by Thomas Moore
LIKE MORNING, WHEN HER EARLY BREEZE.
(AIR. BEETHOVEN.)
Like morning, when her early breeze
Breaks up the surface of the seas,
That, in those furrows, dark with night,
Her hand may sow the seeds of light —
Thy Grace can send its breathings o’er
The Spirit, dark and lost before,
And, freshening all its depths, prepare
For Truth divine to enter there.
Till David touched his sacred lyre.
In silence lay the unbreathing wire;
But when he swept its chords along,
Even Angels stooped to hear that song.
So sleeps the soul, till Thou, oh LORD,
Shalt deign to touch its lifeless chord —
Till, waked by Thee, its breath shall rise
In music, worthy of the skies!
COME, YE DISCONSOLATE.
(AIR. — GERMAN.)
Come, ye disconsolate, where’er you languish,
Come, at God’s altar fervently kneel;
Here bring your wounded hearts, here tell your anguish —
Earth has no sorrow that Heaven cannot heal.
Joy of the desolate, Light of the straying,
Hope, when all others die, fadeless and pure,
Here speaks the Comforter, in GOD’S name saying —
“Earth has no sorrow that Heaven cannot cure.”
Go, ask the infidel, what boon he brings us
What charm for aching hearts he can reveal,
Sweet as that heavenly promise Hope sings us —
“Earth has no sorrow that GOD cannot heal.”
AWAKE, ARISE, THY LIGHT IS COME.
(AIR. — STEVENSON.)
Awake, arise, thy light is come;1
The nations, that before outshone thee,
Now at thy feet lie dark and dumb —
The glory of the Lord is on thee!
Arise — the Gentiles to thy ray,
From every nook of earth shall cluster;
And kings and princes haste to pay
Their homage to thy rising lustre.2
Lift up thine eyes around, and see
O’er foreign fields, o’er farthest waters,
Thy exiled sons return to thee,
To thee return thy home-sick daughters.3
And camels rich, from Midians’ tents,
Shall lay their treasures down before thee;
And Saba bring her gold and scents,
To fill thy air and sparkle o’er thee.4
See, who are these that, like a cloud,5
Are gathering from all earth’s dominions,
Like doves, long absent, when allowed
Homeward to shoot their trembling pinions.
Surely the isles shall wait for me,6
The ships of Tarshish round will hover,
To bring thy sons across the sea,
And waft their gold and silver over.
And Lebanon thy pomp shall grace7 —
The fir, the pine, the palm victorious
Shall beautify our Holy Place,
And make the ground I tread on glorious.
No more shall dischord haunt thy ways,8
Nor ruin waste thy cheerless nation;
But thou shalt call thy portal Praise,
And thou shalt name thy walls Salvation.
The sun no more shall make thee bright,9
Nor moon shall lend her lustre to thee;
But God, Himself, shall be thy Light,
And flash eternal glory thro’ thee.
Thy sun shall never more go down;
A ray from heaven itself descended
Shall light thy everlasting crown —
Thy days of mourning all are ended.10
My own, elect, and righteous Land!
The Branch, for ever green and vernal,
Which I have planted with this hand —
Live thou shalt in Life Eternal.11
1 “Arise, shine; for thy light is come, and the glory of the Lord is risen upon thee.” — Isaiah, xl.
2 “And the Gentiles shall come to thy light, and kings to the brightness of thy rising.” — Isaiah, xl.
3 “Lift up thine eyes round about, and see; all they gather themselves together, they come to thee: thy sons shall come from afar, and thy daughters shall be nursed at thy side.” — Isaiah, lx.
4 “The multitude of camels shall cover thee; the dromedaries of Midian and Ephah; all they from Sheba shall come; they shall bring gold and incense.” — Ib.
5 “Who are these that fly as a cloud and as the doves to their windows?” — Ib.
6 “Surely the isles shall wait for me, and the ships of Tarshish first, to bring thy sons from far, their silver and their gold with them.” — Ib.
7 “The glory of Lebanon shall come unto thee; the fir-tree, the pine-tree, and the box together, to beautify the place of my sanctuary; and I will make the place of my feet glorious.” — Ib.
8 “Violence shall no more be heard in thy land, wasting nor destruction within thy borders; but thou shalt call thy walls, Salvation, and thy gates, Praise. — Isaiah, lx.
9 “Thy sun shall be no more thy light by day; neither for brightness shall the moon give light unto thee: but the Lord shall be unto thee an everlasting light, and thy God thy glory.” — Ib.
10 “Thy sun shall no more go down…for the Lord shall be thine everlasting light, and the days of thy mourning shall be ended.” — Ib.
11 “Thy people also shall be all righteous; they shall inherit the land for ever, the branch of my planting, the work of my hands.” — Ib.
THERE IS A BLEAK DESERT.
(AIR. — CRESCENTINI.)
There is a bleak Desert, where daylight grows weary
Of wasting its smile on a region so dreary —
What may that Desert be?
’Tis Life, cheerless Life, where the few joys that come
Are lost, like that daylight, for ’tis not their home.
There is a lone Pilgrim, before whose faint eyes
The water he pants for but sparkles and flies —
Who may that Pilgrim be?
’Tis Man, hapless Man, thro’ this life tempted on
By fair shining hopes, that in shining are gone.
There is a bright Fountain, thro’ that Desert stealing
To pure lips alone its refreshment revealing —
What may that Fountain be?
’Tis Truth, holy Truth, that, like springs under ground,
By the gifted of Heaven alone can be found.
There is a fair Spirit whose wand hath the spell
To point where those waters in secrecy dwell —
Who may that Spirit be?
’Tis Faith, humble Faith, who hath learned that where’er
Her wand bends to worship the Truth must be there!
SINCE FIRST THY WORD.
(AIR. — NICHOLAS FREEMAN.)
Since first Thy Word awaked my heart,
Like new life dawning o’er me,
Where’er I turn mine eyes, Thou art,
All light and love before me.
Naught else I feel, or hear or see —
All bonds of earth I sever —
Thee, O God, and only Thee
I live for, now and ever.
Like him whose fetters dropt away
When light shone o’er his prison,1
My spirit, touched by Mercy’s ray,
Hath from her chains arisen.
And shall a soul Thou bidst be free,
Return to bondage? — never!
Thee, O God, and only Thee
I live for, now and ever.
1 “And, behold, the angel of the Lord came upon him, and a light shined in the prison…and his chains fell off from his hands.” — Acts, xii. 7.
HARK! ‘TIS THE BREEZE.
(AIR. — ROUSSEAU.)
Hark! ’tis the breeze of twilight calling;
Earth’s weary children to repose;
While, round the couch of Nature falling,
Gently the night’s soft curtains close.
Soon o’er a world, in sleep reclining,
Numberless stars, thro’ yonder dark,
Shall look, like eyes of Cherubs shining
From out the veils that hid the Ark.
Guard us, oh Thou, who never sleepest,
Thou who in silence throned above,
Throughout all time, unwearied, keepest
Thy watch of Glory, Power, and Love.
Grant that, beneath thine eye, securely,
Our souls awhile from life withdrawn
May in their darkness stilly, purely,
Like “sealed fountains,” rest till dawn.
WHERE IS YOUR DWELLING, YE SAINTED?
(AIR. — HASSE.)
Where is your dwelling, ye Sainted?
Thro’ what Elysium more bright
Than fancy or hope ever painted,
Walk ye in glory and light?
Who the same kingdom inherits?
Breathes there a soul that may dare
Look to that world of Spirits,
Or hope to dwell with you there?
Sages! who even in exploring
Nature thro’ all her bright ways,
Went like the Seraphs adoring,
And veiled your eyes in the blaze —
Martyrs! who left for our reaping
Truths you had sown in your blood —
Sinners! whom, long years of weeping
Chastened from evil to good —
Maidens! who like the young Crescent,
Turning away your pale brows
From earth and the light of the Present,
Looked to your Heavenly Spouse —
Say, thro’ what region enchanted
Walk ye in Heaven’s sweet air?
Say, to what spirits ’tis granted,
Bright, souls, to dwell with you there?
HOW LIGHTLY MOUNTS THE MUSE’S WING.
(AIR — ANONYMOUS.)
How lightly mounts the Muse’s wing,
Whose theme is in the skies —
Like morning larks that sweeter sing
The nearer Heaven they rise,
Tho’ love his magic lyre may tune,
Yet ah, the flowers he round it wreathes,
Were plucked beneath pale Passion’s moon,
Whose madness in their ode breathes.
How purer far the sacred lute,
Round which Devotion ties
Sweet flowers that turn to heavenly fruit,
And palm that never dies.
Tho’ War’s high-sounding harp may be.,
Most welcome to the hero’s ears,
Alas, his chords of victory
Are wet, all o’er, with human tears.
How far more sweet their numbers run,
Who hymn like Saints above,
No victor but the Eternal One,
No trophies but of Love!
GO FORTH TO THE MOUNT, (AIR. — STEVENSON.)
Go forth to the Mount; bring the olive-branch home,1
And rejoice; for the day of our freedom is come!
From that time,2 when the moon upon Ajalon’s vale,
Looking motionless down,3 saw the kings of the earth,
In the presence of God’s mighty champion grow pale —
Oh, never had Judah an hour of such mirth!
Go forth to the Mount — bring the olive-branch home,
And rejoice, for the day of our freedom is come!
Bring myrtle and palm — bring the boughs of each tree
That’s worthy to wave o’er the tents of the Free.4
From that day when the footsteps of Israel shone
With a light not their own, thro’ the Jordan’s deep tide,
Whose waters shrunk back as the ark glided on5 —
Oh, never had Judah an hour of such pride!
Go forth to the Mount — bring the olive-branch home,
And rejoice, for the day of our Freedom is come!
1 And that they should publish and proclaim in all their cities, and in Jerusalem, saying, “Go forth unto the mount, and fetch olive-branches,’! etc. — Neh. viii. 15.
2 “For since the days of Joshua the son of Nun unto that day had not the children of Israel done so; and there was very great gladness.” — Ib. 17.
3 “Sun, stand thou still upon Gibeon and thou Moon, in the valley of Ajalon.” — Josh. x. 12.
4 “Fetch olive-branches, and pine-branches, and myrtle-branches, and palm-branches, and branches of thick trees, to make booths.”
— Neh. viii. 15.
5 “And the priests that bare the ark of the covenant of the Lord stood firm on dry ground in the midst of Jordan, and all the Israelites passed over on dry ground.” — Josh. iii. 17.
IS IT NOT SWEET TO THINK, HEREAFTER.
(AIR. — HAYDN.)
Is it not sweet to think, hereafter,
When the Spirit leaves this sphere.
Love, with deathless wing, shall waft her
To those she long hath mourned for here?
Hearts from which ’twas death to sever.
Eyes this world can ne’er restore,
There, as warm, as bright as ever,
Shall meet us and be lost no more.
When wearily we wander, asking
Of earth and heaven, where are they,
Beneath whose smile we once lay basking,
Blest and thinking bliss would stay?
Hope still lifts her radiant finger
Pointing to the eternal Home,
Upon whose portal yet they linger,
Looking back for us to come.
Alas, alas — doth Hope deceive us?
Shall friendship — love — shall all those ties
That bind a moment, and then leave us,
Be found again where nothing dies?
Oh, if no other boon were given,
To keep our hearts from wrong and stain,
Who would not try to win a Heaven
Where all we love shall live again?
WAR AGAINST BABYLON.
(AIR. — NOVELLO.)
“War against Babylon!” shout we around,
Be our banners through earth unfurled;
Rise up, ye nations, ye kings, at the sound —
“War against Babylon!” shout thro’ the world!
Oh thou, that dwellest on many waters,1
Thy day of pride is ended now;
And the dark curse of Israel’s daughters
Breaks like a thundercloud over thy brow!
War, war, war against Babylon!
Make bright the arrows, and gather the shields,2
Set the standard of God on high;
Swarm we, like locusts, o’er all her fields.
“Zion” our watchword, and “vengeance” our cry!
Woe! woe! — the time of thy visitation3
Is come, proud land, thy doom is cast —
And the black surge of desolation
Sweeps o’er thy guilty head, at last!
War, war, war against Babylon!
1 “Oh thou that dwellest upon many waters…thine end is come.” — Jer. li. 13.
2 “Make bright the arrows; gather the shields…set up the standard upon the walls of Babylon” — Jer. li. 11, 12.
3 “Woe unto them! for their day is come, the time of their visitation!” — Jer. l. 27.
A MELOLOGUE UPON NATIONAL MUSIC.
ADVERTISEMENT.
These verses were written for a Benefit at the Dublin Theatre, and were spoken by Miss Smith, with a degree of success, which they owed solely to her admirable manner of reciting them. I wrote them in haste; and it very rarely happens that poetry which has cost but little labor to the writer is productive of any great pleasure to the reader. Under this impression, I certainly should not have published them if they had not found their way into
some of the newspapers with such an addition of errors to their own original stock, that I thought it but fair to limit their responsibility to those faults alone which really belong to them.
With respect to the title which I have invented for this Poem, I feel even more than the scruples of the Emperor Tiberius, when he humbly asked pardon of the Roman Senate for using “the outlandish term, monopoly.” But the truth is, having written the Poem with the sole view of serving a Benefit, I thought that an unintelligible word of this kind would not be without its attraction for the multitude, with whom, “If ’tis not sense, at least ’tis Greek.” To some of my readers, however, it may not be superfluous to say, that by “Melologue,” I mean that mixture of recitation of music, which is frequently adopted in the performance of Collins’s Ode on the Passions, and of which the most striking example I can remember is the prophetic speech of Joad in the Athalie of Racine.
T.M.
MELOLOGUE. A SHORT STRAIN OF MUSIC FROM THE ORCHESTRA.
There breathes a language known and felt
Far as the pure air spreads its living zone;
Wherever rage can rouse, or pity melt,
That language of the soul is felt and known.
From those meridian plains,
Where oft, of old, on some high tower
The soft Peruvian poured his midnight strains,
And called his distant love with such sweet power,
That, when she heard the lonely lay,
Not worlds could keep her from his arms away,1
To the bleak climes of polar night,
Where blithe, beneath a sunless sky,
The Lapland lover bids his reindeer fly,
And sings along the lengthening waste of snow,
Gayly as if the blessed light
Of vernal Phoebus burned upon his brow;
Oh Music! thy celestial claim
Is still resistless, still the same;
And, faithful as the mighty sea
To the pale star that o’er its realm presides,
The spell-bound tides
Of human passion rise and fall for thee!
1 “A certain Spaniard, one night late, met an Indian woman in the streets of Cozco, and would have taken her to his home, but she cried out, ‘For God’s sake, Sir, let me go; for that pipe, which you hear in yonder tower, calls me with great passion, and I cannot refuse the summons; for love constrains me to go, that I may be his wife, and he my husband.’”— “Garcilasso de la Véga,” in Sir Paul Ryeaut’s translation.
