by Thomas Moore
With Rome and all her sacred chickens,
Put Supper and her fowls so white,
Legs, wings, and drumsticks, all to flight.
Now waked once more by wine — whose tide
Is the true Hippocrene, where glide
The Muse’s swans with happiest wing,
Dipping their bills before they sing —
The minstrels of the table greet
The listening ear with descant sweet: —
SONG AND TRIO. THE LEVÉE AND COUCHÉE.
Call the Loves around,
Let the whispering sound
Of their wings be heard alone.
Till soft to rest
My Lady blest
At this bright hour hath gone,
Let Fancy’s beams
Play o’er her dreams,
Till, touched with light all through.
Her spirit be
Like a summer sea,
Shining and slumbering too.
And, while thus husht she lies,
Let the whispered chorus rise —
“Good evening, good evening, to our
Lady’s bright eyes.”
But the day-beam breaks,
See, our Lady wakes!
Call the Loves around once more,
Like stars that wait
At Morning’s gate,
Her first steps to adore.
Let the veil of night
From her dawning sight
All gently pass away,
Like mists that flee
From a summer sea,
Leaving it full of day.
And, while her last dream flies,
Let the whispered chorus rise —
“Good morning, good morning, to our
Lady’s bright eyes.”
SONG.
If to see thee be to love thee,
If to love thee be to prize
Naught of earth or heaven above thee,
Nor to live but for those eyes:
If such love to mortal given,
Be wrong to earth, be wrong to heaven,
’Tis not for thee the fault to blame,
For from those eyes the madness came.
Forgive but thou the crime of loving
In this heart more pride ‘twill raise
To be thus wrong with thee approving,
Than right with all a world to praise!
* * * * *
But say, while light these songs resound,
What means that buzz of whispering round,
From lip to lip — as if the Power
Of Mystery, in this gay hour,
Had thrown some secret (as we fling
Nuts among children) to that ring
Of rosy, restless lips, to be
Thus scrambled for so wantonly?
And, mark ye, still as each reveals
The mystic news, her hearer steals
A look towards yon enchanted chair,
Where, like the Lady of the Masque,
A nymph, as exquisitely fair
As Love himself for bride could ask,
Sits blushing deep, as if aware
Of the winged secret circling there.
Who is this nymph? and what, oh Muse,
What, in the name of all odd things
That woman’s restless brain pursues,
What mean these mystic whisperings?
Thus runs the tale: — yon blushing maid,
Who sits in beauty’s light arrayed,
While o’er her leans a tall young Dervise,
(Who from her eyes, as all observe, is
Learning by heart the Marriage Service,)
Is the bright heroine of our song, —
The Love-wed Psyche, whom so long
We’ve missed among this mortal train,
We thought her winged to heaven again.
But no — earth still demands her smile;
Her friends, the Gods, must wait awhile.
And if, for maid of heavenly birth,
A young Duke’s proffered heart and hand
Be things worth waiting for on earth,
Both are, this hour, at her command.
To-night, in yonder half-lit shade,
For love concerns expressly meant,
The fond proposal first was made,
And love and silence blusht consent
Parents and friends (all here, as Jews,
Enchanters, house-maids, Turks, Hindoos,)
Have heard, approved, and blest the tie;
And now, hadst thou a poet’s eye,
Thou might’st behold, in the air, above
That brilliant brow, triumphant Love,
Holding, as if to drop it down
Gently upon her curls, a crown
Of Ducal shape — but, oh, such gems!
Pilfered from Peri diadems,
And set in gold like that which shines
To deck the Fairy of the Mines:
In short, a crown all glorious — such as
Love orders when he makes a Duchess.
But see, ’tis morn in heaven; the Sun
Up in the bright orient hath begun
To canter his immortal beam;
And, tho’ not yet arrived in sight,
His leaders’ nostrils send a steam
Of radiance forth, so rosy bright
As makes their onward path all light.
What’s to be done? if Sol will be
So deuced early, so must we:
And when the day thus shines outright,
Even dearest friends must bid good night.
So, farewell, scene of mirth and masking,
Now almost a by-gone tale;
Beauties, late in lamp-light basking,
Now, by daylight, dim and pale;
Harpers, yawning o’er your harps,
Scarcely knowing flats from sharps;
Mothers who, while bored you keep
Time by nodding, nod to sleep;
Heads of hair, that stood last night
Crépé, crispy, and upright,
But have now, alas, one sees, a
Leaning like the tower of Pisa;
Fare ye will — thus sinks away
All that’s mighty, all that’s bright:
Tyre and Sidon had their day,
And even a Ball — has but its night!
1 Archimedes.
2 The name given to those large sleeves that hang loosely.
3 In England the partition of this opera of Rossini was transferred to the story of Peter the Hermit; by which means the indecorum of giving such names as “Moyse,” “Pharaon,” etc., to the dancers selected from it (as was done in Paris), has been avoided.
4 The celebrated portrait by Leonardo da Vinci, which he is said to have occupied four years in painting, — Vasari, vol. vii.
EVENINGS IN GREECE
In thus connecting together a series of Songs by a thread of poetical narrative, my chief object has been to combine Recitation with Music, so as to enable a greater number of persons to join in the performance, by enlisting as readers those who may not feel willing or competent to take a part as singers.
The Island of Zea where the scene is laid was called by the ancients Ceos, and was the birthplace of Simonides, Bacchylides, and other eminent persons. An account of its present state may be found in the Travels of Dr. Clarke, who says, that “it appeared to him to be the best cultivated of any of the Grecian Isles.” — Vol. vi. .
T.M.
FIRST EVENING.
“The sky is bright — the breeze is fair,
“And the mainsail flowing, full and free —
“Our farewell word is woman’s prayer,
“And the hope before us — Liberty!
“Farewell, farewell.
“To Greece we give our shining blades,
“And our hearts to you, young Zean Maids!
“The moon is in the heavens above,
“And the wind is on the foaming sea —
&n
bsp; “Thus shines the star of woman’s love
“On the glorious strife of Liberty!
“Farewell, farewell.
“To Greece we give our shining blades,
“And our hearts to you, young Zean Maids!”
Thus sung they from the bark, that now
Turned to the sea its gallant prow,
Bearing within its hearts as brave,
As e’er sought Freedom o’er the wave;
And leaving on that islet’s shore,
Where still the farewell beacons burn,
Friends that shall many a day look o’er
The long, dim sea for their return.
Virgin of Heaven! speed their way —
Oh, speed their way, — the chosen flower,
Of Zea’s youth, the hope and stay
Of parents in their wintry hour,
The love of maidens and the pride
Of the young, happy, blushing bride,
Whose nuptial wreath has not yet died —
All, all are in that precious bark,
Which now, alas! no more is seen —
Tho’ every eye still turns to mark
The moonlight spot where it had been.
Vainly you look, ye maidens, sires,
And mothers, your beloved are gone! —
Now may you quench those signal fires,
Whose light they long looked back upon
From their dark deck — watching the flame
As fast it faded from their view,
With thoughts, that, but for manly shame,
Had made them droop and weep like you.
Home to your chambers! home, and pray
For the bright coming of that day,
When, blest by heaven, the Cross shall sweep
The Crescent from the Aegean deep,
And your brave warriors, hastening back,
Will bring such glories in their track,
As shall, for many an age to come,
Shed light around their name and home.
There is a Fount on Zea’s isle,
Round which, in soft luxuriance, smile
All the sweet flowers, of every kind,
On which the sun of Greece looks down,
Pleased as a lover on the crown
His mistress for her brow hath twined,
When he beholds each floweret there,
Himself had wisht her most to wear;
Here bloomed the laurel-rose,1 whose wreath
Hangs radiant round the Cypriot shines,
And here those bramble-flowers, that breathe
Their odor into Zante’s wines: —
The splendid woodbine that, as eve,
To grace their floral diadems,
The lovely maids of Patmos weave: — 2
And that fair plant whose tangled stems
Shine like a Nereid’s hair,3 when spread,
Dishevelled, o’er her azure bed: —
All these bright children of the clime,
(Each at its own most genial time,
The summer, or the year’s sweet prime,)
Like beautiful earth-stars, adorn
The Valley where that Fount is born;
While round, to grace its cradle green
Groups of Velani oaks are seen
Towering on every verdant height —
Tall, shadowy, in the evening light,
Like Genii set to watch the birth
Of some enchanted child of earth —
Fair oaks that over Zea’s vales,
Stand with their leafy pride unfurled;
While Commerce from her thousand sails
Scatters their fruit throughout the world!4
’Twas here — as soon as prayer and sleep
(Those truest friends to all who weep)
Had lightened every heart; and made
Even sorrow wear a softer shade —
’Twas here, in this secluded spot,
Amid whose breathings calm and sweet
Grief might be soothed if not forgot,
The Zean nymphs resolved to meet
Each evening now, by the same light
That saw their farewell tears that night:
And try if sound of lute and song,
If wandering mid the moonlight flowers
In various talk, could charm along
With lighter step, the lingering hours,
Till tidings of that Bark should come,
Or Victory waft their warriors home!
When first they met — the wonted smile
Of greeting having gleamed awhile —
’Twould touch even Moslem heart to see
The sadness that came suddenly
O’er their young brows, when they looked round
Upon that bright, enchanted ground;
And thought how many a time with those
Who now were gone to the rude wars
They there had met at evening’s close,
And danced till morn outshone the stars!
But seldom long doth hang the eclipse
Of sorrow o’er such youthful breasts —
The breath from her own blushing lips,
That on the maiden’s mirror rests,
Not swifter, lighter from the glass,
Than sadness from her brow doth pass.
Soon did they now, as round the Well
They sat, beneath the rising moon —
And some with voice of awe would tell
Of midnight fays and nymphs who dwell
In holy founts — while some would time
Their idle lutes that now had lain
For days without a single strain; —
And others, from the rest apart,
With laugh that told the lightened heart,
Sat whispering in each other’s ear
Secrets that all in turn would hear; —
Soon did they find this thoughtless play
So swiftly steal their griefs away,
That many a nymph tho’ pleased the while,
Reproached her own forgetful smile,
And sighed to think she could be gay.
Among these maidens there was one
Who to Leucadia5 late had been —
Had stood beneath the evening sun
On its white towering cliffs and seen
The very spot where Sappho sung
Her swan-like music, ere she sprung
(Still holding, in that fearful leap,
By her loved lyre,) into the deep,
And dying quenched the fatal fire,
At once, of both her heart and lyre.
Mutely they listened all — and well
Did the young travelled maiden tell
Of the dread height to which that steep
Beetles above the eddying deep — 6
Of the lone sea-birds, wheeling round
The dizzy edge with mournful sound —
And of those scented lilies found
Still blooming on that fearful place —
As if called up by Love to grace
The immortal spot o’er which the last
Bright footsteps of his martyr past!
While fresh to every listener’s thought
These legends of Leucadia brought
All that of Sappho’s hapless flame
Is kept alive, still watcht by Fame —
The maiden, tuning her soft lute,
While all the rest stood round her, mute,
Thus sketched the languishment of soul,
That o’er the tender Lesbian stole;
And in a voice whose thrilling tone
Fancy might deem the Lesbian’s own,
One of those fervid fragments gave,
Which still, — like sparkles of Greek Fire,
Undying, even beneath the wave, —
Burn on thro’ Time and ne’er expire.
SONG.
As o’er her loom the Lesbian Maid
In love-sick languor h
ung her head,
Unknowing where her fingers strayed,
She weeping turned away, and said,
“Oh, my sweet Mother— ’tis in vain —
“I cannot weave, as once I wove —
“So wildered is my heart and brain
“With thinking of that youth I love!”
Again the web she tried to trace,
But tears fell o’er each tangled thread;
While looking in her mother’s face,
Who watchful o’er her leaned, she said,
“Oh, my sweet Mother— ’tis in vain —
“I cannot weave, as once I wove —
“So wildered is my heart and brain
“With thinking of that youth I love!”
* * * * *
A silence followed this sweet air,
As each in tender musing stood,
Thinking, with lips that moved in prayer,
Of Sappho and that fearful flood:
While some who ne’er till now had known
How much their hearts resembled hers,
Felt as they made her griefs their own,
That they too were Love’s worshippers.
At length a murmur, all but mute,
So faint it was, came from the lute
Of a young melancholy maid,
Whose fingers, all uncertain played
From chord to chord, as if in chase
Of some lost melody, some strain
Of other times, whose faded trace
She sought among those chords again.
Slowly the half-forgotten theme
(Tho’ born in feelings ne’er forgot)
Came to her memory — as a beam
Falls broken o’er some shaded spot; —
And while her lute’s sad symphony
Filled up each sighing pause between;
And Love himself might weep to see
What ruin comes where he hath been —
As withered still the grass is found
Where fays have danced their merry round —
Thus simply to the listening throng
She breathed her melancholy song: —
SONG.
Weeping for thee, my love, thro’ the long day,
Lonely and wearily life wears away.
Weeping for thee, my love, thro’ the long night —
No rest in darkness, no joy in light!
Naught left but Memory whose dreary tread
Sounds thro’ this ruined heart, where all lies dead —
Wakening the echoes of joy long fled!
* * * * *
Of many a stanza, this alone
Had ‘scaped oblivion — like the one
Stray fragment of a wreck which thrown
With the lost vessel’s name ashore
Tells who they were that live no more.
When thus the heart is in a vein
