Thomas Moore- Collected Poetical Works

by Thomas Moore

“Till the bright star of chivalry sinks in the wave!”

  And who was the bright star of chivalry then?

  Who could be but Reuben, the flower of the age?

  For Reuben was first in the combat of men,

  Though Youth had scarce written his name on her page.

  For Willumberg’s daughter his young heart had beat,

  For Rose, who was bright as the spirit of dawn,

  When with wand dropping diamonds, and silvery feet,

  It walks o’er the flowers of the mountain and lawn.

  Must Rose, then, from Reuben so fatally sever?

  Sad, sad were the words of the Seer of the Cave,

  That darkness should cover that castle forever,

  Or Reuben be sunk in the merciless wave!

  To the wizard she flew, saying, “Tell me, oh, tell?

  Shall my Reuben no more be restored to my eyes?”

  “Yes, yes — when a spirit shall toll the great bell

  Of the mouldering abbey, your Reuben shall rise!”

  Twice, thrice he repeated “Your Reuben shall rise!”

  And Rose felt a moment’s release from her pain;

  And wiped, while she listened, the tears from her eyes.

  And hoped she might yet see her hero again.

  That hero could smite at the terrors of death,

  When he felt that he died for the sire of his Rose;

  To the Oder he flew, and there, plunging beneath,

  In the depth of the billows soon found his repose. —

  How strangely the order of destiny falls!

  Not long in the waters the warrior lay,

  When a sunbeam was seen to glance over the walls,

  And the castle of Willumberg basked in the ray!

  All, all but the soul of the maid was in light,

  There sorrow and terror lay gloomy and blank:

  Two days did she wander, and all the long night,

  In quest of her love, on the wide river’s bank.

  Oft, oft did she pause for the toll of the bell,

  And heard but the breathings of night in the air;

  Long, long did she gaze on the watery swell,

  And saw but the foam of the white billow there.

  And often as midnight its veil would undraw,

  As she looked at the light of the moon in the stream,

  She thought ’twas his helmet of silver she saw,

  As the curl of the surge glittered high in the beam.

  And now the third night was begemming the sky;

  Poor Rose, on the cold dewy margent reclined,

  There wept till the tear almost froze in her eye,

  When — hark!— ’twas the bell that came deep in the wind!

  She startled, and saw, through the glimmering shade,

  A form o’er the waters in majesty glide;

  She knew ’twas her love, though his cheek was decayed,

  And his helmet of silver was washed by the tide.

  Was this what the Seer of the Cave had foretold? —

  Dim, dim through the phantom the moon shot a gleam;

  ’Twas Reuben, but, ah! he was deathly and cold,

  And fleeted away like the spell of a dream!

  Twice, thrice did he rise, and as often she thought

  From the bank to embrace him, but vain her endeavor!

  Then, plunging beneath, at a billow she caught,

  And sunk to repose on its bosom forever!

  DID NOT.

  ’Twas a new feeling — something more

  Than we had dared to own before.

  Which then we hid not;

  We saw it in each other’s eye,

  And wished, in every half-breathed sigh,

  To speak, but did not.

  She felt my lips’ impassioned touch —

  ’Twas the first time I dared so much,

  And yet she chid not;

  But whispered o’er my burning brow,

  “Oh! do you doubt I love you now?”

  Sweet soul! I did not.

  Warmly I felt her bosom thrill,

  I prest it closer, closer still,

  Though gently bid not;

  Till — oh! the world hath seldom heard

  Of lovers, who so nearly erred,

  And yet, who did not.

  TO ——

  That wrinkle, when first I espied it,

  At once put my heart out of pain;

  Till the eye, that was glowing beside it,

  Disturbed my ideas again.

  Thou art just in the twilight at present,

  When woman’s declension begins;

  When, fading from all that is pleasant,

  She bids a good night to her sins.

  Yet thou still art so lovely to me,

  I would sooner, my exquisite mother!

  Repose in the sunset of thee,

  Than bask in the noon of another.

  TO MRS. ——

  ON SOME CALUMNIES AGAINST HER CHARACTER.

  Is not thy mind a gentle mind?

  Is not that heart a heart refined?

  Hast thou not every gentle grace,

  We love in woman’s mind and face?

  And, oh! art thou a shrine for Sin

  To hold her hateful worship in?

  No, no, be happy — dry that tear —

  Though some thy heart hath harbored near,

  May now repay its love with blame;

  Though man, who ought to shield thy fame,

  Ungenerous man, be first to shun thee;

  Though all the world look cold upon thee,

  Yet shall thy pureness keep thee still

  Unharmed by that surrounding chill;

  Like the famed drop, in crystal found,1

  Floating, while all was frozen round, —

  Unchilled unchanging shalt thou be,

  Safe in thy own sweet purity.

  1 This alludes to a curious gem, upon which Claudian has left us some very elaborate epigrams. It was a drop of pure water enclosed within a piece of crystal. Addison mentions a curiosity of this kind at Milan; and adds; “It is such a rarity as this that I saw at Vendöme in France, which they there pretend is a tear that our Saviour shed over Lazarus, and was gathered up by an angel, who put it into a little crystal vial, and made a present of it to Mary Magdalen”.

  ANACREONTIC.

  — in lachrymas verterat omne merum.

  TIB. lib. i. eleg. 5.

  Press the grape, and let it pour

  Around the board its purple shower:

  And, while the drops my goblet steep,

  I’ll think in woe the clusters weep.

  Weep on, weep on, my pouting vine!

  Heaven grant no tears, but tears of wine.

  Weep on; and, as thy sorrows flow,

  I’ll taste the luxury of woe.

  TO ——

  When I loved you, I can’t but allow

  I had many an exquisite minute;

  But the scorn that I feel for you now

  Hath even more luxury in it.

  Thus, whether we’re on or we’re off,

  Some witchery seems to await you;

  To love you was pleasant enough,

  And, oh! ’tis delicious hate you!

  TO JULIA.

  IN ALLUSION TO SOME ILLIBERAL CRITICISMS.

  Why, let the stingless critic chide

  With all that fume of vacant pride

  Which mantles o’er the pendant fool,

  Like vapor on a stagnant pool.

  Oh! if the song, to feeling true,

  Can please the elect, the sacred few,

  Whose souls, by Taste and Nature taught,

  Thrill with the genuine pulse of thought —

  If some fond feeling maid like thee,

  The warm-eyed child of Sympathy,

  Shall say, while o’er my simple theme

  She languishes in Passion’s dream,

  “He was, indeed, a tender soul —

 
No critic law, no chill control,

  Should ever freeze, by timid art,

  The flowings of so fond a heart!”

  Yes, soul of Nature! soul of Love!

  That, hovering like a snow-winged dove,

  Breathed o’er my cradle warblings wild,

  And hailed me Passion’s warmest child, —

  Grant me the tear from Beauty’s eye,

  From Feeling’s breast the votive sigh;

  Oh! let my song, my memory find,

  A shrine within the tender mind!

  And I will smile when critics chide,

  And I will scorn the fume of pride

  Which mantles o’er the pendant fool,

  Like vapor round some stagnant pool!

  TO JULIA.

  Mock me no more with Love’s beguiling dream,

  A dream, I find, illusory as sweet:

  One smile of friendship, nay, of cold esteem,

  Far dearer were than passion’s bland deceit!

  I’ve heard you oft eternal truth declare;

  Your heart was only mine, I once believed.

  Ah! shall I say that all your vows were air?

  And must I say, my hopes were all deceived?

  Vow, then, no longer that our souls are twined

  That all our joys are felt with mutual zeal;

  Julia!— ’tis pity, pity makes you kind;

  You know I love, and you would seem to feel.

  But shall I still go seek within those arms

  A joy in which affection takes no part?

  No, no, farewell! you give me but your charms,

  When I had fondly thought you gave your heart.

  THE SHRINE.

  TO ——

  My fates had destined me to rove

  A long, long pilgrimage of love;

  And many an altar on my way

  Has lured my pious steps to stay;

  For if the saint was young and fair,

  I turned, and sung my vespers there.

  This, from a youthful pilgrim’s fire,

  Is what your pretty saints require:

  To pass, nor tell a single bead,

  With them would be profane indeed!

  But, trust me, all this young devotion

  Was but to keep my zeal in motion;

  And, every humbler altar past,

  I now have reached THE SHRINE at last!

  TO A LADY, WITH SOME MANUSCRIPT POEMS, ON LEAVING THE COUNTRY.

  When, casting many a look behind,

  I leave the friends I cherish here —

  Perchance some other friends to find,

  But surely finding none so dear —

  Haply the little simple page,

  Which votive thus I’ve traced for thee,

  May now and then a look engage,

  And steal one moment’s thought for me.

  But, oh! in pity let not those

  Whose hearts are not of gentle mould,

  Let not the eye that seldom flows

  With feeling’s tear, my song behold.

  For, trust me, they who never melt

  With pity, never melt with love;

  And such will frown at all I’ve felt,

  And all my loving lays reprove.

  But if, perhaps, some gentler mind,

  Which rather loves to praise than blame,

  Should in my page an interest find.

  And linger kindly on my name;

  Tell him — or, oh! if, gentler still,

  By female lips my name be blest:

  For where do all affections thrill

  So sweetly as in woman’s breast? —

  Tell her, that he whose loving themes

  Her eye indulgent wanders o’er,

  Could sometimes wake from idle dreams,

  And bolder flights of fancy soar;

  That Glory oft would claim the lay,

  And Friendship oft his numbers move;

  But whisper then, that, “sooth to say,

  His sweetest song was given to Love!”

  TO JULIA.

  Though Fate, my girl, may bid us part,

  Our souls it cannot, shall not sever;

  The heart will seek its kindred heart,

  And cling to it as close as ever.

  But must we, must we part indeed?

  Is all our dream of rapture over?

  And does not Julia’s bosom bleed

  To leave so dear, so fond a lover?

  Does she, too, mourn? — Perhaps she may;

  Perhaps she mourns our bliss so fleeting;

  But why is Julia’s eye so gay,

  If Julia’s heart like mine is beating?

  I oft have loved that sunny glow

  Of gladness in her blue eye beaming —

  But can the bosom bleed with woe

  While joy is in the glances beaming?

  No, no! — Yet, love, I will not chide;

  Although your heart were fond of roving,

  Nor that, nor all the world beside

  Could keep your faithful boy from loving.

  You’ll soon be distant from his eye,

  And, with you, all that’s worth possessing.

  Oh! then it will be sweet to die,

  When life has lost its only blessing!

  TO ——

  Sweet lady, look not thus again:

  Those bright, deluding smiles recall

  A maid remember’d now with pain,

  Who was my love, my life, my all!

  Oh! while this heart bewildered took

  Sweet poison from her thrilling eye,

  Thus would she smile and lisp and look,

  And I would hear and gaze and sigh!

  Yes, I did love her — wildly love —

  She was her sex’s best deceiver!

  And oft she swore she’d never rove —

  And I was destined to believe her!

  Then, lady, do not wear the smile

  Of one whose smile could thus betray;

  Alas! I think the lovely wile

  Again could steal my heart away.

  For, when those spells that charmed my mind

  On lips so pure as thine I see,

  I fear the heart which she resigned

  Will err again and fly to thee!

  NATURE’S LABELS.

  A FRAGMENT.

  In vain we fondly strive to trace

  The soul’s reflection in the face;

  In vain we dwell on lines and crosses,

  Crooked mouth or short proboscis;

  Boobies have looked as wise and bright

  As Plato or the Stagirite:

  And many a sage and learned skull

  Has peeped through windows dark and dull.

  Since then, though art do all it can,

  We ne’er can reach the inward man,

  Nor (howsoe’er “learned Thebans” doubt)

  The inward woman, from without,

  Methinks ‘twere well if nature could

  (And Nature could, if Nature would)

  Some pithy, short descriptions write

  On tablets large, in black and white,

  Which she might hang about our throttles,

  Like labels upon physic-bottles;

  And where all men might read — but stay —

  As dialectic sages say,

  The argument most apt and ample

  For common use is the example.

  For instance, then, if Nature’s care

  Had not portrayed, in lines so fair,

  The inward soul of Lucy Lindon.

  This is the label she’d have pinned on.

  LABEL FIRST.

  Within this form there lies enshrined

  The purest, brightest gem of mind.

  Though Feeling’s hand may sometimes throw

  Upon its charms the shade of woe,

  The lustre of the gem, when veiled,

  Shall be but mellowed, not concealed.

  * * * * *

  Now, sirs, im
agine, if you’re able,

  That Nature wrote a second label,

  They’re her own words — at least suppose so —

  And boldly pin it on Pomposo.

  LABEL SECOND.

  When I composed the fustian brain

  Of this redoubted Captain Vain.

  I had at hand but few ingredients,

  And so was forced to use expedients.

  I put therein some small discerning,

  A grain of sense, a grain of learning;

  And when I saw the void behind,

  I filled it up with — froth and wind!

  * * * * *

  TO JULIA ON HER BIRTHDAY.

  When Time was entwining the garland of years,

  Which to crown my beloved was given,

  Though some of the leaves might be sullied with tears,

  Yet the flowers were all gathered in heaven.

  And long may this garland be sweet to the eye,

  May its verdure forever be new;

  Young Love shall enrich it with many a sigh,

  And Sympathy nurse it with dew.

  A REFLECTION AT SEA.

  See how, beneath the moonbeam’s smile,

  Yon little billow heaves its breast,

  And foams and sparkles for awhile, —

  Then murmuring subsides to rest.

  Thus man, the sport of bliss and care,

  Rises on time’s eventful sea:

  And, having swelled a moment there,

  Thus melts into eternity!

  CLORIS AND FANNY.

  Cloris! if I were Persia’s king,

  I’d make my graceful queen of thee;

  While FANNY, wild and artless thing,

  Should but thy humble handmaid be.

  There is but one objection in it —

  That, verily, I’m much afraid

  I should, in some unlucky minute,

  Forsake the mistress for the maid.

  THE SHIELD.

  Say, did you not hear a voice of death!

  And did you not mark the paly form

  Which rode on the silvery mist of the heath,

  And sung a ghostly dirge in the storm?

  Was it the wailing bird of the gloom,

  That shrieks on the house of woe all night?

  Or a shivering fiend that flew to a tomb,

  To howl and to feed till the glance of light?