by Thomas Moore
While thus all creation, earth, heaven, and sea.
Are dancing around us, oh, why should not we?
Who’ll say that moments we use thus are wasted?
Such sweet drops of time only flow to be tasted;
While hearts are high beating and harps full in tune,
The fault is all morning’s for coming so soon.
THEY MET BUT ONCE.
They met but once, in youth’s sweet hour,
And never since that day
Hath absence, time, or grief had power
To chase that dream away.
They’ve seen the suns of other skies,
On other shores have sought delight;
But never more to bless their eyes
Can come a dream so bright!
They met but once, — a day was all
Of Love’s young hopes they knew;
And still their hearts that day recall
As fresh as then it flew.
Sweet dream of youth! oh, ne’er again
Let either meet the brow
They left so smooth and smiling then,
Or see what it is now.
For, Youth, the spell was only thine,
From thee alone the enchantment flows,
That makes the world around thee shine
With light thyself bestows.
They met but once, — oh, ne’er again
Let either meet the brow
They left so smooth and smiling then,
Or see what it is now.
WITH MOONLIGHT BEAMING.
With moonlight beaming
Thus o’er the deep,
Who’d linger dreaming
In idle sleep?
Leave joyless souls to live by day, —
Our life begins with yonder ray;
And while thus brightly
The moments flee,
Our barks skim lightly
The shining sea.
To halls of splendor
Let great ones hie;
Thro’ light more tender
Our pathways lie.
While round, from banks of brook or lake,
Our company blithe echoes make;
And as we lend ’em
Sweet word or strain,
Still back they send ’em
More sweet again.
CHILD’S SONG.
FROM A MASQUE.
I have a garden of my own,
Shining with flowers of every hue;
I loved it dearly while alone,
But I shall love it more with you:
And there the golden bees shall come,
In summer-time at break of morn,
And wake us with their busy hum
Around the Siha’s fragrant thorn.
I have a fawn from Aden’s land,
On leafy buds and berries nurst;
And you shall feed him from your hand,
Though he may start with fear at first.
And I will lead you where he lies
For shelter in the noontide heat;
And you may touch his sleeping eyes,
And feel his little silvery feet.
THE HALCYON HANGS O’ER OCEAN.
The halcyon hangs o’er ocean,
The sea-lark skims the brine;
This bright world’s all in motion,
No heart seems sad but mine.
To walk thro’ sun-bright places,
With heart all cold the while;
To look in smiling faces,
When we no more can smile;
To feel, while earth and heaven
Around thee shine with bliss,
To thee no light is given, —
Oh, what a doom is this!
THE WORLD WAS HUSHT.
The world was husht, the moon above
Sailed thro’ ether slowly,
When near the casement of my love,
Thus I whispered lowly, —
“Awake, awake, how canst thou sleep?
“The field I seek to-morrow
“Is one where man hath fame to reap,
“And woman gleans but sorrow.”
“Let battle’s field be what it may.
Thus spoke a voice replying,
“Think not thy love, while thou’rt away,
“Will sit here idly sighing.
“No — woman’s soul, if not for fame,
“For love can brave all danger!
Then forth from out the casement came
A plumed and armed stranger.
A stranger? No; ’twas she, the maid,
Herself before me beaming,
With casque arrayed and falchion blade
Beneath her girdle gleaming!
Close side by side, in freedom’s fight,
That blessed morning found us;
In Victory’s light we stood ere night,
And Love the morrow crowned us!
THE TWO LOVES.
There are two Loves, the poet sings,
Both born of Beauty at a birth:
The one, akin to heaven, hath wings,
The other, earthly, walks on earth.
With this thro’ bowers below we play,
With that thro’ clouds above we soar;
With both, perchance, may lose our way: —
Then, tell me which,
Tell me which shall we adore?
The one, when tempted down from air,
At Pleasure’s fount to lave his lip,
Nor lingers long, nor oft will dare
His wing within the wave to dip.
While plunging deep and long beneath,
The other bathes him o’er and o’er
In that sweet current, even to death: —
Then, tell me which,
Tell me which shall we adore?
The boy of heaven, even while he lies
In Beauty’s lap, recalls his home;
And when most happy, inly sighs
For something happier still to come.
While he of earth, too fully blest
With this bright world to dream of more,
Sees all his heaven on Beauty’s breast: —
Then, tell me which,
Tell me which shall we adore?
The maid who heard the poet sing
These twin-desires of earth and sky,
And saw while one inspired his string,
The other glistened in his eye, —
To name the earthlier boy ashamed,
To chose the other fondly loath,
At length all blushing she exclaimed, —
“Ask not which,
“Oh, ask not which — we’ll worship both.
“The extremes of each thus taught to shun,
“With hearts and souls between them given,
“When weary of this earth with one,
“We’ll with the other wing to heaven.”
Thus pledged the maid her vow of bliss;
And while one Love wrote down the oath,
The other sealed it with a kiss;
And Heaven looked on,
Heaven looked on and hallowed both.
THE LEGEND OF PUCK THE FAIRY.
Wouldst know what tricks, by the pale moonlight,
Are played by me, the merry little Sprite,
Who wing thro’ air from the camp to the court,
From king to clown, and of all make sport;
Singing, I am the Sprite
Of the merry midnight,
Who laugh at weak mortals and love the moonlight.
To a miser’s bed, where he snoring slept
And dreamt of his cash, I slyly crept;
Chink, chink o’er his pillow like money I rang,
And he waked to catch — but away I sprang,
Singing, I am the Sprite, etc.
I saw thro’ the leaves, in a damsel’s bower,
She was waiting her love at that starlight hour:
“Hist — hist!” quoth I, with an amorous si
gh,
And she flew to the door, but away flew I,
Singing, I am the Sprite, etc.
While a bard sat inditing an ode to his love,
Like a pair of blue meteors I stared from above,
And he swooned — for he thought ’twas the ghost, poor man!
Of his lady’s eyes, while away I ran,
Singing, I am the Sprite, etc.
BEAUTY AND SONG.
Down in yon summer vale,
Where the rill flows.
Thus said a Nightingale
To his loved Rose: —
“Tho’ rich the pleasures
“Of song’s sweet measures,
“Vain were its melody,
“Rose, without thee.”
Then from the green recess
Of her night-bower,
Beaming with bashfulness,
Spoke the bright flower: —
“Tho’ morn should lend her
“Its sunniest splendor,
“What would the Rose be,
“Unsung by thee?”
Thus still let Song attend
Woman’s bright way;
Thus still let woman lend
Light to the lay.
Like stars thro’ heaven’s sea
Floating in harmony
Beauty should glide along
Circled by Song.
WHEN THOU ART NIGH.
When thou art nigh, it seems
A new creation round;
The sun hath fairer beams,
The lute a softer sound.
Tho’ thee alone I see,
And hear alone thy sigh,
’Tis light, ’tis song to me,
Tis all — when thou art nigh.
When thou art nigh, no thought
Of grief comes o’er my heart;
I only think — could aught
But joy be where thou art?
Life seems a waste of breath,
When far from thee I sigh;
And death — ay, even death
Were sweet, if thou wert nigh.
SONG OF A HYPERBOREAN.
I come from a land in the sun bright deep,
Where golden gardens grow;
Where the winds of the north, be calmed in sleep,
Their conch-shells never blow.1
Haste to that holy Isle with me,
Haste — haste!
So near the track of the stars are we,
That oft on night’s pale beams
The distant sounds of their harmony
Come to our ear, like dreams.
Then haste to that holy Isle with me, etc.
The Moon too brings her world so nigh,
That when the night-seer looks
To that shadowless orb, in a vernal sky,
He can number its hills and brooks.
Then, haste, etc.
To the Sun-god all our hearts and lyres2
By day, by night, belong;
And the breath we draw from his living fires,
We give him back in song.
Then, haste, etc.
From us descends the maid who brings
To Delos gifts divine;
And our wild bees lend their rainbow wings
To glitter on Delphi’s shrine.
Then haste to that holy Isle with me,
Haste — haste!
1 On the Tower of the Winds, at Athens, there is a conch shell placed in the hands of Boreas. — See Stuart’s Antiquities. “The north wind,” says Herodotus, in speaking of the Hyperboreans, “never blows with them.”
2 Hecataeus tells us, that this Hyperborean island was dedicated to Apollo; and most of the inhabitants were either priests or songsters.
THOU BIDST ME SING.
Thou bidst me sing the lay I sung to thee
In other days ere joy had left this brow;
But think, tho’ still unchanged the notes may be,
How different feels the heart that breathes them now!
The rose thou wearst to-night is still the same
We saw this morning on its stem so gay;
But, ah! that dew of dawn, that breath which came
Like life o’er all its leaves, hath past away.
Since first that music touched thy heart and mine,
How many a joy and pain o’er both have past, —
The joy, a light too precious long to shine, —
The pain, a cloud whose shadows always last.
And tho’ that lay would like the voice of home
Breathe o’er our ear, ’twould waken now a sigh —
Ah! not, as then, for fancied woes to come,
But, sadder far, for real bliss gone by.
CUPID ARMED.
Place the helm on thy brow,
In thy hand take the spear; —
Thou art armed, Cupid, now,
And thy battle-hour is near.
March on! march on! thy shaft and bow
Were weak against such charms;
March on! march on! so proud a foe
Scorns all but martial arms.
See the darts in her eyes,
Tipt with scorn, how they shine!
Every shaft, as it flies,
Mocking proudly at thine.
March on! march on! thy feathered darts
Soft bosoms soon might move;
But ruder arms to ruder hearts
Must teach what ’tis to love.
Place the helm on thy brow;
In thy hand take the spear, —
Thou art armed, Cupid, now,
And thy battle-hour is near.
ROUND THE WORLD GOES.
Round the world goes, by day and night,
While with it also round go we;
And in the flight of one day’s light
An image of all life’s course we see.
Round, round, while thus we go round,
The best thing a man can do,
Is to make it, at least, a merry-go-round,
By — sending the wine round too.
Our first gay stage of life is when
Youth in its dawn salutes the eye —
Season of bliss! Oh, who wouldn’t then
Wish to cry, “Stop!” to earth and sky?
But, round, round, both boy and girl
Are whisked thro’ that sky of blue;
And much would their hearts enjoy the whirl,
If — their heads didn’t whirl round too.
Next, we enjoy our glorious noon,
Thinking all life a life of light;
But shadows come on, ’tis evening soon,
And ere we can say, “How short!”— ’tis night.
Round, round, still all goes round,
Even while I’m thus singing to you;
And the best way to make it a merry-go-round,
Is to — chorus my song round too.
OH, DO NOT LOOK SO BRIGHT AND BLEST.
Oh, do not look so bright and blest,
For still there comes a fear,
When brow like thine looks happiest,
That grief is then most near.
There lurks a dread in all delight,
A shadow near each ray,
That warns us then to fear their flight,
When most we wish their stay.
Then look not thou so bright and blest,
For ah! there comes a fear,
When brow like thine looks happiest,
That grief is then most near.
Why is it thus that fairest things
The soonest fleet and die? —
That when most light is on their wings,
They’re then but spread to fly!
And, sadder still, the pain will stay —
The bliss no more appears;
As rainbows take their light away,
And leave us but the tears!
Then look not thou so bright and blest,
For ah! there comes a fear,
When brow like th
ine looks happiest,
That grief is then most near.
THE MUSICAL BOX.
“Look here,” said Rose, with laughing eyes,
“Within this box, by magic hid,
“A tuneful Sprite imprisoned lies,
“Who sings to me whene’er he’s bid.
“Tho’ roving once his voice and wing,
“He’ll now lie still the whole day long;
“Till thus I touch the magic spring —
“Then hark, how sweet and blithe his song!”
(A symphony.)
“Ah, Rose,” I cried, “the poet’s lay
“Must ne’er even Beauty’s slave become;
“Thro’ earth and air his song may stray,
“If all the while his heart’s at home.
“And tho’ in freedom’s air he dwell,
“Nor bond nor chain his spirit knows,
“Touch but the spring thou knowst so well,
“And — hark, how sweet the love-song flows!”
(A symphony.)
Thus pleaded I for freedom’s right;
But when young Beauty takes the field,
And wise men seek defence in flight,
The doom of poets is to yield.
No more my heart the enchantress braves,
I’m now in Beauty’s prison hid;
The Sprite and I are fellow slaves,
And I, too, sing whene’er I’m bid.
WHEN TO SAD MUSIC SILENT YOU LISTEN.
When to sad Music silent you listen,
And tears on those eyelids tremble like dew,
Oh, then there dwells in those eyes as they glisten
A sweet holy charm that mirth never knew.
But when some lively strain resounding
Lights up the sunshine of joy on that brow,
Then the young reindeer o’er the hills bounding
Was ne’er in its mirth so graceful as thou.
When on the skies at midnight thou gazest.
A lustre so pure thy features then wear,
That, when to some star that bright eye thou raisest,
We feel ’tis thy home thou’rt looking for there.
But when the word for the gay dance is given,
So buoyant thy spirit, so heartfelt thy mirth,
Oh then we exclaim, “Ne’er leave earth for heaven,
“But linger still here, to make heaven of earth.”
THE LANGUAGE OF FLOWERS.
Fly swift, my light gazelle,
