by Thomas Moore
To her who now lies waking,
To hear thy silver bell
The midnight silence breaking.
And, when thou com’st, with gladsome feet,
Beneath her lattice springing,
Ah, well she’ll know how sweet
The words of love thou’rt bringing.
Yet, no — not words, for they
But half can tell love’s feeling;
Sweet flowers alone can say
What passion fears revealing.
A once bright rose’s withered leaf,
A towering lily broken, —
Oh these may paint a grief
No words could e’er have spoken.
Not such, my gay gazelle,
The wreath thou speedest over
Yon moonlight dale, to tell
My lady how I love her.
And, what to her will sweeter be
Than gems the richest, rarest, —
From Truth’s immortal tree1
One fadeless leaf thou bearest.
1 The tree called in the East, Amrita, or the Immortal.
THE DAWN IS BREAKING O’ER US.
The dawn is breaking o’er us,
See, heaven hath caught its hue!
We’ve day’s long light before us,
What sport shall we pursue?
The hunt o’er hill and lea?
The sail o’er summer sea?
Oh let not hour so sweet
Unwinged by pleasure fleet.
The dawn is breaking o’er us,
See, heaven hath caught its hue!
We’ve days long light before us,
What sport shall we pursue?
But see, while we’re deciding,
What morning sport to play,
The dial’s hand is gliding,
And morn hath past away!
Ah, who’d have thought that noon
Would o’er us steal so soon, —
That morn’s sweet hour of prime
Would last so short a time?
But come, we’ve day before us,
Still heaven looks bright and blue;
Quick, quick, ere eve comes o’er us,
What sport shall we pursue?
Alas! why thus delaying?
We’re now at evening’s hour;
Its farewell beam is playing
O’er hill and wave and bower.
That light we thought would last,
Behold, even now ’tis past;
And all our morning dreams
Have vanisht with its beams
But come! ‘twere vain to borrow
Sad lessons from this lay,
For man will be to-morrow —
Just what he’s been to-day.
UNPUBLISHED SONGS.
ASK NOT IF STILL I LOVE.
Ask not if still I love,
Too plain these eyes have told thee;
Too well their tears must prove
How near and dear I hold thee.
If, where the brightest shine,
To see no form but thine,
To feel that earth can show
No bliss above thee, —
If this be love, then know
That thus, that thus, I love thee.
’Tis not in pleasure’s idle hour
That thou canst know affection’s power.
No, try its strength in grief or pain;
Attempt as now its bonds to sever,
Thou’lt find true love’s a chain
That binds forever!
DEAR? YES.
Dear? yes, tho’ mine no more,
Even this but makes thee dearer;
And love, since hope is o’er,
But draws thee nearer.
Change as thou wilt to me,
The same thy charm must be;
New loves may come to weave
Their witchery o’er thee,
Yet still, tho’ false, believe
That I adore thee, yes, still adore thee.
Think’st thou that aught but death could end
A tie not falsehood’s self can rend?
No, when alone, far off I die,
No more to see, no more cares thee,
Even then, my life’s last sigh
Shall be to bless thee, yes, still to bless thee.
UNBIND THEE, LOVE.
Unbind thee, love, unbind thee, love,
From those dark ties unbind thee;
Tho’ fairest hand the chain hath wove,
Too long its links have twined thee.
Away from earth! — thy wings were made
In yon mid-sky to hover,
With earth beneath their dove-like shade,
And heaven all radiant over.
Awake thee, boy, awake thee, boy,
Too long thy soul is sleeping;
And thou mayst from this minute’s joy
Wake to eternal weeping.
Oh, think, this world is not for thee;
Tho’ hard its links to sever;
Tho’ sweet and bright and dear they be,
Break or thou’rt lost for ever.
THERE’S SOMETHING STRANGE.
A BUFFALO SONG.
There’s something strange, I know not what,
Come o’er me,
Some phantom I’ve for ever got
Before me.
I look on high and in the sky
’Tis shining;
On earth, its light with all things bright
Seems twining.
In vain I try this goblin’s spells
To sever;
Go where I will, it round me dwells
For ever.
And then what tricks by day and night
It plays me;
In every shape the wicked sprite
Waylays me.
Sometimes like two bright eyes of blue
’Tis glancing;
Sometimes like feet, in slippers neat,
Comes dancing.
By whispers round of every sort
I’m taunted.
Never was mortal man, in short,
So haunted.
NOT FROM THEE.
Not from thee the wound should come,
No, not from thee.
Care not what or whence my doom,
So not from thee!
Cold triumph! first to make
This heart thy own;
And then the mirror break
Where fixt thou shin’st alone.
Not from thee the wound should come,
Oh, not from thee.
I care not what, or whence, my doom,
So not from thee.
Yet no — my lips that wish recall;
From thee, from thee —
If ruin o’er this head must fall,
‘Twill welcome be.
Here to the blade I bare
This faithful heart;
Wound deep — thou’lt find that there,
In every pulse thou art.
Yes from thee I’ll bear it all:
If ruin be
The doom that o’er this heart must fall,
‘Twere sweet from thee.
GUESS, GUESS.
I love a maid, a mystic maid,
Whose form no eyes but mine can see;
She comes in light, she comes in shade,
And beautiful in both is she.
Her shape in dreams I oft behold,
And oft she whispers in my ear
Such words as when to others told,
Awake the sigh, or wring the tear;
Then guess, guess, who she,
The lady of my love, may be.
I find the lustre of her brow,
Come o’er me in my darkest ways;
And feel as if her voice, even now,
Were echoing far off my lays.
There is no scene of joy or woe
But she doth gild with influence bright;
And shed o’er all so rich a glow
; As makes even tears seem full of light:
Then guess, guess, who she,
The lady of my love, may be.
WHEN LOVE, WHO RULED.
When Love, who ruled as Admiral o’er
Has rosy mother’s isles of light,
Was cruising off the Paphian shore,
A sail at sunset hove in sight.
“A chase, a chase! my Cupids all,”
Said Love, the little Admiral.
Aloft the winged sailors sprung,
And, swarming up the mast like bees,
The snow-white sails expanding flung,
Like broad magnolias to the breeze.
“Yo ho, yo ho, my Cupids all!”
Said Love, the little Admiral.
The chase was o’er — the bark was caught,
The winged crew her freight explored;
And found ’twas just as Love had thought,
For all was contraband aboard.
“A prize, a prize, my Cupids all!”
Said Love, the little Admiral.
Safe stowed in many a package there,
And labelled slyly o’er, as “Glass,”
Were lots of all the illegal ware,
Love’s Custom-House forbids to pass.
“O’erhaul, o’erhaul, my Cupids all,”
Said Love, the little Admiral.
False curls they found, of every hue,
With rosy blushes ready made;
And teeth of ivory, good as new,
For veterans in the smiling trade.
“Ho ho, ho ho, my Cupids all,”
Said Love, the little Admiral.
Mock sighs, too, — kept in bags for use,
Like breezes bought of Lapland seers, —
Lay ready here to be let loose,
When wanted, in young spinsters’ ears.
“Ha ha, ha ha, my Cupids all,”
Said Love, the little Admiral.
False papers next on board were found,
Sham invoices of flames and darts,
Professedly for Paphos bound,
But meant for Hymen’s golden marts.
“For shame, for shame, my Cupids all!”
Said Love, the little Admiral.
Nay, still to every fraud awake,
Those pirates all Love’s signals knew,
And hoisted oft his flag, to make
Rich wards and heiresses bring-to.1
“A foe, a foe, my Cupids all!”
Said Love, the little Admiral.
“This must not be,” the boy exclaims,
“In vain I rule the Paphian seas,
“If Love’s and Beauty’s sovereign names
“Are lent to cover frauds like these.
“Prepare, prepare, my Cupids all!”
Said Love, the little Admiral.
Each Cupid stood with lighted match —
A broadside struck the smuggling foe,
And swept the whole unhallowed batch
Of Falsehood to the depths below.
“Huzza, huzza! my Cupids all!”
Said Love the little Admiral.
1 “To Bring-to, to check the course of a ship.” — Falconer.
STILL THOU FLIEST.
Still thou fliest, and still I woo thee,
Lovely phantom, — all in vain;
Restless ever, my thoughts pursue thee,
Fleeting ever, thou mock’st their pain.
Such doom, of old, that youth betided,
Who wooed, he thought, some angel’s charms,
But found a cloud that from him glided, —
As thou dost from these outstretched arms.
Scarce I’ve said, “How fair thou shinest,”
Ere thy light hath vanished by;
And ’tis when thou look’st divinest
Thou art still most sure to fly.
Even as the lightning, that, dividing
The clouds of night, saith, “Look on me,”
Then flits again, its splendor hiding. —
Even such the glimpse I catch of thee.
THEN FIRST FROM LOVE.
Then first from Love, in Nature’s bowers,
Did Painting learn her fairy skill,
And cull the hues of loveliest flowers,
To picture woman lovelier still.
For vain was every radiant hue,
Till Passion lent a soul to art,
And taught the painter, ere he drew,
To fix the model in his heart.
Thus smooth his toil awhile went on,
Till, lo, one touch his art defies;
The brow, the lip, the blushes shone,
But who could dare to paint those eyes?
’Twas all in vain the painter strove;
So turning to that boy divine,
“Here take,” he said, “the pencil, Love,
“No hand should paint such eyes but thine.”
HUSH, SWEET LUTE.
Hush, sweet Lute, thy songs remind me
Of past joys, now turned to pain;
Of ties that long have ceased to bind me,
But whose burning marks remain.
In each tone, some echo falleth
On my ear of joys gone by;
Every note some dream recalleth
Of bright hopes but born to die.
Yet, sweet Lute, though pain it bring me,
Once more let thy numbers thrill;
Tho’ death were in the strain they sing me,
I must woo its anguish still.
Since no time can e’er recover
Love’s sweet light when once ’tis set, —
Better to weep such pleasures over,
Than smile o’er any left us yet.
BRIGHT MOON.
Bright moon, that high in heaven art shining,
All smiles, as if within thy bower to-night
Thy own Endymion lay reclining,
And thou wouldst wake him with a kiss of light! —
By all the bliss thy beam discovers,
By all those visions far too bright for day,
Which dreaming bards and waking lovers
Behold, this night, beneath thy lingering ray, —
I pray thee, queen of that bright heaven,
Quench not to-night thy love-lamp in the sea,
Till Anthe, in this bower, hath given
Beneath thy beam, her long-vowed kiss to me.
Guide hither, guide her steps benighted,
Ere thou, sweet moon, thy bashful crescent hide;
Let Love but in this bower be lighted,
Then shroud in darkness all the world beside.
LONG YEARS HAVE PAST.
Long years have past, old friend, since we
First met in life’s young day;
And friends long loved by thee and me,
Since then have dropt away; —
But enough remain to cheer us on,
And sweeten, when thus we’re met,
The glass we fill to the many gone,
And the few who’re left us yet.
Our locks, old friend, now thinly grow,
And some hang white and chill;
While some, like flowers mid Autumn’s snow,
Retain youth’s color still.
And so, in our hearts, tho’ one by one,
Youth’s sunny hopes have set,
Thank heaven, not all their light is gone, —
We’ve some to cheer us yet.
Then here’s to thee, old friend, and long
May thou and I thus meet,
To brighten still with wine and song
This short life, ere it fleet.
And still as death comes stealing on,
Let’s never, old friend, forget,
Even while we sigh o’er blessings gone,
How many are left us yet.
DREAMING FOR EVER.
Dreaming for ever, vainly dreaming,
Life to the last, pursues its flight;
Day h
ath its visions fairly beaming,
But false as those of night.
The one illusion, the other real,
But both the same brief dreams at last;
And when we grasp the bliss ideal,
Soon as it shines, ’tis past.
Here, then, by this dim lake reposing,
Calmly I’ll watch, while light and gloom
Flit o’er its face till night is closing —
Emblem of life’s short doom!
But tho’, by turns, thus dark and shining,
’Tis still unlike man’s changeful day,
Whose light returns not, once declining,
Whose cloud, once come, will stay.
THO’ LIGHTLY SOUNDS THE SONG I SING.
A SONG OF THE ALPS.
Tho’ lightly sounds the song I sing to thee,
Tho’ like the lark’s its soaring music be,
Thou’lt find even here some mournful note that tells
How near such April joy to weeping dwells.
’Tis ‘mong the gayest scenes that oftenest steal
Those saddening thoughts we fear, yet love to feel;
And music never half so sweet appears,
As when her mirth forgets itself in tears.
Then say not thou this Alpine song is gay —
It comes from hearts that, like their mountain-lay,
Mix joy with pain, and oft when pleasure’s breath
Most warms the surface feel most sad beneath.
The very beam in which the snow-wreath wears
Its gayest smile is that which wins its tears, —
And passion’s power can never lend the glow
Which wakens bliss, without some touch of woe.
THE RUSSIAN LOVER.
Fleetly o’er the moonlight snows
Speed we to my lady’s bower;
Swift our sledge as lightning goes,
Nor shall stop till morning’s hour.
Bright, my steed, the northern star
Lights us from yon jewelled skies;
But to greet us, brighter far,
Morn shall bring my lady’s eyes.
Lovers, lulled in sunny bowers,
Sleeping out their dream of time,
Know not half the bliss that’s ours,
In this snowy, icy clime.
Like yon star that livelier gleams
From the frosty heavens around,
Love himself the keener beams
When with snows of coyness crowned.
Fleet then on, my merry steed,
Bound, my sledge, o’er hill and dale; —
