Thomas Moore- Collected Poetical Works
Page 51
Of DAVY, that renowned Aladdin,
And the Gnome’s Halls exhaled a damp
Which accidents from fire were had in;
The chambers were supplied with light
By many strange but safe devices;
Large fire-flies, such as shine at night
Among the Orient’s flowers and spices; —
Musical flint-mills — swiftly played
By elfin hands — that, flashing round,
Like certain fire-eyed minstrel maids,
Gave out at once both light and sound.
Bologna stones that drink the sun;
And water from that Indian sea,
Whose waves at night like wildfire run —
Corked up in crystal carefully.
Glow-worms that round the tiny dishes
Like little light-houses, were set up;
And pretty phosphorescent fishes
That by their own gay light were eat up.
‘Mong the few guests from Ether came
That wicked Sylph whom Love we call —
My Lady knew him but by name,
My Lord, her husband, not at all.
Some prudent Gnomes, ’tis said, apprised
That he was coming, and, no doubt
Alarmed about his torch, advised
He should by all means be kept out.
But others disapproved this plan,
And by his flame tho’ somewhat frighted,
Thought Love too much a gentleman
In such a dangerous place to light it.
However, there he was — and dancing
With the fair Sylph, light as a feather;
They looked like two fresh sunbeams glancing
At daybreak down to earth together.
And all had gone off safe and well,
But for that plaguy torch whose light,
Though not yet kindled — who could tell
How soon, how devilishly, it might?
And so it chanced — which, in those dark
And fireless halls was quite amazing;
Did we not know how small a spark
Can set the torch of Love a-blazing.
Whether it came (when close entangled
In the gay waltz) from her bright eyes,
Or from the lucciole, that spangled
Her locks of jet — is all surmise;
But certain ’tis the ethereal girl
Did drop a spark at some odd turning,
Which by the waltz’s windy whirl
Was fanned up into actual burning.
Oh for that Lamp’s metallic gauze,
That curtain of protecting wire,
Which DAVY delicately draws
Around illicit, dangerous fire! —
The wall he sets ‘twixt Flame and Air,
(Like that which barred young Thisbe’s bliss,)
Thro’ whose small holes this dangerous pair
May see each other but not kiss.
At first the torch looked rather bluely, —
A sign, they say, that no good boded —
Then quick the gas became unruly.
And, crack! the ball-room all exploded.
Sylphs, gnomes, and fiddlers mixt together,
With all their aunts, sons, cousins, nieces,
Like butterflies in stormy weather,
Were blown — legs, wings, and tails — to pieces!
While, mid these victims of the torch,
The Sylph, alas, too, bore her part —
Found lying with a livid scorch
As if from lightning o’er her heart!
* * * * *
“Well done” — a laughing Goblin said —
Escaping from this gaseous strife —
“’Tis not the first time Love has made
“A blow-up in connubial life!”
REMONSTRANCE.
After a Conversation with Lord John Russell, in which he had intimated some Idea of giving up all political Pursuits.
What! thou, with thy genius, thy youth, and thy name —
Thou, born of a Russell — whose instinct to run
The accustomed career of thy sires, is the same
As the eaglet’s, to soar with his eyes on the sun!
Whose nobility comes to thee, stampt with a seal,
Far, far more ennobling than monarch e’er set;
With the blood of thy race, offered up for the weal
Of a nation that swears by that martyrdom yet!
Shalt thou be faint-hearted and turn from the strife,
From the mighty arena, where all that is grand
And devoted and pure and adorning in life,
’Tis for high-thoughted spirits like thine to command?
Oh no, never dream it — while good men despair
Between tyrants and traitors, and timid men bow,
Never think for an instant thy country can spare
Such a light from her darkening horizon as thou.
With a spirit, as meek as the gentlest of those
Who in life’s sunny valley lie sheltered and warm;
Yet bold and heroic as ever yet rose
To the top cliffs of Fortune and breasted her storm;
With an ardor for liberty fresh as in youth
It first kindles the bard and gives life to his lyre;
Yet mellowed, even now, by that mildness of truth
Which tempers but chills not the patriot fire;
With an eloquence — not like those rills from a height,
Which sparkle and foam and in vapor are o’er;
But a current that works out its way into light
Thro’ the filtering recesses of thought and of lore.
Thus gifted, thou never canst sleep in the shade;
If the stirrings of Genius, the music of fame,
And the charms of thy cause have not power to persuade,
Yet think how to Freedom thou’rt pledged by thy Name.
Like the boughs of that laurel by Delphi’s decree
Set apart for the Fane and its service divine,
So the branches that spring from the old Russell tree
Are by Liberty claimed for the use of her Shrine.
MY BIRTH-DAY.
“My birth-day” — what a different sound
That word had in my youthful ears!
And how, each time the day comes round,
Less and less white its mark appears!
“When first our scanty years are told,
It seems like pastime to grow old;
And as Youth counts the shining links
That Time around him binds so fast,
Pleased with the task, he little thinks
How hard that chain will press at last.
Vain was the man, and false as vain,
Who said— “were he ordained to run
“His long career of life again,
“He would do all that he had done.” —
Ah, ’tis not thus the voice that dwells
In sober birth-days speaks to me;
Far otherwise — of time it tells,
Lavished unwisely, carelessly:
Of counsel mockt; of talents made
Haply for high and pure designs,
But oft, like Israel’s incense, laid
Upon unholy, earthly shrines;
Of nursing many a wrong desire,
Of wandering after Love too far,
And taking every meteor fire
That crost my pathway, for his star. —
All this it tells, and, could I trace
The imperfect picture o’er again.
With power to add, retouch, efface
The lights and shades, the joy and pain,
How little of the past would stay!
How quickly all should melt away —
All — but that Freedom of the Mind
Which hath been more than wealth to me;
Those friendships, in my boyhood twined,
&
nbsp; And kept till now unchangingly,
And that dear home, that saving ark,
Where Love’s true light at last I’ve found,
Cheering within, when all grows dark
And comfortless and stormy round!
FANCY.
The more I’ve viewed this world, the more I’ve found,
That filled as ’tis with scenes and creatures rare,
Fancy commands within her own bright round
A world of scenes and creatures far more fair.
Nor is it that her power can call up there
A single charm, that’s not from Nature won, —
No more than rainbows in their pride can wear
A single tint unborrowed from the sun;
But ’tis the mental medium; it shines thro’,
That lends to Beauty all its charm and hue;
As the same light that o’er the level lake
One dull monotony of lustre flings,
Will, entering in the rounded raindrop, make
Colors as gay as those on angels’ wings!
SONG. FANNY, DEAREST.
Yes! had I leisure to sigh and mourn,
Fanny dearest, for thee I’d sigh;
And every smile on my cheek should turn
To tears when thou art nigh.
But between love and wine and sleep,
So busy a life I live,
That even the time it would take to weep
Is more than my heart can give.
Then wish me not to despair and pine,
Fanny, dearest of all the dears!
The Love that’s ordered to bathe in wine,
Would be sure to take cold in tears.
Reflected bright in this heart of mine,
Fanny dearest, thy image lies;
But ah! the mirror would cease to shine,
If dimmed too often with sighs.
They lose the half of beauty’s light,
Who view it thro’ sorrow’s tear;
And ’tis but to see thee truly bright
That I keep my eye-beams clear.
Then wait no longer till tears shall flow —
Fanny, dearest! the hope is vain;
If sunshine cannot dissolve thy snow,
I shall never attempt it with rain.
TRANSLATIONS FROM CATULLUS.
CARM. 70.
dicebas quondam, etc.
TO LESBIA.
Thou told’st me, in our days of love,
That I had all that heart of thine;
That, even to share the couch of Jove,
Thou wouldst not, Lesbia, part from mine.
How purely wert thou worshipt then!
Not with the vague and vulgar fires
Which Beauty wakes in soulless men, —
But loved, as children by their sires.
That flattering dream, alas, is o’er; —
I know thee now — and tho’ these eyes
Doat on thee wildly as before,
Yet, even in doating, I despise.
Yes, sorceress — mad as it may seem —
With all thy craft, such spells adorn thee,
That passion even outlives esteem.
And I at once adore — and scorn thee.
CARM. II.
pauca nunciate meae puellae.
Comrades and friends! with whom, where’er
The fates have willed thro’ life I’ve roved,
Now speed ye home, and with you bear
These bitter words to her I’ve loved.
Tell her from fool to fool to run,
Where’er her vain caprice may call;
Of all her dupes not loving one,
But ruining and maddening all.
Bid her forget — what now is past —
Our once dear love, whose rain lies
Like a fair flower, the meadow’s last.
Which feels the ploughshare’s edge and dies!
CARM. 29.
peninsularum Sirmio, insularumque ocelle.
Sweet Sirmio! thou, the very eye
Of all peninsulas and isles,
That in our lakes of silver lie,
Or sleep enwreathed by Neptune’s smiles —
How gladly back to thee I fly!
Still doubting, asking — can it be
That I have left Bithynia’s sky,
And gaze in safety upon thee?
Oh! what is happier than to find
Our hearts at ease, our perils past;
When, anxious long, the lightened mind
Lays down its load of care at last:
When tired with toil o’er land and deep,
Again we tread the welcome floor
Of our own home, and sink to sleep
On the long-wished-for bed once more.
This, this it is that pays alone
The ills of all life’s former track. —
Shine out, my beautiful, my own
Sweet Sirmio, greet thy master back.
And thou, fair Lake, whose water quaffs
The light of heaven like Lydia’s sea,
Rejoice, rejoice — let all that laughs
Abroad, at home, laugh out for me!
TIBULLUS TO SULPICIA.
nulla tuum nobis subducet femina lectum, etc.,
Lib. iv. Carm. 13.
“Never shall woman’s smile have power
“To win me from those gentle charms!” —
Thus swore I, in that happy hour,
When Love first gave thee to my arms.
And still alone thou charm’st my sight —
Still, tho’ our city proudly shine
With forms and faces, fair and bright,
I see none fair or bright but thine.
Would thou wert fair for only me,
And couldst no heart but mine allure! —
To all men else unpleasing be,
So shall I feel my prize secure.
Oh, love like mine ne’er wants the zest
Of others’ envy, others’ praise;
But, in its silence safely blest,
Broods o’er a bliss it ne’er betrays.
Charm of my life! by whose sweet power
All cares are husht, all ills subdued —
My light in even the darkest hour,
My crowd in deepest solitude!
No, not tho’ heaven itself sent down
Some maid of more than heavenly charms,
With bliss undreamt thy bard to crown,
Would he for her forsake those arms!
IMITATION.
FROM THE FRENCH.
With women and apples both Paris and Adam
Made mischief enough in their day: —
God be praised that the fate of mankind, my dear Madam,
Depends not on us, the same way.
For, weak as I am with temptation to grapple,
The world would have doubly to rue thee:
Like Adam, I’d gladly take from thee the apple,
Like Paris, at once give it to thee.
INVITATION TO DINNER.
ADDRESSED TO LORD LANSDOWNE.
September, 1818.
Some think we bards have nothing real;
That poets live among the stars so,
Their very dinners are ideal, —
(And, heaven knows, too oft they are so,) —
For instance, that we have, instead
Of vulgar chops and stews and hashes,
First course — a Phoenix, at the head.
Done in its own celestial ashes;
At foot, a cygnet which kept singing
All the time its neck was wringing.
Side dishes, thus — Minerva’s owl,
Or any such like learned fowl:
Doves, such as heaven’s poulterer gets,
When Cupid shoots his mother’s pets.
Larks stewed in Morning’s roseate breath,
Or roasted by a sunbeam’s splendor;
And nightingales, berhymed to
death —
Like young pigs whipt to make them tender.
Such fare may suit those bards, who are able
To banquet at Duke Humphrey’s table;
But as for me, who’ve long been taught
To eat and drink like other people;
And can put up with mutton, bought
Where Bromham1 rears its ancient steeple —
If Lansdowne will consent to share
My humble feast, tho’ rude the fare,
Yet, seasoned by that salt he brings
From Attica’s salinest springs,
‘Twill turn to dainties; — while the cup,
Beneath his influence brightening up,
Like that of Baucis, touched by Jove,
Will sparkle fit for gods above!
1 A picturesque village in sight of my cottage, and from which it is separated out by a small verdant valley.
VERSES TO THE POET CRABBE’S INKSTAND.1
(WRITTEN MAY, 1832.)
All, as he left it! — even the pen,
So lately at that mind’s command,
Carelessly lying, as if then
Just fallen from his gifted hand.
Have we then lost him? scarce an hour,
A little hour, seems to have past,
Since Life and Inspiration’s power
Around that relic breathed their last.
Ah, powerless now — like talisman
Found in some vanished wizard’s halls,
Whose mighty charm with him began,
Whose charm with him extinguisht falls.
Yet, tho’, alas! the gifts that shone
Around that pen’s exploring track,
Be now, with its great master, gone,
Nor living hand can call them back;
Who does not feel, while thus his eyes
Rest on the enchanter’s broken wand,
Each earth-born spell it worked arise
Before him in succession grand?
Grand, from the Truth that reigns o’er all;
The unshrinking truth that lets her light
Thro’ Life’s low, dark, interior fall,
Opening the whole, severely bright:
Yet softening, as she frowns along,
O’er scenes which angels weep to see —
Where Truth herself half veils the Wrong,
In pity of the Misery.
True bard! — and simple, as the race
Of true-born poets ever are,
When, stooping from their starry place,
They’re children near, tho’ gods afar.
How freshly doth my mind recall,