Thomas Moore- Collected Poetical Works

by Thomas Moore

  Shall see us float over thy surges soon.

  Saint of this green isle! hear our prayers,

  Oh, grant us cool heavens and favoring airs.

  Blow, breezes, blow, the stream runs fast,

  The Rapids are near and the daylight’s past.

  1 I wrote these words to an air which our boatmen sung to us frequently. The wind was so unfavorable that they were obliged to row all the way, and we were five days in descending the river from Kingston to Montreal, exposed to an intense sun during the day, and at night forced to take shelter from the dews in any miserable hut upon the banks that would receive us. But the magnificent scenery of the St. Lawrence repays all such difficulties.

  2 “At the Rapid of St. Ann they are obliged to take out part, if not the whole, of their lading. It is from this spot Canadians consider they take their departure, as it possesses the last church on the island, which is dedicated to the tutelar saint of voyagers.” — Mackenzie, General History of the Fur Trade.

  TO THE LADY CHARLOTTE RAWDON.

  FROM THE BANKS OF THE ST. LAWRENCE.

  Not many months have now been dreamed away

  Since yonder sun, beneath whose evening ray

  Our boat glides swiftly past these wooded shores,

  Saw me where Trent his mazy current pours,

  And Donington’s old oaks, to every breeze,

  Whisper the tale of by-gone centuries; —

  Those oaks, to me as sacred as the groves,

  Beneath whose shade the pious Persian roves,

  And hears the spirit-voice of sire, or chief,

  Or loved mistress, sigh in every leaf.

  There, oft, dear Lady, while thy lip hath sung

  My own unpolished lays, how proud I’ve hung

  On every tuneful accent! proud to feel.

  That notes like mine should have the fate to steal,

  As o’er thy hallowing lip they sighed along.

  Such breath of passion and such soul of song.

  Yes, — I have wondered, like some peasant boy

  Who sings, on Sabbath-eve, his strains of joy,

  And when he hears the wild, untutored note

  Back to his ear on softening echoes float,

  Believes it still some answering spirit’s tone,

  And thinks it all too sweet to be his own!

  I dreamt not then that, ere the rolling year

  Had filled its circle, I should wander here

  In musing awe; should tread this wondrous world,

  See all its store of inland waters hurled

  In one vast volume down Niagara’s steep,

  Or calm behold them, in transparent sleep,

  Where the blue hills of old Toronto shed

  Their evening shadows o’er Ontario’s bed;

  Should trace the grand Cadaraqui, and glide

  Down the white rapids of his lordly tide

  Through massy woods, mid islets flowering fair,

  And blooming glades, where the first sinful pair

  For consolation might have weeping trod,

  When banished from the garden of their God,

  Oh, Lady! these are miracles, which man,

  Caged in the bounds of Europe’s pigmy span,

  Can scarcely dream of, — which his eye must see

  To know how wonderful this world can be!

  But lo, — the last tints of the west decline,

  And night falls dewy o’er these banks of pine.

  Among the reeds, in which our idle boat

  Is rocked to rest, the wind’s complaining note

  Dies like a half-breathed whispering of flutes;

  Along the wave the gleaming porpoise shoots,

  And I can trace him, like a watery star,1

  Down the steep current, till he fades afar

  Amid the foaming breakers’ silvery light.

  Where yon rough rapids sparkle through the night.

  Here, as along this shadowy bank I stray,

  And the smooth glass-snake,2 glid-o’er my way,

  Shows the dim moonlight through his scaly form,

  Fancy, with all the scene’s enchantment warm,

  Hears in the murmur of the nightly breeze

  Some Indian Spirit warble words like these: —

  From the land beyond the sea,

  Whither happy spirits flee;

  Where, transformed to sacred doves,3

  Many a blessed Indian roves

  Through the air on wing, as white

  As those wondrous stones of light,4

  Which the eye of morning counts

  On the Apalachian mounts, —

  Hither oft my flight I take

  Over Huron’s lucid lake,

  Where the wave, as clear as dew,

  Sleeps beneath the light canoe,

  Which, reflected, floating there,

  Looks as if it hung in air.

  Then, when I have strayed a while

  Through the Manataulin isle,5

  Breathing all its holy bloom,

  Swift I mount me on the plume

  Of my Wakon-Bird,6 and fly

  Where, beneath a burning sky,

  O’er the bed of Erie’s lake

  Slumbers many a water-snake,

  Wrapt within the web of leaves,

  Which the water-lily weaves.7

  Next I chase the floweret-king

  Through his rosy realm of spring;

  See him now, while diamond hues

  Soft his neck and wings suffuse,

  In the leafy chalice sink,

  Thirsting for his balmy drink;

  Now behold him all on fire,

  Lovely in his looks of ire,

  Breaking every infant stem,

  Scattering every velvet gem,

  Where his little tyrant lip

  Had not found enough to sip.

  Then my playful hand I steep

  Where the gold-thread loves to creep,

  Cull from thence a tangled wreath,

  Words of magic round it breathe,

  And the sunny chaplet spread

  O’er the sleeping fly-bird’s head,

  Till, with dreams of honey blest,

  Haunted, in his downy nest,

  By the garden’s fairest spells,

  Dewy buds and fragrant bells,

  Fancy all his soul embowers

  In the fly-bird’s heaven of flowers.

  Oft, when hoar and silvery flakes

  Melt along the ruffled lakes,

  When the gray moose sheds his horns,

  When the track, at evening, warns

  Weary hunters of the way

  To the wigwam’s cheering ray,

  Then, aloft through freezing air,

  With the snow-bird soft and fair

  As the fleece that heaven flings

  O’er his little pearly wings,

  Light above the rocks I play,

  Where Niagara’s starry spray,

  Frozen on the cliff, appears

  Like a giant’s starting tears.

  There, amid the island-sedge,

  Just upon the cataract’s edge,

  Where the foot of living man

  Never trod since time began,

  Lone I sit, at close of day,

  While, beneath the golden ray,

  Icy columns gleam below,

  Feathered round with falling snow,

  And an arch of glory springs,

  Sparkling as the chain of rings

  Round the neck of virgins hung, —

  Virgins, who have wandered young

  O’er the waters of the west

  To the land where spirits rest!

  Thus have I charmed, with visionary lay,

  The lonely moments of the night away;

  And now, fresh daylight o’er the water beams!

  Once more, embarked upon the glittering streams,

  Our boat flies light along the leafy shore,

  Shooting the falls, without a dip
of oar

  Or breath of zephyr, like the mystic bark

  The poet saw, in dreams divinely dark,

  Borne, without sails, along the dusky flood,

  While on its deck a pilot angel stood,

  And, with his wings of living light unfurled,

  Coasted the dim shores of another world!

  Yet, oh! believe me, mid this mingled maze

  Of Nature’s beauties, where the fancy strays

  From charm to charm, where every floweret’s hue

  Hath something strange, and every leaf is new, —

  I never feel a joy so pure and still

  So inly felt, as when some brook or hill,

  Or veteran oak, like those remembered well,

  Some mountain echo or some wild-flower’s smell,

  (For, who can say by what small fairy ties

  The memory clings to pleasure as it flies?)

  Reminds my heart of many a silvan dream

  I once indulged by Trent’s inspiring stream;

  Of all my sunny morns and moonlight nights

  On Donington’s green lawns and breezy heights.

  Whether I trace the tranquil moments o’er

  When I have seen thee cull the fruits of lore,

  With him, the polished warrior, by thy side,

  A sister’s idol and a nation’s pride!

  When thou hast read of heroes, trophied high

  In ancient fame, and I have seen thine eye

  Turn to the living hero, while it read,

  For pure and brightening comments on the dead; —

  Or whether memory to my mind recalls

  The festal grandeur of those lordly halls,

  When guests have met around the sparkling board,

  And welcome warmed the cup that luxury poured;

  When the bright future Star of England’s throne,

  With magic smile, hath o’er the banquet shone,

  Winning respect, nor claiming what he won,

  But tempering greatness, like an evening sun

  Whose light the eye can tranquilly admire,

  Radiant, but mild, all softness, yet all fire; —

  Whatever hue my recollections take,

  Even the regret, the very pain they wake

  Is mixt with happiness; — but, ah! no more —

  Lady! adieu — my heart has lingered o’er

  Those vanished times, till all that round me lies,

  Stream, banks, and bowers have faded on my eyes!

  1 Anburey, in his Travels, has noticed this shooting illumination which porpoises diffuse at night through the river St. Lawrence, — Vol. i. .

  2 The glass-snake is brittle and transparent.

  3 “The departed spirit goes into the Country of Souls, where, according to some, it is transformed into a dove.” — Charlevoix upon the Traditions and the Religion of the Savages of Canada.

  4 “The mountains appeared to be sprinkled with white stones, which glistened in the sun, and were called by the Indians manetoe aseniah, or spirit-stones.” — Mackenzie’s Journal.

  5 Manataulin signifies a Place of Spirits, and this island in Lake Huron is held sacred by the Indians.

  6 “The Wakon-Bird, which probably is of the same species with the bird of Paradise, receives its name from the ideas the Indians have of its superior excellence; the Wakon-Bird being, in their language, the Bird of the Great Spirit.” — Morse.

  7 The islands of Lake Erie are surrounded to a considerable distance by the large pond-lily, whose leaves spread thickly over the surface of the lake, and form a kind of bed for the water-snakes in summer.

  IMPROMPTU.

  AFTER A VISIT TO MRS. —— , OF MONTREAL.

  ’Twas but for a moment — and yet in that time

  She crowded the impressions of many an hour:

  Her eye had a glow, like the sun of her clime,

  Which waked every feeling at once into flower.

  Oh! could we have borrowed from Time but a day,

  To renew such impressions again and again,

  The things we should look and imagine and say

  Would be worth all the life we had wasted till then.

  What we had not the leisure or language to speak,

  We should find some more spiritual mode of revealing,

  And, between us, should feel just as much in a week

  As others would take a millennium in feeling.

  WRITTEN ON PASSING DEADMAN’S ISLAND, IN THE GULF OF ST. LAWRENCE,1 LATE IN THE EVENING, SEPTEMBER, 1804.

  See you, beneath yon cloud so dark,

  Fast gliding along a gloomy bark?

  Her sails are full, — though the wind is still,

  And there blows not a breath her sails to fill!

  Say, what doth that vessel of darkness bear?

  The silent calm of the grave is there,

  Save now and again a death-knell rung,

  And the flap of the sails with night-fog hung.

  There lieth a wreck on the dismal shore

  Of cold and pitiless Labrador;

  Where, under the moon, upon mounts of frost,

  Full many a mariner’s bones are tost.

  Yon shadowy bark hath been to that wreck,

  And the dim blue fire, that lights her deck,

  Doth play on as pale and livid a crew,

  As ever yet drank the churchyard dew.

  To Deadman’s Isle, in the eye of the blast,

  To Deadman’s Isle, she speeds her fast;

  By skeleton shapes her sails are furled,

  And the hand that steers is not of this world!

  Oh! hurry thee on-oh! hurry thee on,

  Thou terrible bark, ere the night be gone,

  Nor let morning look on so foul a sight

  As would blanch for ever her rosy light!

  1 This is one of the Magdalen Islands, and, singularly enough, is the property of Sir Isaac Coffin. The above lines were suggested by a superstition very common among sailors, who called this ghost-ship, I think, “The Flying Dutchman.”

  TO THE BOSTON FRIGATE, ON LEAVING HALIFAX FOR ENGLAND,1

  OCTOBER, 1804.

  With triumph, this morning, oh Boston! I hail

  The stir of thy deck and the spread of thy sail,

  For they tell me I soon shall be wafted, in thee,

  To the flourishing isle of the brave and the free,

  And that chill Nova-Scotia’s unpromising strand

  Is the last I shall tread of American land.

  Well — peace to the land! may her sons know, at length,

  That in high-minded honor lies liberty’s strength,

  That though man be as free as the fetterless wind,

  As the wantonest air that the north can unbind,

  Yet, if health do not temper and sweeten the blast,

  If no harvest of mind ever sprung where it past,

  Then unblest is such freedom, and baleful its might, —

  Free only to ruin, and strong but to blight!

  Farewell to the few I have left with regret:

  May they sometimes recall, what I cannot forget;

  The delight of those evenings, — too brief a delight!

  When in converse and song we have stolen on the night;

  When they’ve asked me the manners, the mind, or the mien,

  Of some bard I had known or some chief I had seen,

  Whose glory, though distant, they long had adored,

  Whose name had oft hallowed the wine-cup they poured;

  And still as, with sympathy humble but true,

  I have told of each bright son of fame all I knew,

  They have listened, and sighed that the powerful stream

  Of America’s empire should pass like a dream,

  Without leaving one relic of genius, to say,

  How sublime was the tide which had vanished away!

  Farewell to the few — though we never may meet

  On this planet again, it is soothing a
nd sweet

  To think that, whenever my song or my name

  Shall recur to their ear, they’ll recall me the same

  I have been to them now, young, unthoughtful, and blest,

  Ere hope had deceived me or sorrow deprest.

  But, Douglas! while thus I recall to my mind

  The elect of the land we shall soon leave behind,

  I can read in the weather-wise glance of thine eye

  As it follows the rack flitting over the sky,

  That the faint coming breeze would be fair for our flight,

  And shall steal us away, ere the falling of night.

  Dear Douglas! thou knowest, with thee by my side,

  With thy friendship to soothe me, thy courage to guide,

  There is not a bleak isle in those summerless seas,

  Where the day comes in darkness, or shines but to freeze,

  Not a tract of the line, not a barbarous shore,

  That I could not with patience, with pleasure explore!

  Oh think then how gladly I follow thee now,

  When Hope smooths the billowy path of our prow,

  And each prosperous sigh of the west-springing wind

  Takes me nearer the home where my heart is inshrined;

  Where the smile of a father shall meet me again,

  And the tears of a mother turn bliss into pain;

  Where the kind voice of sisters shall steal to my heart,

  And ask it, in sighs, how we ever could part? —

  But see! — the bent top sails are ready to swell —

  To the boat — I am with thee — Columbia, farewell!

  1 Commanded by Captain J. E. Douglas, with whom I returned to England, and to whom I am indebted for many, many kindnesses.

  IRISH MELODIES

  DEDICATION

  TO THE MARCHIONESS DOWAGER OF DONEGAL.

  It is now many years since, in, a Letter prefixed to the Third Number of the Irish Melodies, I had the pleasure of inscribing the Poems of that work to your Ladyship, as to one whose character reflected honor on the country to which they relate, and whose friendship had long been the pride and happiness of their Author. With the same feelings of affection and respect, confirmed if not increased by the experience of every succeeding year, I now place those Poems in their present new form under your protection, and am,

  With perfect Sincerity,

  Your Ladyship’s ever attached friend,

  THOMAS MOORE.

  PREFACE.

  Though an edition of the Poetry of the Irish Melodies, separate from the Music, has long been called for, yet, having, for many reasons, a strong objection to this sort of divorce, I should with difficulty have consented to a disunion of the words from the airs, had it depended solely upon me to keep them quietly and indissolubly together. But, besides the various shapes in which these, as well as my other lyrical writings, have been published throughout America, they are included, of course, in all the editions of my works printed on the Continent, and have also appeared, in a volume full of typographical errors, in Dublin. I have therefore readily acceded to the wish expressed by the Proprietor of the Irish Melodies, for a revised and complete edition of the poetry of the Work, though well aware that my verses must lose even more than the “animae dimidium” in being detached from the beautiful airs to which it was their good fortune to be associated.