Thomas Moore- Collected Poetical Works

by Thomas Moore

The source of this sad minstrelsy?

  Nor longer can they doubt, the song

  Comes from some island-bark which now

  Courses the bright waves swift along

  And soon perhaps beneath the brow

  Of the Saint’s Bock will shoot its prow.

  Instantly all with hearts that sighed

  ‘Twixt fear’s and fancy’s influence,

  Flew to the rock and saw from thence

  A red-sailed pinnace towards them glide,

  Whose shadow as it swept the spray

  Scattered the moonlight’s smiles away.

  Soon as the mariners saw that throng

  From the cliff gazing, young and old,

  Sudden they slacked their sail and song,

  And while their pinnace idly rolled

  On the light surge, these tidings told: —

  ’Twas from an isle of mournful name,

  From Missolonghi, last they came —

  Sad Missolonghi sorrowing yet

  O’er him, the noblest Star of Fame

  That e’er in life’s young glory set! —

  And now were on their mournful way,

  Wafting the news thro’ Helle’s isles; —

  News that would cloud even Freedom’s ray

  And sadden Victory mid her smiles.

  Their tale thus told and heard with pain,

  Out spread the galliot’s wings again;

  And as she sped her swift career

  Again that Hymn rose on the ear —

  “Thou art not dead — thou art not dead!”

  As oft ’twas sung in ages flown

  Of him, the Athenian, who to shed

  A tyrant’s blood poured out his own.

  SONG.

  Thou art not dead — thou art not dead!

  No, dearest Harmodius, no.

  Thy soul to realms above us fled

  Tho’ like a star it dwells o’er head

  Still lights this world below.

  Thou art not dead — thou art not dead!

  No, dearest Harmodius, no.

  Thro’ isles of light where heroes tread

  And flowers ethereal blow,

  Thy god-like Spirit now is led,

  Thy lip with life ambrosial fed

  Forgets all taste of woe.

  Thou art not dead — thou art not dead!

  No, dearest Harmodius, no.

  The myrtle round that falchion spread

  Which struck the immortal blow,

  Throughout all time with leaves unshed —

  The patriot’s hope, the tyrant’s dread —

  Round Freedom’s shrine shall grow.

  Thou art not dead — thou art not dead!

  No, dearest Harmodius, no.

  Where hearts like thine have broke or bled,

  Tho’ quenched the vital glow,

  Their memory lights a flame instead,

  Which even from out the narrow bed

  Of death its beams shall throw.

  Thou art not dead — thou art not dead!

  No, dearest Harmodius, no.

  Thy name, by myriads sung and said,

  From age to age shall go,

  Long as the oak and ivy wed,

  As bees shall haunt Hymettus’ head,

  Or Helle’s waters flow.

  Thou art not dead — thou art not dead!

  No, dearest Harmodius, no.

  * * * * *

  ‘Mong those who lingered listening there, —

  Listening with ear and eye as long

  As breath of night could towards them bear

  A murmur of that mournful song, —

  A few there were in whom the lay

  Had called up feelings far too sad

  To pass with the brief strain away,

  Or turn at once to theme more glad;

  And who in mood untuned to meet

  The light laugh of the happie train,

  Wandered to seek some moonlight seat

  Where they might rest, in converse sweet,

  Till vanisht smiles should come again.

  And seldom e’er hath noon of night

  To sadness lent more soothing light.

  On one side in the dark blue sky

  Lonely and radiant was the eye

  Of Jove himself, while on the other

  ‘Mong tiny stars that round her gleamed,

  The young moon like the Roman mother

  Among her living “jewels” beamed.

  Touched by the lovely scenes around,

  A pensive maid — one who, tho’ young,

  Had known what ’twas to see unwound

  The ties by which her heart had clung —

  Wakened her soft tamboura’s sound,

  And to its faint accords thus sung: —

  SONG.

  Calm as beneath its mother’s eyes

  In sleep the smiling infant lies,

  So watched by all the stars of night

  Yon landscape sleeps in light.

  And while the night-breeze dies away,

  Like relics of some faded strain,

  Loved voices, lost for many a day,

  Seem whispering round again.

  Oh youth! oh love! ye dreams that shed

  Such glory once — where are ye fled?

  Pure ray of light that down the sky

  Art pointing like an angel’s wand,

  As if to guide to realms that lie

  In that bright sea beyond:

  Who knows but in some brighter deep

  Than even that tranquil, moonlit main,

  Some land may lie where those who weep

  Shall wake to smile again!

  With cheeks that had regained their power

  And play of smiles, — and each bright eye

  Like violets after morning’s shower

  The brighter for the tears gone by,

  Back to the scene such smiles should grace

  These wandering nymphs their path retrace,

  And reach the spot with rapture new

  Just as the veils asunder flew

  And a fresh vision burst to view.

  There by her own bright Attic flood,

  The blue-eyed Queen of Wisdom stood; —

  Not as she haunts the sage’s dreams,

  With brow unveiled, divine, severe;

  But softened as on bards she beams

  When fresh from Poesy’s high sphere

  A music not her own she brings,

  And thro’ the veil which Fancy flings

  O’er her stern features gently sings.

  But who is he — that urchin nigh,

  With quiver on the rose-trees hung,

  Who seems just dropt from yonder sky,

  And stands to watch that maid with eye

  So full of thought for one so young? —

  That child — but, silence! lend thine ear,

  And thus in song the tale thou’lt hear: —

  SONG.

  As Love one summer eve was straying,

  Who should he see at that soft hour

  But young Minerva gravely playing

  Her flute within an olive bower.

  I need not say, ’tis Love’s opinion

  That grave or merry, good or ill,

  The sex all bow to his dominion,

  As woman will be woman still.

  Tho’ seldom yet the boy hath given

  To learned dames his smiles or sighs,

  So handsome Pallas looked that even

  Love quite forgot the maid was wise.

  Besides, a youth of his discerning

  Knew well that by a shady rill

  At sunset hour whate’er her learning

  A woman will be woman still.

  Her flute he praised in terms extatic, —

  Wishing it dumb, nor cared how soon. —

  For Wisdom’s notes, howe’er chromatic,

  To Love seem always out of tune.

  But long as he found face to flatte
r,

  The nymph found breath to shake and thrill;

  As, weak or wise — it doesn’t matter —

  Woman at heart is woman still.

  Love changed his plan, with warmth exclaiming,

  “How rosy was her lips’ soft dye!”

  And much that flute the flatterer blaming,

  For twisting lips so sweet awry.

  The nymph looked down, beheld her features

  Reflected in the passing rill,

  And started, shocked — for, ah, ye creatures!

  Even when divine you’re women still.

  Quick from the lips it made so odious.

  That graceless flute the Goddess took

  And while yet filled with breath melodious,

  Flung it into the glassy brook;

  Where as its vocal life was fleeting

  Adown the current, faint and shrill,

  ’Twas heard in plaintive tone repeating,

  “Woman, alas, vain woman still!”

  * * * * *

  An interval of dark repose —

  Such as the summer lightning knows,

  Twixt flash and flash, as still more bright

  The quick revealment comes and goes,

  Opening each time the veils of night,

  To show within a world of light —

  Such pause, so brief, now past between

  This last gay vision and the scene

  Which now its depth of light disclosed.

  A bower it seemed, an Indian bower,

  Within whose shade a nymph reposed,

  Sleeping away noon’s sunny hour —

  Lovely as she, the Sprite, who weaves

  Her mansion of sweet Durva leaves,

  And there, as Indian legends say,

  Dreams the long summer hours away.

  And mark how charmed this sleeper seems

  With some hid fancy — she, too, dreams!

  Oh for a wizard’s art to tell

  The wonders that now bless her sight!

  ’Tis done — a truer, holier spell

  Than e’er from wizard’s lip yet fell.

  Thus brings her vision all to light: —

  SONG.

  “Who comes so gracefully

  “Gliding along

  “While the blue rivulet

  “Sleeps to her song;

  “Song richly vying

  “With the faint sighing

  “Which swans in dying

  “Sweetly prolong?”

  So sung the shepherd-boy

  By the stream’s side,

  Watching that fairy-boat

  Down the flood glide,

  Like a bird winging,

  Thro’ the waves bringing

  That Syren, singing

  To the husht tide.

  “Stay,” said the shepherd-boy,

  “Fairy-boat, stay,

  “Linger, sweet minstrelsy,

  “Linger a day.”

  But vain his pleading,

  Past him, unheeding,

  Song and boat, speeding,

  Glided away.

  So to our youthful eyes

  Joy and hope shone;

  So while we gazed on them

  Fast they flew on; —

  Like flowers declining

  Even in the twining,

  One moment shining.

  And the next gone!

  * * * * *

  Soon as the imagined dream went by,

  Uprose the nymph, with anxious eye

  Turned to the clouds as tho’ some boon

  She waited from that sun-bright dome,

  And marvelled that it came not soon

  As her young thoughts would have it come.

  But joy is in her glance! — the wing

  Of a white bird is seen above;

  And oh, if round his neck he bring

  The long-wished tidings from her love,

  Not half so precious in her eyes

  Even that high-omened bird26 would be.

  Who dooms the brow o’er which he flies

  To wear a crown of royalty.

  She had herself last evening sent

  A winged messenger whose flight

  Thro’ the clear, roseate element,

  She watched till lessening out of sight

  Far to the golden West it went,

  Wafting to him, her distant love,

  A missive in that language wrought

  Which flowers can speak when aptly wove,

  Each hue a word, each leaf a thought.

  And now — oh speed of pinion, known

  To Love’s light messengers alone I —

  Ere yet another evening takes

  Its farewell of the golden lakes,

  She sees another envoy fly,

  With the wished answer, thro’ the sky.

  SONG.

  Welcome sweet bird, thro’ the sunny air winging,

  Swift hast thou come o’er the far-shining sea,

  Like Seba’s dove on thy snowy neck bringing

  Love’s written vows from my lover to me.

  Oh, in thy absence what hours did I number! —

  Saying oft, “Idle bird, how could he rest?”

  But thou art come at last, take now thy slumber,

  And lull thee in dreams of all thou lov’st best.

  Yet dost thou droop — even now while I utter

  Love’s happy welcome, thy pulse dies away;

  Cheer thee, my bird — were it life’s ebbing flutter.

  This fondling bosom should woo it to stay,

  But no — thou’rt dying — thy last task is over —

  Farewell, sweet martyr to Love and to me!

  The smiles thou hast wakened by news from my lover,

  Will now all be turned into weeping for thee.

  * * * * *

  While thus this scene of song (their last

  For the sweet summer season) past,

  A few presiding nymphs whose care

  Watched over all invisibly,

  As do those guardian sprites of air

  Whose watch we feel but cannot see,

  Had from the circle — scarcely missed,

  Ere they were sparkling there again —

  Glided like fairies to assist

  Their handmaids on the moonlight plain,

  Where, hid by intercepting shade

  From the stray glance of curious eyes,

  A feast of fruits and wines was laid —

  Soon to shine out, a glad surprise!

  And now the moon, her ark of light

  Steering thro’ Heaven, as tho’ she bore

  In safety thro’ that deep of night

  Spirits of earth, the good, the bright,

  To some remote immortal shore,

  Had half-way sped her glorious way,

  When round reclined on hillocks green

  In groups beneath that tranquil ray,

  The Zeans at their feast were seen.

  Gay was the picture — every maid

  Whom late the lighted scene displayed,

  Still in her fancy garb arrayed; —

  The Arabian pilgrim, smiling here

  Beside the nymph of India’s sky;

  While there the Mainiote mountaineer

  Whispered in young Minerva’s ear,

  And urchin Love stood laughing by.

  Meantime the elders round the board,

  By mirth and wit themselves made young,

  High cups of juice Zacynthian poured,

  And while the flask went round thus sung: —

  SONG.

  Up with the sparkling brimmer,

  Up to the crystal rim;

  Let not a moonbeam glimmer

  ‘Twixt the flood and brim.

  When hath the world set eyes on

  Aught to match this light,

  Which o’er our cup’s horizon

  Dawns in bumpers bright?

  Truth in a deep well lieth —

 
So the wise aver;

  But Truth the fact denieth —

  Water suits not her.

  No, her abode’s in brimmers,

  Like this mighty cup —

  Waiting till we, good swimmers,

  Dive to bring her up.

  * * * * *

  Thus circled round the song of glee,

  And all was tuneful mirth the while,

  Save on the cheeks of some whose smile

  As fixt they gaze upon the sea,

  Turns into paleness suddenly!

  What see they there? a bright blue light

  That like a meteor gliding o’er

  The distant wave grows on the sight,

  As tho’ ‘twere winged to Zea’s shore.

  To some, ‘mong those who came to gaze,

  It seemed the night-light far away

  Of some lone fisher by the blaze

  Of pine torch luring on his prey;

  While others, as ‘twixt awe and mirth

  They breathed the blest Panaya’s27 name,

  Vowed that such light was not of earth

  But of that drear, ill-omen’d flame

  Which mariners see on sail or mast

  When Death is coming in the blast.

  While marvelling thus they stood, a maid

  Who sate apart with downcast eye,

  Not yet had like the rest surveyed

  That coming light which now was nigh,

  Soon as it met her sight, with cry

  Of pain-like joy, “’Tis he! ’tis he!”

  Loud she exclaimed, and hurrying by

  The assembled throng, rushed towards the sea.

  At burst so wild, alarmed, amazed,

  All stood like statues mute and gazed

  Into each other’s eyes to seek

  What meant such mood in maid so meek?

  Till now, the tale was known to few,

  But now from lip to lip it flew: —

  A youth, the flower of all the band,

  Who late had left this sunny shore,

  When last he kist that maiden’s hand,

  Lingering to kiss it o’er and o’er.

  By his sad brow too plainly told

  The ill-omened thought which crost him then,

  That once those hands should lose their hold,

  They ne’er would meet on earth again!

  In vain his mistress sad as he,

  But with a heart from Self as free

  As generous woman’s only is,

  Veiled her own fears to banish his: —

  With frank rebuke but still more vain,

  Did a rough warrior who stood by

  Call to his mind this martial strain,

  His favorite once, ere Beauty’s eye

  Had taught his soldier-heart to sigh: —

  SONG.

  March! nor heed those arms that hold thee,

  Tho’ so fondly close they come;