by Thomas Moore
‘Mong the few days I’ve known with thee,
One that, most buoyantly of all,
Floats in the wake of memory;2
When he, the poet, doubly graced,
In life, as in his perfect strain,
With that pure, mellowing power of Taste,
Without which Fancy shines in vain;
Who in his page will leave behind,
Pregnant with genius tho’ it be,
But half the treasures of a mind,
Where Sense o’er all holds mastery: —
Friend of long years! of friendship tried
Thro’ many a bright and dark event;
In doubts, my judge — in taste, my guide —
In all, my stay and ornament!
He, too, was of our feast that day,
And all were guests of one whose hand
Hath shed a new and deathless ray
Around the lyre of this great land;
In whose sea-odes — as in those shells
Where Ocean’s voice of majesty
Seems still to sound — immortal dwells
Old Albion’s Spirit of the Sea.
Such was our host; and tho’, since then,
Slight clouds have risen ‘twixt him and me,
Who would not grasp such hand again,
Stretched forth again in amity?
Who can, in this short life, afford
To let such mists a moment stay,
When thus one frank, atoning word,
Like sunshine, melts them all away?
Bright was our board that day — tho’ one
Unworthy brother there had place;
As ‘mong the horses of the Sun,
One was, they say, of earthly race.
Yet, next to Genius is the power
Of feeling where true Genius lies;
And there was light around that hour
Such as, in memory, never dies;
Light which comes o’er me as I gaze,
Thou Relic of the Dead, on thee,
Like all such dreams of vanisht days,
Brightly, indeed — but mournfully!
1 Soon after Mr. Crabbe’s death, the sons of that gentleman did me the honor of presenting to me the inkstand, pencil, etc., which their distinguished father had long been in the habit of using.
2 The lines that follow allude to a day passed in company with Mr.
Crabbe, many years since, when a party, consisting only of Mr. Rogers, Mr.
Crabbe, and the author of these verses, had the pleasure of dining with
Mr. Thomas Campbell, at his house at Sydenham.
TO CAROLINE, VISCOUNTESS VALLETORT.
WRITTEN AT LACOCK ABBEY, JANUARY, 1832.
When I would sing thy beauty’s light,
Such various forms, and all so bright,
I’ve seen thee, from thy childhood, wear,
I know not which to call most fair,
Nor ‘mong the countless charms that spring
For ever round thee, which to sing.
When I would paint thee as thou art,
Then all thou wert comes o’er my heart —
The graceful child in Beauty’s dawn
Within the nursery’s shade withdrawn,
Or peeping out — like a young moon
Upon a world ‘twill brighten soon.
Then next in girlhood’s blushing hour,
As from thy own loved Abbey-tower
I’ve seen thee look, all radiant, down,
With smiles that to the hoary frown
Of centuries round thee lent a ray,
Chasing even Age’s gloom away; —
Or in the world’s resplendent throng,
As I have markt thee glide along,
Among the crowds of fair and great
A spirit, pure and separate,
To which even Admiration’s eye
Was fearful to approach too nigh; —
A creature circled by a spell
Within which nothing wrong could dwell;
And fresh and clear as from the source.
Holding through life her limpid course,
Like Arethusa thro’ the sea,
Stealing in fountain purity.
Now, too, another change of light!
As noble bride, still meekly bright
Thou bring’st thy Lord a dower above
All earthly price, pure woman’s love;
And showd’st what lustre Rank receives,
When with his proud Corinthian leaves
Her rose this high-bred Beauty weaves.
Wonder not if, where all’s so fair,
To choose were more than bard can dare;
Wonder not if, while every scene
I’ve watched thee thro’ so bright hath been,
The enamored muse should, in her quest
Of beauty, know not where to rest,
But, dazzled, at thy feet thus fall,
Hailing thee beautiful in all!
A SPECULATION.
Of all speculations the market holds forth,
The best that I know for a lover of pelf,
Is to buy Marcus up, at the price he is worth,
And then sell him at that which he sets on himself.
TO MY MOTHER.
WRITTEN IN A POCKET BOOK, 1822.
They tell us of an Indian tree,
Which, howsoe’er the sun and sky
May tempt its boughs to wander free,
And shoot and blossom wide and high,
Far better loves to bend its arms
Downward again to that dear earth,
From which the life that, fills and warms
Its grateful being, first had birth.
’Tis thus, tho’ wooed by flattering friends,
And fed with fame (if fame it be)
This heart, my own dear mother, bends,
With love’s true instinct, back to thee!
LOVE AND HYMEN.
Love had a fever — ne’er could close
His little eyes till day was breaking;
And wild and strange enough, Heaven knows,
The things he raved about while waking.
To let him pine so were a sin; —
One to whom all the world’s a debtor —
So Doctor Hymen was called in,
And Love that night slept rather better.
Next day the case gave further hope yet,
Tho’ still some ugly fever latent; —
“Dose, as before” — a gentle opiate.
For which old Hymen has a patent.
After a month of daily call,
So fast the dose went on restoring,
That Love, who first ne’er slept at all,
Now took, the rogue! to downright snoring.
LINES ON THE ENTRY OF THE AUSTRIANS INTO NAPLES, 1821.
carbone notati.
Ay — down to the dust with them, slaves as they are,
From this hour let the blood in their dastardly veins,
That shrunk at the first touch of Liberty’s war,
Be wasted for tyrants, or stagnate in chains.
On, on like a cloud, thro’ their beautiful vales,
Ye locusts of tyranny, blasting them o’er —
Fill, fill up their wide sunny waters, ye sails
From each slave-mart of Europe and shadow their shore!
Let their fate be a mock-word — let men of all lands
Laugh out with a scorn that shall ring to the poles,
When each sword that the cowards let fall from their hands
Shall be forged into fetters to enter their souls.
And deep, and more deep, as the iron is driven,
Base slaves! let the whet of their agony be,
To think — as the Doomed often think of that heaven
They had once within reach — that they might have been free.
Oh shame! when there was not a bosom whose heat
Ever rose ‘bove the zero of Castlereagh’s h
eart.
That did not, like echo, your war-hymn repeat,
And send all its prayers with your Liberty’s start;
When the world stood in hope — when a spirit that breathed
The fresh air of the olden time whispered about;
And the swords of all Italy, halfway unsheathed,
But waited one conquering cry to flash out!
When around you the shades of your Mighty in fame,
FILICAJAS and PETRARCHS, seemed bursting to view,
And their words and their warnings, like tongues of bright flame
Over Freedom’s apostles, fell kindling on you!
Oh shame! that in such a proud moment of life
Worth the history of ages, when, had you but hurled
One bolt at your tyrant invader, that strife
Between freemen and tyrants had spread thro’ the world —
That then — oh! disgrace upon manhood — even then,
You should falter, should cling to your pitiful breath;
Cower down into beasts, when you might have stood men,
And prefer the slave’s life of prostration to death.
It is strange, it is dreadful: — shout, Tyranny, shout
Thro’ your dungeons and palaces, “Freedom is o’er;” —
If there lingers one spark of her light, tread it out,
And return to your empire of darkness once more.
For if such are the braggarts that claim to be free,
Come, Despot of Russia, thy feet let me kiss;
Far nobler to live the brute bondman of thee,
Than to sully even chains by a struggle like this!
SCEPTICISM.
Ere Psyche drank the cup that shed
Immortal Life into her soul,
Some evil spirit poured, ’tis said,
One drop of Doubt into the bowl —
Which, mingling darkly with the stream,
To Psyche’s lips — she knew not why —
Made even that blessed nectar seem
As tho’ its sweetness soon would die.
Oft, in the very arms of Love,
A chill came o’er her heart — a fear
That Death might, even yet, remove
Her spirit from that happy sphere.
“Those sunny ringlets,” she exclaimed.
Twining them round her snowy fingers;
“That forehead, where a light unnamed,
“Unknown on earth, for ever lingers;
“Those lips, thro’ which I feel the breath
“Of Heaven itself, whene’er they sever —
“Say, are they mine, beyond all death,
“My own, hereafter, and for ever?
“Smile not — I know that starry brow,
“Those ringlets, and bright lips of thine,
“Will always shine, as they do now —
“But shall I live to see them shine?”
In vain did Love say, “Turn thine eyes
“On all that sparkles round thee here —
“Thou’rt now in heaven where nothing dies,
“And in these arms — what canst thou fear?”
In vain — the fatal drop, that stole
Into that cup’s immortal treasure,
Had lodged its bitter near her soul.
And gave a tinge to every pleasure.
And, tho’ there ne’er was transport given
Like Psyche’s with that radiant boy,
Here is the only face in heaven,
That wears a cloud amid its joy.
A JOKE VERSIFIED.
“Come, come,” said Tom’s father, “at your time of life,
“There’s no longer excuse for thus playing the rake —
“It is time you should think, boy, of taking a wife” —
“Why, so it is, father — whose wife shall I take?”
ON THE DEATH OF A FRIEND.
Pure as the mantle, which, o’er him who stood
By Jordan’s stream, descended from the sky,
Is that remembrance which the wise and good
Leave in the hearts that love them, when they die.
So pure, so precious shall the memory be,
Bequeathed, in dying, to our souls by thee —
So shall the love we bore thee, cherisht warm
Within our souls thro’ grief and pain and strife,
Be, like Elisha’s cruse, a holy charm,
Wherewith to “heal the waters” of this life!
TO JAMES CORRY, ESQ.
ON HIS MAKING ME A PRESENT OF A WINE STRAINER.
BRIGHTON, JUNE, 1825.
This life, dear Corry, who can doubt? —
Resembles much friend Ewart’s1 wine,
When first the rosy drops come out,
How beautiful, how clear they shine!
And thus awhile they keep their tint,
So free from even a shade with some,
That they would smile, did you but hint,
That darker drops would ever come.
But soon the ruby tide runs short,
Each minute makes the sad truth plainer,
Till life, like old and crusty port,
When near its close, requires a strainer.
This friendship can alone confer,
Alone can teach the drops to pass,
If not as bright as once they were,
At least unclouded, thro’ the glass.
Nor, Corry, could a boon be mine.
Of which this heart were fonder, vainer,
Than thus, if life grow like old wine,
To have thy friendship for its strainer.
1 A wine-merchant.
FRAGMENT OF A CHARACTER.
Here lies Factotum Ned at last;
Long as he breathed the vital air,
Nothing throughout all Europe past
In which Ned hadn’t some small share.
Whoe’er was in, whoe’er was out,
Whatever statesmen did or said,
If not exactly brought about,
’Twas all, at least, contrived by Ned.
With Nap, if Russia went to war,
’Twas owing, under Providence,
To certain hints Ned gave the Tsar —
(Vide his pamphlet — price, sixpence.)
If France was beat at Waterloo —
As all but Frenchmen think she was —
To Ned, as Wellington well knew,
Was owing half that day’s applause.
Then for his news — no envoy’s bag
E’er past so many secrets thro’ it;
Scarcely a telegraph could wag
Its wooden finger, but Ned knew it.
Such tales he had of foreign plots,
With foreign names, one’s ear to buzz in!
From Russia, shefs and ofs in lots,
From Poland, owskis by the dozen.
When George, alarmed for England’s creed,
Turned out the last Whig ministry,
And men asked — who advised the deed?
Ned modestly confest ’twas he.
For tho’, by some unlucky miss,
He had not downright seen the King,
He sent such hints thro’ Viscount This,
To Marquis That, as clenched the thing.
The same it was in science, arts,
The Drama, Books, MS. and printed —
Kean learned from Ned his cleverest parts,
And Scott’s last work by him was hinted.
Childe Harold in the proofs he read,
And, here and there infused some soul in’t —
Nay, Davy’s Lamp, till seen by Ned,
Had — odd enough — an awkward hole in’t.
’Twas thus, all-doing and all-knowing,
Wit, statesman, boxer, chymist, singer,
Whatever was the best pie going,
In that Ned — trust him — had his finger.
* * * * *
WHAT SHALL I SING THEE?
/>
TO —— .
What shall I sing thee? Shall I tell
Of that bright hour, remembered well
As tho’ it shone but yesterday,
When loitering idly in the ray
Of a spring sun I heard o’er-head,
My name as by some spirit said,
And, looking up, saw two bright eyes
Above me from a casement shine,
Dazzling my mind with such surprise
As they, who sail beyond the Line,
Feel when new stars above them rise; —
And it was thine, the voice that spoke,
Like Ariel’s, in the mid-air then;
And thine the eye whose lustre broke —
Never to be forgot again!
What shall I sing thee? Shall I weave
A song of that sweet summer-eve,
(Summer, of which the sunniest part
Was that we, each, had in the heart,)
When thou and I, and one like thee,
In life and beauty, to the sound
Of our own breathless minstrelsy.
Danced till the sunlight faded round,
Ourselves the whole ideal Ball,
Lights, music, company, and all?
Oh, ’tis not in the languid strain
Of lute like mine, whose day is past,
To call up even a dream again
Of the fresh light those moments cast.
COUNTRY DANCE AND QUADRILLE.
One night the nymph called country dance —
(Whom folks, of late, have used so ill,
Preferring a coquette from France,
That mincing thing, Mamselle quadrille) —
Having been chased from London down
To that most humble haunt of all
She used to grace — a Country Town —
Went smiling to the New-Year’s Ball.
“Here, here, at least,” she cried, tho’ driven
“From London’s gay and shining tracks —
“Tho’, like a Peri cast from heaven,
“I’ve lost, for ever lost, Almack’s —
“Tho’ not a London Miss alive
“Would now for her acquaintance own me;
“And spinsters, even, of forty-five,
“Upon their honors ne’er have known me;
“Here, here, at least, I triumph still,
“And — spite of some few dandy Lancers.
“Who vainly try to preach Quadrille —
“See naught but true-blue Country Dancers,
“Here still I reign, and, fresh in charms,
