by Thomas Moore
To earth and heaven, “Hush, all, hush!”
1 The God of Silence, thus pictured by the Egyptians.
SONG OF INNISFAIL.
They came from a land beyond the sea,
And now o’er the western main
Set sail, in their good ships, gallantly,
From the sunny land of Spain.
“Oh, where’s the Isle we’ve seen in dreams,
Our destined home or grave?”1
Thus sung they as, by the morning’s beams,
They swept the Atlantic wave.
And, lo, where afar o’er ocean shines
A sparkle of radiant green,
As tho’ in that deep lay emerald mines,
Whose light thro’ the wave was seen.
“’Tis Innisfail2— ’tis Innisfail!”
Rings o’er the echoing sea;
While, bending to heaven, the warriors hail
That home of the brave and free.
Then turned they unto the Eastern wave,
Where now their Day-God’s eye
A look of such sunny-omen gave
As lighted up sea and sky.
Nor frown was seen thro’ sky or sea,
Nor tear o’er leaf or sod,
When first on their Isle of Destiny
Our great forefathers trod.
1 Milesius remembered the remarkable prediction of the principal Druid, who foretold that the posterity of Gadelus should obtain the possession of a Western Island (which was Ireland), and there inhabit. — Keating.
2 The Island of Destiny, one of the ancient names of Ireland.
THE NIGHT DANCE.
Strike the gay harp! see the moon is on high,
And, as true to her beam as the tides of the ocean,
Young hearts, when they feel the soft light of her eye,
Obey the mute call and heave into motion.
Then, sound notes — the gayest, the lightest,
That ever took wing, when heaven looked brightest!
Again! Again!
Oh! could such heart-stirring music be heard
In that City of Statues described by romancers,
So wakening its spell, even stone would be stirred,
And statues themselves all start into dancers!
Why then delay, with such sounds in our ears,
And the flower of Beauty’s own garden before us, —
While stars overhead leave the song of their spheres,
And listening to ours, hang wondering o’er us?
Again, that strain! — to hear it thus sounding
Might set even Death’s cold pulses bounding —
Again! Again!
Oh, what delight when the youthful and gay,
Each with eye like a sunbeam and foot like a feather,
Thus dance, like the Hours to the music of May,
And mingle sweet song and sunshine together!
THERE ARE SOUNDS OF MIRTH.
There are sounds of mirth in the night-air ringing,
And lamps from every casement shown;
While voices blithe within are singing,
That seem to say “Come,” in every tone.
Ah! once how light, in Life’s young season,
My heart had leapt at that sweet lay;
Nor paused to ask of graybeard Reason
Should I the syren call obey.
And, see — the lamps still livelier glitter,
The syren lips more fondly sound;
No, seek, ye nymphs, some victim fitter
To sink in your rosy bondage bound.
Shall a bard, whom not the world in arms
Could bend to tyranny’s rude control,
Thus quail at sight of woman’s charms
And yield to a smile his freeborn soul?
Thus sung the sage, while, slyly stealing,
The nymphs their fetters around him cast,
And, — their laughing eyes, the while, concealing, —
Led Freedom’s Bard their slave at last.
For the Poet’s heart, still prone to loving,
Was like that rack of the Druid race,1
Which the gentlest touch at once set moving,
But all earth’s power couldn’t cast from its base.
1 The Rocking Stones of the Druids, some of which no force is able to dislodge from their stations.
OH, ARRANMORE, LOVED ARRANMORE.
Oh! Arranmore, loved Arranmore,
How oft I dream of thee,
And of those days when, by thy shore,
I wandered young and free.
Full many a path I’ve tried, since then,
Thro’ pleasure’s flowery maze,
But ne’er could find the bliss again
I felt in those sweet days.
How blithe upon thy breezy cliffs,
At sunny morn I’ve stood,
With heart as bounding as the skiffs
That danced along thy flood;
Or, when the western wave grew bright
With daylight’s parting wing,
Have sought that Eden in its light,
Which dreaming poets sing;1 —
That Eden where the immortal brave
Dwell in a land serene, —
Whose bowers beyond the shining wave,
At sunset, oft are seen.
Ah dream too full of saddening truth!
Those mansions o’er the main
Are like the hopes I built in youth, —
As sunny and as vain!
1 “The inhabitants of Arranmore are still persuaded that, in a clear day, they can see from this coast Hy Brysail or the Enchanted Island, the paradise of the Pagan Irish, and concerning which they relate a number of romantic stories”, — Beaufort’s “Ancient Topography of Ireland.”
LAY HIS SWORD BY HIS SIDE.
Lay his sword by his side,1 — it hath served him too well
Not to rest near his pillow below;
To the last moment true, from his hand ere it fell,
Its point was still turned to a flying foe.
Fellow-laborers in life, let them slumber in death,
Side by side, as becomes the reposing brave, —
That sword which he loved still unbroke in its sheath,
And himself unsubdued in his grave.
Yet pause — for, in fancy, a still voice I hear,
As if breathed from his brave heart’s remains; —
Faint echo of that which, in Slavery’s ear,
Once sounded the war-word, “Burst your chains!”
And it cries from the grave where the hero lies deep,
“Tho’ the day of your Chieftain for ever hath set,
“Oh leave not his sword thus inglorious to sleep, —
“It hath victory’s life in it yet!”
“Should some alien, unworthy such weapon to wield,
“Dare to touch thee, my own gallant sword,
“Then rest in thy sheath, like a talisman sealed,
Or return to the grave of thy chainless lord.
But, if grasped by a hand that hath learned the proud use
Of a falchion, like thee, on the battle-plain, —
Then, at Liberty’s summons, like lightning let loose,
Leap forth from thy dark sheath again!”
1 It was the custom of the ancient Irish, in the manner of the Scythians, to bury the favorite swords of their heroes along with them.
OH, COULD WE DO WITH THIS WORLD OF OURS.
Oh, could we do with this world of ours
As thou dost with thy garden bowers,
Reject the weeds and keep the flowers,
What a heaven on earth we’d make it!
So bright a dwelling should be our own,
So warranted free from sigh or frown,
That angels soon would be coming down,
By the week or month to take it.
Like those gay flies that wing thro’ air,
And in themselves a lustre bear
,
A stock of light, still ready there,
Whenever they wish to use it;
So, in this world I’d make for thee,
Our hearts should all like fire-flies be,
And the flash of wit or poesy
Break forth whenever we choose it.
While every joy that glads our sphere
Hath still some shadow hovering near,
In this new world of ours, my dear,
Such shadows will all be omitted: —
Unless they’re like that graceful one,
Which, when thou’rt dancing in the sun.
Still near thee, leaves a charm upon
Each spot where it hath flitted.
THE WINE-CUP IS CIRCLING.
The wine-cup is circling in Almhin’s hall,1
And its Chief, mid his heroes reclining,
Looks up with a sigh, to the trophied wall,
Where his sword hangs idly shining.
When, hark! that shout
From the vale without, —
“Arm ye quick, the Dane, the Dane is nigh!”
Every Chief starts up
From his foaming cup,
And “To battle, to battle!” is the Finian’s cry.
The minstrels have seized their harps of gold,
And they sing such thrilling numbers,
’Tis like the voice of the Brave, of old,
Breaking forth from the place of slumbers!
Spear to buckler rang,
As the minstrels sang,
And the Sun-burst2 o’er them floated wide;
While remembering the yoke
Which their father’s broke,
“On for liberty, for liberty!” the Finians cried.
Like clouds of the night the Northmen came,
O’er the valley of Almhin lowering;
While onward moved, in the light of its fame,
That banner of Erin, towering.
With the mingling shock
Rung cliff and rock,
While, rank on rank, the invaders die:
And the shout, that last,
O’er the dying past,
Was “victory! victory!” — the Finian’s cry.
1 The Palace of Fin Mac-Cumhal (the Fingal of Macpherson) in Leinster. It was built on the top of the hill, which has retained from thence the name of the Hill of Allen, in the county of Kildare. The Finians, or Fenii, were the celebrated National Militia of Ireland, which this chief commanded. The introduction of the Danes in the above song is an anachronism common to most of the Finian and Ossianic legends.
2 The name given to the banner of the Irish.
THE DREAM OF THOSE DAYS.
The dream of those days when first I sung thee is o’er,
Thy triumph hath stained the charm thy sorrows then wore;
And even of the light which Hope once shed o’er thy chains,
Alas, not a gleam to grace thy freedom remains.
Say, is it that slavery sunk so deep in thy heart,
That still the dark brand is there, though chainless thou art;
And Freedom’s sweet fruit, for which thy spirit long burned,
Now, reaching at last thy lip, to ashes hath turned?
Up Liberty’s steep by Truth and Eloquence led,
With eyes on her temple fixt, how proud was thy tread!
Ah, better thou ne’er hadst lived that summit to gain
Or died in the porch than thus dishonor the fane.
FROM THIS HOUR THE PLEDGE IS GIVEN.
From this hour the pledge is given,
From this hour my soul is thine:
Come what will, from earth or heaven,
Weal or woe, thy fate be mine.
When the proud and great stood by thee,
None dared thy rights to spurn;
And if now they’re false and fly thee,
Shall I, too, basely turn?
No; — whate’er the fires that try thee,
In the same this heart shall burn.
Tho’ the sea, where thou embarkest,
Offers now no friendly shore,
Light may come where all looks darkest,
Hope hath life when life seems o’er.
And, of those past ages dreaming,
When glory decked thy brow,
Oft I fondly think, tho’ seeming
So fallen and clouded now,
Thou’lt again break forth, all beaming, —
None so bright, so blest as thou!
SILENCE IS IN OUR FESTAL HALLS.1
Silence is in our festal halls, —
Sweet Son of Song! thy course is o’er;
In vain on thee sad Erin calls,
Her minstrel’s voice responds no more; —
All silent as the Eolian shell
Sleeps at the close of some bright day,
When the sweet breeze that waked its swell
At sunny morn hath died away.
Yet at our feasts thy spirit long
Awakened by music’s spell shall rise;
For, name so linked with deathless song
Partakes its charm and never dies:
And even within the holy fane
When music wafts the soul to heaven,
One thought to him whose earliest strain
Was echoed there shall long be given.
But, where is now the cheerful day.
The social night when by thy side
He who now weaves this parting lay
His skilless voice with thine allied;
And sung those songs whose every tone,
When bard and minstrel long have past,
Shall still in sweetness all their own
Embalmed by fame, undying last.
Yes, Erin, thine alone the fame, —
Or, if thy bard have shared the crown,
From thee the borrowed glory came,
And at thy feet is now laid down.
Enough, if Freedom still inspire
His latest song and still there be.
As evening closes round his lyre,
One ray upon its chords from thee.
1 It is hardly necessary, perhaps, to inform the reader, that these lines are meant as a tribute of sincere friendship to the memory of an old and valued colleague in this work, Sir John Stevenson.
NATIONAL AIRS
ADVERTISEMENT.
It is Cicero, I believe, who says “naturâ, ad modes ducimur;” and the abundance of wild, indigenous airs, which almost every country, except England, possesses, sufficiently proves the truth of his assertion. The lovers of this simple, but interesting kind of music, are here presented with the first number of a collection, which, I trust, their contributions will enable us to continue. A pretty air without words resembles one of those half creatures of Plato, which are described as wandering in search of the remainder of themselves through the world. To supply this other half, by uniting with congenial words the many fugitive melodies which have hitherto had none, — or only such as are unintelligible to the generality of their hearers, — it is the object and ambition of the present work. Neither is it our intention to confine ourselves to what are strictly called National Melodies, but, wherever we meet with any wandering and beautiful air, to which poetry has not yet assigned a worthy home, we shall venture to claim it as an estray swan, and enrich our humble Hippocrene with its song.
T.M.
A TEMPLE TO FRIENDSHIP.
(SPANISH AIR.)
“A Temple to Friendship;” said Laura, enchanted,
“I’ll build in this garden, — the thought is divine!”
Her temple was built and she now only wanted
An image of Friendship to place on the shrine.
She flew to a sculptor, who set down before her
A Friendship, the fairest his art could invent;
But so cold and so dull, that the youthful adorer
Saw plainly this was not the idol she meant.
“Oh! never,” she cried, �
��could I think of enshrining
“An image whose looks are so joyless and dim; —
“But yon little god, upon roses reclining,
“We’ll make, if you please, Sir, a Friendship of him.”
So the bargain was struck; with the little god laden
She joyfully flew to her shrine in the grove:
“Farewell,” said the sculptor, “you’re not the first maiden
“Who came but for Friendship and took away Love.”
FLOW ON, THOU SHINING RIVER.
(PORTUGUESE AIR.)
Flow on, thou shining river;
But ere thou reach the sea
Seek Ella’s bower and give her
The wreaths I fling o’er thee
And tell her thus, if she’ll be mine
The current of our lives shall be,
With joys along their course to shine,
Like those sweet flowers on thee.
But if in wandering thither
Thou find’st she mocks my prayer,
Then leave those wreaths to wither
Upon the cold bank there;
And tell her thus, when youth is o’er,
Her lone and loveless Charms shall be
Thrown by upon life’s weedy shore.
Like those sweet flowers from thee.
ALL THAT’S BRIGHT MUST FADE.
(INDIAN AIR.)
All that’s bright must fade, —
The brightest still the fleetest;
All that’s sweet was made
But to be lost when sweetest.
Stars that shine and fall; —
The flower that drops in springing; —
These, alas! are types of all
To which our hearts are clinging.
All that’s bright must fade, —
The brightest still the fleetest;
All that’s sweet was made
But to be lost when sweetest?
Who would seek our prize
Delights that end in aching?
Who would trust to ties
That every hour are breaking?
Better far to be
In utter darkness lying,
Than to be blest with light and see
That light for ever flying.
All that’s bright must fade, —
The brightest still the fleetest;
All that’s sweet was made
But to be lost when sweetest!
