Thomas Moore- Collected Poetical Works
Page 31
Or, in watching the flight
Of bodies of light,
He might happen to take thee for one, my dear.
THE MINSTREL BOY.
The Minstrel-Boy to the war is gone,
In the ranks of death you’ll find him;
His father’s sword he has girded on.
And his wild harp slung behind him.
“Land of song!” said the warrior-bard,
“Tho’ all the world betrays thee,
“One sword, at least, thy rights shall guard,
“One faithful harp shall praise thee!”
The Minstrel fell! — but the foeman’s chain
Could not bring his proud soul under;
The harp he loved ne’er spoke again,
For he tore its chords asunder;
And said, “No chains shall sully thee,
“Thou soul of love and bravery!
“Thy songs were made for the pure and free,
“They shall never sound in slavery.”
THE SONG OF O’RUARK, PRINCE OF BREFFNI.1
The valley lay smiling before me,
Where lately I left her behind;
Yet I trembled, and something hung o’er me,
That saddened the joy of my mind.
I looked for the lamp which, she told me,
Should shine, when her Pilgrim returned;
But, tho’ darkness began to infold me,
No lamp from the battlements burned!
I flew to her chamber— ’twas lonely,
As if the loved tenant lay dead; —
Ah, would it were death, and death only!
But no, the young false one had fled.
And there hung the lute that could soften
My very worst pains into bliss;
While the hand, that had waked it so often,
Now throbbed to a proud rival’s kiss.
There was a time, falsest of women,
When Breffni’s good sword would have sought
That man, thro’ a million of foe-men,
Who dared but to wrong thee in thought!
While now — oh degenerate daughter
Of Erin, how fallen is thy fame!
And thro’ ages of bondage and slaughter,
Our country shall bleed for thy shame.
Already, the curse is upon her,
And strangers her valleys profane;
They come to divide, to dishonor,
And tyrants they long will remain.
But onward! — the green banner rearing,
Go, flesh every sword to the hilt;
On our side is Virtue and Erin,
On theirs is the Saxon and Guilt.
1 These stanzas are founded upon an event of most melancholy importance to Ireland; if, as we are told by our Irish historians, it gave England the first opportunity of profiting by our divisions and subduing us. The following are the circumstances, as related by O’Halloran:— “The king of Leinster had long conceived a violent affection for Dearbhorgil, daughter to the king of Meath, and though she had been for some time married to O’Ruark, prince of Breffni, yet it could not restrain his passion. They carried on a private correspondence, and she informed him that O’Ruark, intended soon to go on a pilgrimage (an act of piety frequent in those days), and conjured him to embrace that opportunity of conveying her from a husband she detested to a lover she adored. MacMurchad too punctually obeyed the summons, and had the lady conveyed to his capital of Ferns.” — The monarch Roderick espoused the cause of O’Ruark, while MacMurchad fled to England, and obtained the assistance of Henry II.
“Such,” adds Giraldus Cambrensis (as I find him in an old translation) “is the variable and fickle nature of woman, by whom all mischief in the world (for the most part) do happen and come, as may appear by Marcus Antonius, and by the destruction of Troy.”
OH! HAD WE SOME BRIGHT LITTLE ISLE OF OUR OWN.
Oh! had we some bright little isle of our own,
In a blue summer ocean, far off and alone,
Where a leaf never dies in the still blooming bowers,
And the bee banquets on thro’ a whole year of flowers;
Where the sun loves to pause
With so fond a delay,
That the night only draws
A thin veil o’er the day;
Where simply to feel that we breathe, that we live,
Is worth the best joy that life elsewhere can give.
There, with souls ever ardent and pure as the clime,
We should love, as they loved in the first golden time;
The glow of the sunshine, the balm of the air,
Would steal to our hearts, and make all summer there.
With affection as free
From decline as the bowers,
And, with hope, like the bee,
Living always on flowers,
Our life should resemble a long day of light,
And our death come on, holy and calm as the night.
FAREWELL! — BUT WHENEVER YOU WELCOME THE HOUR.
Farewell! — but whenever you welcome the hour.
That awakens the night-song of mirth in your bower,
Then think of the friend who once welcomed it too,
And forgot his own griefs to be happy with you.
His griefs may return, not a hope may remain
Of the few that have brightened his pathway of pain.
But he ne’er will forget the short vision, that threw
Its enchantment around him, while lingering with you.
And still on that evening, when pleasure fills up
To the highest top sparkle each heart and each cup,
Where’er my path lies, be it gloomy or bright,
My soul, happy friends, shall be with you that night;
Shall join in your revels, your sports, and your wiles,
And return to me, beaming all o’er with your smiles —
Too blest, if it tells me that, mid the gay cheer
Some kind voice had murmured, “I wish he were here!”
Let Fate do her worst, there are relics of joy,
Bright dreams of the past, which she cannot destroy;
Which come in the night-time of sorrow and care,
And bring back the features that joy used to wear.
Long, long be my heart with such memories filled!
Like the vase, in which roses have once been distilled —
You may break, you may shatter the vase, if you will,
But the scent of the roses will hang round it still.
OH! DOUBT ME NOT.
Oh! doubt me not — the season
Is o’er, when Folly made me rove,
And now the vestal, Reason,
Shall watch the fire awaked by love.
Altho’ this heart was early blown,
And fairest hands disturbed the tree,
They only shook some blossoms down,
Its fruit has all been kept for thee.
Then doubt me not — the season
Is o’er, when Folly made me rove,
And now the vestal, Reason,
Shall watch the fire awaked by Love.
And tho’ my lute no longer
May sing of Passion’s ardent spell,
Yet, trust me, all the stronger
I feel the bliss I do not tell.
The bee thro’ many a garden roves,
And hums his lay of courtship o’er,
But when he finds the flower he loves,
He settles there, and hums no more.
Then doubt me not — the season
Is o’er, when Folly kept me free,
And now the vestal, Reason,
Shall guard the flame awaked by thee.
YOU REMEMBER ELLEN.
You remember Ellen, our hamlet’s pride,
How meekly she blest her humble lot,
When the stranger, William, had made her his bride,
And love was the light of their lowly cot.
/>
Together they toiled through winds and rains,
Till William, at length, in sadness said,
“We must seek our fortune on other plains;” —
Then, sighing, she left her lowly shed.
They roamed a long and a weary way,
Nor much was the maiden’s heart at ease,
When now, at close of one stormy day,
They see a proud castle among the trees.
“To-night,” said the youth, “we’ll shelter there;
“The wind blows cold, the hour is late:”
So he blew the horn with a chieftain’s air,
And the Porter bowed, as they past the gate.
“Now, welcome, Lady,” exclaimed the youth, —
“This castle is thine, and these dark woods all!”
She believed him crazed, but his words were truth,
For Ellen is Lady of Rosna Hall!
And dearly the Lord of Rosna loves
What William the stranger wooed and wed;
And the light of bliss, in these lordly groves,
Shines pure as it did in the lowly shed.
I’D MOURN THE HOPES.
I’d mourn the hopes that leave me,
If thy smiles had left me too;
I’d weep when friends deceive me,
If thou wert, like them, untrue.
But while I’ve thee before me,
With heart so warm and eyes so bright,
No clouds can linger o’er me,
That smile turns them all to light.
’Tis not in fate to harm me,
While fate leaves thy love to me;
’Tis not in joy to charm me,
Unless joy be shared with thee.
One minute’s dream about thee
Were worth a long, an endless year
Of waking bliss without thee,
My own love, my only dear!
And tho’ the hope be gone, love,
That long sparkled o’er our way,
Oh! we shall journey on, love,
More safely, without its ray.
Far better lights shall win me
Along the path I’ve yet to roam: —
The mind that burns within me,
And pure smiles from thee at home.
Thus, when the lamp that lighted
The traveller at first goes out,
He feels awhile benighted.
And looks round in fear and doubt.
But soon, the prospect clearing,
By cloudless starlight on he treads,
And thinks no lamp so cheering
As that light which Heaven sheds.
COME O’ER THE SEA.
Come o’er the sea,
Maiden, with me,
Mine thro’ sunshine, storm, and snows;
Seasons may roll,
But the true soul
Burns the same, where’er it goes.
Let fate frown on, so we love and part not;
’Tis life where thou art, ’tis death where thou art not.
Then come o’er the sea,
Maiden, with me,
Come wherever the wild wind blows;
Seasons may roll,
But the true soul
Burns the same, where’er it goes.
Was not the sea
Made for the Free,
Land for courts and chains alone?
Here we are slaves,
But, on the waves,
Love and Liberty’s all our own.
No eye to watch, and no tongue to wound us,
All earth forgot, and all heaven around us —
Then come o’er the sea,
Maiden, with me,
Mine thro’ sunshine, storm, and snows;
Seasons may roll,
But the true soul
Burns the same, where’er it goes.
HAS SORROW THY YOUNG DAYS SHADED.
Has sorrow thy young days shaded,
As clouds o’er the morning fleet?
Too fast have those young days faded,
That, even in sorrow, were sweet?
Does Time with his cold wing wither
Each feeling that once was dear? —
Then, child of misfortune, come hither,
I’ll weep with thee, tear for tear.
Has love to that soul, so tender,
Been like our Lagenian mine,1
Where sparkles of golden splendor
All over the surface shine —
But, if in pursuit we go deeper,
Allured by the gleam that shone,
Ah! false as the dream of the sleeper,
Like Love, the bright ore is gone.
Has Hope, like the bird in the story,2
That flitted from tree to tree
With the talisman’s glittering glory —
Has Hope been that bird to thee?
On branch after branch alighting,
The gem did she still display,
And, when nearest and most inviting.
Then waft the fair gem away?
If thus the young hours have fleeted,
When sorrow itself looked bright;
If thus the fair hope hath cheated,
That led thee along so light;
If thus the cold world now wither
Each feeling that once was dear: —
Come, child of misfortune, come hither,
I’ll weep with thee, tear for tear.
1 Our Wicklow Gold Mines, to which this verse alludes, deserve, I fear, but too well the character here given of them.
2 “The bird, having got its prize, settled not far off, with the talisman in his mouth. The prince drew near it, hoping it would drop it: but as he approached, the bird took wing, and settled again,” etc.— “Arabian Nights.”
NO, NOT MORE WELCOME.
No, not more welcome the fairy numbers
Of music fall on the sleeper’s ear,
When half-awaking from fearful slumbers,
He thinks the full choir of heaven is near, —
Than came that voice, when, all forsaken.
This heart long had sleeping lain,
Nor thought its cold pulse would ever waken
To such benign, blessed sounds again.
Sweet voice of comfort! ’twas like the stealing
Of summer wind thro’ some wreathed shell —
Each secret winding, each inmost feeling
Of my soul echoed to its spell.
’Twas whispered balm— ’twas sunshine spoken! —
I’d live years of grief and pain
To have my long sleep of sorrow broken
By such benign, blessed sounds again.
WHEN FIRST I MET THEE.
When first I met thee, warm and young,
There shone such truth about thee.
And on thy lip such promise hung,
I did not dare to doubt thee.
I saw the change, yet still relied,
Still clung with hope the fonder,
And thought, tho’ false to all beside,
From me thou couldst not wander.
But go, deceiver! go,
The heart, whose hopes could make it
Trust one so false, so low,
Deserves that thou shouldst break it.
When every tongue thy follies named,
I fled the unwelcome story;
Or found, in even the faults they blamed,
Some gleams of future glory.
I still was true, when nearer friends
Conspired to wrong, to slight thee;
The heart that now thy falsehood rends,
Would then have bled to right thee,
But go, deceiver! go, —
Some day, perhaps, thou’lt waken
From pleasure’s dream, to know
The grief of hearts forsaken.
Even now, tho’ youth its bloom has shed,
No lights of age adorn thee:
The few, who loved thee once, ha
ve fled,
And they who flatter scorn thee.
Thy midnight cup is pledged to slaves,
No genial ties enwreath it;
The smiling there, like light on graves,
Has rank cold hearts beneath it.
Go — go — tho’ worlds were thine,
I would not now surrender
One taintless tear of mine
For all thy guilty splendor!
And days may come, thou false one! yet,
When even those ties shall sever;
When thou wilt call, with vain regret,
On her thou’st lost for ever;
On her who, in thy fortune’s fall,
With smiles had still received thee,
And gladly died to prove thee all
Her fancy first believed thee.
Go — go— ’tis vain to curse,
’Tis weakness to upbraid thee;
Hate cannot wish thee worse
Than guilt and shame have made thee.
WHILE HISTORY’S MUSE.
While History’s Muse the memorial was keeping
Of all that the dark hand of Destiny weaves,
Beside her the Genius of Erin stood weeping,
For hers was the story that blotted the leaves.
But oh! how the tear in her eyelids grew bright,
When, after whole pages of sorrow and shame,
She saw History write,
With a pencil of light
That illumed the whole volume, her Wellington’s name.
“Hail, Star of my Isle!” said the Spirit, all sparkling
With beams, such as break from her own dewy skies —
“Thro’ ages of sorrow, deserted and darkling,
“I’ve watched for some glory like thine to arise.
“For, tho’ heroes I’ve numbered, unblest was their lot,
“And unhallowed they sleep in the crossways of Fame; —
“But oh! there is not
“One dishonoring blot
“On the wreath that encircles my Wellington’s name.
“Yet still the last crown of thy toils is remaining,
“The grandest, the purest, even thou hast yet known;
“Tho’ proud was thy task, other nations unchaining,
“Far prouder to heal the deep wounds of thy own.
“At the foot of that throne, for whose weal thou hast stood,
“Go, plead for the land that first cradled thy fame,
“And, bright o’er the flood
“Of her tears and her blood,