiven,

  My heart then began to be purely its own.

  I looked to the west, and the beautiful sky

  Which morning had clouded, was clouded no more:

  “Oh! thus,” I exclaimed, “may a heavenly eye

  “Shed light on the soul that was darkened before.”

  TO THE FLYING-FISH.1

  When I have seen thy snow-white wing

  From the blue wave at evening spring,

  And show those scales of silvery white,

  So gayly to the eye of light,

  As if thy frame were formed to rise,

  And live amid the glorious skies;

  Oh! it has made me proudly feel,

  How like thy wing’s impatient zeal

  Is the pure soul, that rests not, pent

  Within this world’s gross element,

  But takes the wing that God has given,

  And rises into light and heaven!

  But, when I see that wing, so bright,

  Grow languid with a moment’s flight,

  Attempt the paths of air in vain,

  And sink into the waves again;

  Alas! the flattering pride is o’er;

  Like thee, awhile, the soul may soar,

  But erring man must blush to think,

  Like thee, again, the soul may sink.

  Oh Virtue! when thy clime I seek,

  Let not my spirit’s flight be weak;

  Let me not, like this feeble thing,

  With brine still dropping from its wing,

  Just sparkle in the solar glow

  And plunge again to depths below;

  But, when I leave the grosser throng

  With whom my soul hath dwelt so long,

  Let me, in that aspiring day,

  Cast every lingering stain away,

  And, panting for thy purer air,

  Fly up at once and fix me there.

  1 It is the opinion of St. Austin upon Genesis, and I believe of nearly all the Fathers, that birds, like fish, were originally produced from the waters; in defence of which idea they have collected every fanciful circumstance which can tend to prove a kindred similitude between them. With this thought in our minds, when we first see the Flying-Fish, we could almost fancy, that we are present at the moment of creation, and witness the birth of the first bird from the waves.

  TO MISS MOORE. FROM NORFOLK, IN VIRGINIA, NOVEMBER, 1803.

  In days, my Kate, when life was new,

  When, lulled with innocence and you,

  I heard, in home’s beloved shade,

  The din the world at distance made;

  When, every night my weary head

  Sunk on its own unthorned bed,

  And, mild as evening’s matron hour,

  Looks on the faintly shutting flower,

  A mother saw our eyelids close,

  And blest them into pure repose;

  Then, haply if a week, a day,

  I lingered from that home away,

  How long the little absence seemed!

  How bright the look of welcome beamed,

  As mute you heard, with eager smile,

  My tales of all that past the while!

  Yet now, my Kate, a gloomy sea

  Bolls wide between that home and me;

  The moon may thrice be born and die,

  Ere even that seal can reach mine eye.

  Which used so oft, so quick to come,

  Still breathing all the breath of home, —

  As if, still fresh, the cordial air

  From lips beloved were lingering there.

  But now, alas, — far different fate!

  It comes o’er ocean, slow and late,

  When the dear hand that filled its fold

  With words of sweetness may lie cold.

  But hence that gloomy thought! at last,

  Beloved Kate, the waves are past;

  I tread on earth securely now,

  And the green cedar’s living bough

  Breathes more refreshment to my eyes

  Than could a Claude’s divinest dyes.

  At length I touch the happy sphere

  To liberty and virtue dear,

  Where man looks up, and, proud to claim

  His rank within the social frame,

  Sees a grand system round him roll,

  Himself its centre, sun, and soul!

  Far from the shocks of Europe — far

  From every wild, elliptic star

  That, shooting with a devious fire,

  Kindled by heaven’s avenging ire,

  So oft hath into chaos hurled

  The systems of the ancient world.

  The warrior here, in arms no more

  Thinks of the toil, the conflict o’er,

  And glorying in the freedom won

  For hearth and shrine, for sire and son,

  Smiles on the dusky webs that hide

  His sleeping sword’s remembered pride.

  While Peace, with sunny cheeks of toil,

  Walks o’er the free, unlorded soil,

  Effacing with her splendid share

  The drops that war had sprinkled there.

  Thrice happy land! where he who flies

  From the dark ills of other skies,

  From scorn, or want’s unnerving woes.

  May shelter him in proud repose;

  Hope sings along the yellow sand

  His welcome to a patriot land:

  The mighty wood, with pomp, receives

  The stranger in its world of leaves,

  Which soon their barren glory yield

  To the warm shed and cultured field;

  And he, who came, of all bereft,

  To whom malignant fate had left

  Nor hope nor friends nor country dear,

  Finds home and friends and country here.

  Such is the picture, warmly such,

  That Fancy long, with florid touch.

  Had painted to my sanguine eye

  Of man’s new world of liberty.

  Oh! ask me not, if Truth have yet

  Her seal on Fancy’s promise set;

  If even a glimpse my eyes behold

  Of that imagined age of gold; —

  Alas, not yet one gleaming trace!1

  Never did youth, who loved a face

  As sketched by some fond pencil’s skill,

  And made by fancy lovelier still,

  Shrink back with more of sad surprise,

  When the live model met his eyes,

  Than I have felt, in sorrow felt,

  To find a dream on which I’ve dwelt

  From boyhood’s hour, thus fade and flee

  At touch of stern reality!

  But, courage, yet, my wavering heart!

  Blame not the temple’s meanest part,2

  Till thou hast traced the fabric o’er; —

  As yet, we have beheld no more

  Than just the porch to Freedom’s fame;

  And, though a sable spot may stain

  The vestibule, ’tis wrong, ’tis sin

  To doubt the godhead reigns within!

  So here I pause — and now, my Kate,

  To you, and those dear friends, whose fate

  Touches more near this home-sick soul

  Than all the Powers from pole to pole,

  One word at parting, — in the tone

  Most sweet to you, and most my own,

  The simple strain I send you here,

  Wild though it be, would charm your ear,

  Did you but know the trance of thought

  In which my mind its numbers caught.

  ’Twas one of those half-waking dreams,

  That haunt me oft, when music seems

  To bear my soul in sound along,

  And turn its feelings all to song.

  I thought of home, the according lays

  Came full of dreams of other days;

  Freshly in each succeed
ing note

  I found some young remembrance float,

  Till following, as a clue, that strain

  I wandered back to home, again.

  Oh! love the song, and let it oft

  Live on your lip, in accents soft.

  Say that it tells you, simply well,

  All I have bid its wild notes tell, —

  Of Memory’s dream, of thoughts that yet

  Glow with the light of joy that’s set,

  And all the fond heart keeps in store

  Of friends and scenes beheld no more.

  And now, adieu! — this artless air,

  With a few rhymes, in transcript fair,

  Are all the gifts I yet can boast

  To send you from Columbia’s coast;

  But when the sun, with warmer smile.

  Shall light me to my destined isle.3

  You shall have many a cowslip-bell,

  Where Ariel slept, and many a shell,

  In which that gentle spirit drew

  From honey flowers the morning dew.

  1 Such romantic works as “The American Farmer’s Letters,” and the account of Kentucky by Imlay, would seduce us into a belief, that innocence, peace, and freedom had deserted the rest of the world for Martha’s Vineyard and the banks of the Ohio.

  2 Norfolk, it must be owned, presents an unfavorable specimen of America. The characteristics of Virginia in general are not such as can delight either the politician or the moralist, and at Norfolk they are exhibited in their least attractive form. At the time when we arrived the yellow fever had not yet disappeared, and every odor that assailed us in the streets very strongly accounted for its visitation.

  3 Bermuda.

  A BALLAD.

  THE LAKE OF THE DISMAL SWAMP.

  WRITTEN AT NORFOLK, IN VIRGINIA.

  “They tell of a young man, who lost his mind upon the death of a girl he loved, and who, suddenly disappearing from his friends, was never afterwards heard of. As he had frequently said, in his ravings, that the girl was not dead, but gone to the Dismal Swamp, it is supposed he had wandered into that dreary wilderness, and had died of hunger, or been lost in some of its dreadful morasses.” — Anon.

  “La Poesie a ses monstres comme la nature.”

  D’ALEMBERT.

  “They made her a grave, too cold and damp

  “For a soul so warm and true;

  “And she’s gone to the Lake of the Dismal Swamp,1

  “Where, all night long, by a firefly lamp,

  “She paddles her white canoe.

  “And her fire-fly lamp I soon shall see,

  “And her paddle I soon shall hear;

  “Long and loving our life shall be,

  “And I’ll hide the maid in a cypress tree,

  “When the footstep of death is near.”

  Away to the Dismal Swamp he speeds —

  His path was rugged and sore,

  Through tangled juniper, beds of reeds,

  Through many a fen, where the serpent feeds,

  And man never trod before.

  And, when on the earth he sunk to sleep

  If slumber his eyelids knew,

  He lay, where the deadly vine doth weep

  Its venomous tear and nightly steep

  The flesh with blistering dew!

  And near him the she-wolf stirred the brake,

  And the copper-snake breathed in his ear,

  Till he starting cried, from his dream awake,

  “Oh! when shall I see the dusky Lake,

  “And the white canoe of my dear?”

  He saw the Lake, and a meteor bright

  Quick over its surface played —

  “Welcome,” he said, “my dear one’s light!”

  And the dim shore echoed, for many a night,

  The name of the death-cold maid.

  Till he hollowed a boat of the birchen bark,

  Which carried him off from shore;

  Far, far he followed the meteor spark,

  The wind was high and the clouds were dark,

  And the boat returned no more.

  But oft, from the Indian hunter’s camp

  This lover and maid so true

  Are seen at the hour of midnight damp

  To cross the Lake by a fire-fly lamp,

  And paddle their white canoe!

  1 The Great Dismal Swamp is ten or twelve miles distant from Norfolk, and the Lake in the middle of it (about seven miles long) is called Drummond’s Pond.

  TO THE MARCHIONESS DOWAGER OF DONEGALL.

  FROM BERMUDA, JANUARY, 1804.

  Lady! where’er you roam, whatever land

  Woos the bright touches of that artist hand;

  Whether you sketch the valley’s golden meads,

  Where mazy Linth his lingering current leads;1

  Enamored catch the mellow hues that sleep,

  At eve, on Meillerie’s immortal steep;

  Or musing o’er the Lake, at day’s decline,

  Mark the last shadow on that holy shrine,2

  Where, many a night, the shade of Tell complains

  Of Gallia’s triumph and Helvetia’s chains;

  Oh! lay the pencil for a moment by,

  Turn from the canvas that creative eye,

  And let its splendor, like the morning ray

  Upon a shepherd’s harp, illume my lay.

  Yet, Lady, no — for song so rude as mine,

  Chase not the wonders of your art divine;

  Still, radiant eye, upon the canvas dwell;

  Still, magic finger, weave your potent spell;

  And, while I sing the animated smiles

  Of fairy nature in these sun-born isles,

  Oh, might the song awake some bright design,

  Inspire a touch, or prompt one happy line,

  Proud were my soul, to see its humble thought

  On painting’s mirror so divinely caught;

  While wondering Genius, as he leaned to trace

  The faint conception kindling into grace,

  Might love my numbers for the spark they threw,

  And bless the lay that lent a charm to you.

  Say, have you ne’er, in nightly vision, strayed

  To those pure isles of ever-blooming shade,

  Which bards of old, with kindly fancy, placed

  For happy spirits in the Atlantic waste?

  There listening, while, from earth, each breeze that came

  Brought echoes of their own undying fame,

  In eloquence of eye, and dreams of song,

  They charmed their lapse of nightless hours along: —

  Nor yet in song, that mortal ear might suit,

  For every spirit was itself a lute,

  Where Virtue wakened, with elysian breeze,

  Pure tones of thought and mental harmonies.

  Believe me, Lady, when the zephyrs bland

  Floated our bark to this enchanted land, —

  These leafy isles upon the ocean thrown,

  Like studs of emerald o’er a silver zone, —

  Not all the charm, that ethnic fancy gave

  To blessed arbors o’er the western wave,

  Could wake a dream, more soothing or sublime,

  Of bowers ethereal, and the Spirit’s clime.

  Bright rose the morning, every wave was still,

  When the first perfume of a cedar hill

  Sweetly awaked us, and, with smiling charms,

  The fairy harbor woo’d us to its arms.3

  Gently we stole, before the whispering wind,

  Through plaintain shades, that round, like awnings, twined

  And kist on either side the wanton sails,

  Breathing our welcome to these vernal vales;

  While, far reflected o’er the wave serene,

  Each wooded island shed so soft a green

  That the enamored keel, with whispering play,

  Through liquid herbage seemed to steal its way.

  Never did w
eary bark more gladly glide,

  Or rest its anchor in a lovelier tide!

  Along the margin, many a shining dome,

  White as the palace of a Lapland gnome,

  Brightened the wave; — in every myrtle grove

  Secluded bashful, like a shrine of love,

  Some elfin mansion sparkled through the shade;

  And, while the foliage interposing played,

  Lending the scene an ever-changing grace,

  Fancy would love, in glimpses vague, to trace

  The flowery capital, the shaft, the porch,4

  And dream of temples, till her kindling torch

  Lighted me back to all the glorious days

  Of Attic genius; and I seemed to gaze

  On marble, from the rich Pentelio mount,

  Gracing the umbrage of some Naiad’s fount.

  Then thought I, too, of thee, most sweet of all

  The spirit race that come at poet’s call,

  Delicate Ariel! who, in brighter hours,

  Lived on the perfume of these honied bowers,

  In velvet buds, at evening, loved to lie,

  And win with music every rose’s sigh.

  Though weak the magic of my humble strain

  To charm your spirit from its orb again,

  Yet, oh, for her, beneath whose smile I sing,

  For her (whose pencil, if your rainbow wing

  Were dimmed or ruffled by a wintry sky.

  Could smooth its feather and relume its dye.)

  Descend a moment from your starry sphere,

  And, if the lime-tree grove that once was dear,

  The sunny wave, the bower, the breezy hill,

  The sparkling grotto can delight you still,

  Oh cull their choicest tints, their softest light,

  Weave all these spells into one dream of night,

  And, while the lovely artist slumbering lies,

  Shed the warm picture o’er her mental eyes;

  Take for the task her own creative spells,

  And brightly show what song but faintly tells.

  1 Lady Donegall, I had reason to suppose, was at this time still in Switzerland, where the well-known powers of her pencil must have been frequently awakened.

  2 The chapel of William Tell on the Lake of Lucerne.

  3 Nothing can be more romantic than the little harbor of St. George’s. The number of beautiful islets, the singular clearness of the water, and the animated play of the graceful little boats, gliding for ever between the islands, and seeming to sail from one cedar-grove into another, formed altogether as lovely a miniature of nature’s beauties as can be imagined.

  4 This is an illusion which, to the few who are fanciful enough to indulge in it, renders the scenery of Bermuda particularly interesting. In the short but beautiful twilight of their spring evenings, the white cottages, scattered over the islands, and but partially seen through the trees that surround them, assume often the appearance of little Grecian temples; and a vivid fancy may embellish the poor fisherman’s hut with columns such as the pencil of a Claude might imitate. I had one favorite object of this kind in my walks, which the hospitality of its owner robbed me of, by asking me to visit him. He was a plain good man, and received me well and warmly, but I could never turn his house into a Grecian temple again.