Thomas Moore- Collected Poetical Works

by Thomas Moore

They’re ours, when we meet, — they are lost when we part,

  Like birds that bring summer, and fly when ’tis o’er.

  Thus circling the cup, hand in hand, ere we drink,

  Let Sympathy pledge us, thro’ pleasure, thro’ pain,

  That, fast as a feeling but touches one link,

  Her magic shall send it direct thro’ the chain.

  THE MOUNTAIN SPRITE.

  In yonder valley there dwelt, alone,

  A youth, whose moments had calmly flown,

  Till spells came o’er him, and, day and night,

  He was haunted and watched by a Mountain Sprite.

  As once, by moonlight, he wander’d o’er

  The golden sands of that island shore,

  A foot-print sparkled before his sight —

  ’Twas the fairy foot of the Mountain Sprite!

  Beside a fountain, one sunny day,

  As bending over the stream he lay,

  There peeped down o’er him two eyes of light,

  And he saw in that mirror the Mountain Sprite.

  He turned, but, lo, like a startled bird,

  That spirit fled! — and the youth but heard

  Sweet music, such as marks the flight

  Of some bird of song, from the Mountain Sprite.

  One night, still haunted by that bright look,

  The boy, bewildered, his pencil took,

  And, guided only by memory’s light,

  Drew the once-seen form of the Mountain Sprite.

  “Oh thou, who lovest the shadow,” cried

  A voice, low whispering by his side,

  “Now turn and see,” — here the youth’s delight

  Sealed the rosy lips of the Mountain Sprite.

  “Of all the Spirits of land and sea,”

  Then rapt he murmured, “there’s none like thee,

  “And oft, oh oft, may thy foot thus light

  “In this lonely bower, sweet Mountain Sprite!”

  AS VANQUISHED ERIN.

  As vanquished Erin wept beside

  The Boyne’s ill-fated river,

  She saw where Discord, in the tide,

  Had dropt his loaded quiver.

  “Lie hid,” she cried, “ye venomed darts,

  “Where mortal eye may shun you;

  “Lie hid — the stain of manly hearts,

  “That bled for me, is on you.”

  But vain her wish, her weeping vain, —

  As Time too well hath taught her —

  Each year the Fiend returns again,

  And dives into that water;

  And brings, triumphant, from beneath

  His shafts of desolation,

  And sends them, winged with worse than death,

  Through all her maddening nation.

  Alas for her who sits and mourns,

  Even now, beside that river —

  Unwearied still the Fiend returns,

  And stored is still his quiver.

  “When will this end, ye Powers of Good?”

  She weeping asks for ever;

  But only hears, from out that flood,

  The Demon answer, “Never!”

  DESMOND’S SONG.1

  By the Feal’s wave benighted,

  No star in the skies,

  To thy door by Love lighted,

  I first saw those eyes.

  Some voice whispered o’er me,

  As the threshold I crost,

  There was ruin before me,

  If I loved, I was lost.

  Love came, and brought sorrow

  Too soon in his train;

  Yet so sweet, that to-morrow

  ‘Twere welcome again.

  Though misery’s full measure

  My portion should be,

  I would drain it with pleasure,

  If poured out by thee.

  You, who call it dishonor

  To bow to this flame,

  If you’ve eyes, look but on her,

  And blush while you blame.

  Hath the pearl less whiteness

  Because of its birth?

  Hath the violet less brightness

  For growing near earth?

  No — Man for his glory

  To ancestry flies;

  But Woman’s bright story

  Is told in her eyes.

  While the Monarch but traces

  Thro’ mortals his line,

  Beauty, born of the Graces,

  Banks next to Divine!

  1 “Thomas, the heir of the Desmond family, had accidentally been so engaged in the chase, that he was benighted near Tralee, and obliged to take shelter at the Abbey of Feal, in the house of one of his dependents, called Mac Cormac. Catherine, a beautiful daughter of his host, instantly inspired the Earl with a violent passion, which he could not subdue. He married her, and by this inferior alliance alienated his followers, whose brutal pride regarded this indulgence of his love as an unpardonable degradation of his family.” — Leland, vol. ii.

  THEY KNOW NOT MY HEART.

  They know not my heart, who believe there can be

  One stain of this earth in its feelings for thee;

  Who think, while I see thee in beauty’s young hour,

  As pure as the morning’s first dew on the flower,

  I could harm what I love, — as the sun’s wanton ray

  But smiles on the dew-drop to waste it away.

  No — beaming with light as those young features are,

  There’s a light round thy heart which is lovelier far:

  It is not that cheek— ’tis the soul dawning clear

  Thro’ its innocent blush makes thy beauty so dear:

  As the sky we look up to, tho’ glorious and fair,

  Is looked up to the more, because Heaven lies there!

  I WISH I WAS BY THAT DIM LAKE.

  I wish I was by that dim Lake,1

  Where sinful souls their farewell take

  Of this vain world, and half-way lie

  In death’s cold shadow, ere they die.

  There, there, far from thee,

  Deceitful world, my home should be;

  Where, come what might of gloom and pain,

  False hope should ne’er deceive again.

  The lifeless sky, the mournful sound

  Of unseen waters falling round;

  The dry leaves, quivering o’er my head,

  Like man, unquiet even when dead!

  These, ay, these shall wean

  My soul from life’s deluding scene,

  And turn each thought, o’ercharged with gloom,

  Like willows, downward towards the tomb.

  As they, who to their couch at night

  Would win repose, first quench the light,

  So must the hopes, that keep this breast

  Awake, be quenched, ere it can rest.

  Cold, cold, this heart must grow,

  Unmoved by either joy or woe,

  Like freezing founts, where all that’s thrown

  Within their current turns to stone.

  1 These verses are meant to allude to that ancient haunt of superstition, called Patrick’s Purgatory. “In the midst of these gloomy regions of Donegall (says Dr. Campbell) lay a lake, which was to become the mystic theatre of this fabled and intermediate state. In the lake were several islands; but one of them was dignified with that called the Mouth of Purgatory, which, during the dark ages, attracted the notice of all Christendom, and was the resort of penitents and pilgrims from almost every country in Europe.”

  SHE SUNG OF LOVE.

  She sung of Love, while o’er her lyre

  The rosy rays of evening fell,

  As if to feed with their soft fire

  The soul within that trembling shell.

  The same rich light hung o’er her cheek,

  And played around those lips that sung

  And spoke, as flowers would sing and speak,

  If Love could lend their leaves a tongue.

  But soo
n the West no longer burned,

  Each rosy ray from heaven withdrew;

  And, when to gaze again I turned,

  The minstrel’s form seemed fading too.

  As if her light and heaven’s were one,

  The glory all had left that frame;

  And from her glimmering lips the tone,

  As from a parting spirit, came.

  Who ever loved, but had the thought

  That he and all he loved must part?

  Filled with this fear, I flew and caught

  The fading image to my heart —

  And cried, “Oh Love! is this thy doom?

  “Oh light of youth’s resplendent day!

  “Must ye then lose your golden bloom,

  “And thus, like sunshine, die away?”

  SING — SING — MUSIC WAS GIVEN.

  Sing — sing — Music was given,

  To brighten the gay, and kindle the loving;

  Souls here, like planets in Heaven,

  By harmony’s laws alone are kept moving.

  Beauty may boast of her eyes and her cheeks,

  But Love from the lips his true archery wings;

  And she, who but feathers the dart when she speaks,

  At once sends it home to the heart when she sings.

  Then sing — sing — Music was given,

  To brighten the gay, and kindle the loving;

  Souls here, like planets in Heaven,

  By harmony’s laws alone are kept moving.

  When Love, rocked by his mother,

  Lay sleeping as calm as slumber could make him,

  “Hush, hush,” said Venus, “no other

  “Sweet voice but his own is worthy to wake him.”

  Dreaming of music he slumbered the while

  Till faint from his lip a soft melody broke,

  And Venus, enchanted, looked on with a smile,

  While Love to his own sweet singing awoke.

  Then sing — sing — Music was given,

  To brighten the gay, and kindle the loving;

  Souls here, like planets in Heaven,

  By harmony’s laws alone are kept moving.

  THO’ HUMBLE THE BANQUET.

  Tho’ humble the banquet to which I invite thee,

  Thou’lt find there the best a poor bard can command:

  Eyes, beaming with welcome, shall throng round, to light thee,

  And Love serve the feast with his own willing hand.

  And tho’ Fortune may seem to have turned from the dwelling

  Of him thou regardest her favoring ray,

  Thou wilt find there a gift, all her treasures excelling,

  Which, proudly he feels, hath ennobled his way.

  ’Tis that freedom of mind, which no vulgar dominion

  Can turn from the path a pure conscience approves;

  Which, with hope in the heart, and no chain on the pinion,

  Holds upwards its course to the light which it loves.

  ’Tis this makes the pride of his humble retreat,

  And, with this, tho’ of all other treasures bereaved,

  The breeze of his garden to him is more sweet

  Than the costliest incense that Pomp e’er received.

  Then, come, — if a board so untempting hath power

  To win thee from grandeur, its best shall be thine;

  And there’s one, long the light of the bard’s happy bower,

  Who, smiling, will blend her bright welcome with mine.

  SING, SWEET HARP.

  Sing, sweet Harp, oh sing to me

  Some song of ancient days,

  Whose sounds, in this sad memory,

  Long buried dreams shall raise; —

  Some lay that tells of vanished fame,

  Whose light once round us shone;

  Of noble pride, now turned to shame,

  And hopes for ever gone. —

  Sing, sad Harp, thus sing to me;

  Alike our doom is cast,

  Both lost to all but memory,

  We live but in the past.

  How mournfully the midnight air

  Among thy chords doth sigh,

  As if it sought some echo there

  Of voices long gone by; —

  Of Chieftains, now forgot, who seemed

  The foremost then in fame;

  Of Bards who, once immortal deemed,

  Now sleep without a name. —

  In vain, sad Harp, the midnight air

  Among thy chords doth sigh;

  In vain it seeks an echo there

  Of voices long gone by.

  Couldst thou but call those spirits round.

  Who once, in bower and hall,

  Sat listening to thy magic sound,

  Now mute and mouldering all; —

  But, no; they would but wake to weep

  Their children’s slavery;

  Then leave them in their dreamless sleep,

  The dead, at least, are free! —

  Hush, hush, sad Harp, that dreary tone,

  That knell of Freedom’s day;

  Or, listening to its death-like moan,

  Let me, too, die away.

  SONG OF THE BATTLE EVE.

  TIME — THE NINTH CENTURY.

  To-morrow, comrade, we

  On the battle-plain must be,

  There to conquer, or both lie low!

  The morning star is up, —

  But there’s wine still in the cup,

  And we’ll take another quaff, ere we go, boy, go;

  We’ll take another quaff, ere we go.

  ’Tis true, in manliest eyes

  A passing tear will rise,

  When we think of the friends we leave lone;

  But what can wailing do?

  See, our goblet’s weeping too!

  With its tears we’ll chase away our own, boy, our own;

  With its tears we’ll chase away our own.

  But daylight’s stealing on; —

  The last that o’er us shone

  Saw our children around us play;

  The next — ah! where shall we

  And those rosy urchins be?

  But — no matter — grasp thy sword and away, boy, away;

  No matter — grasp thy sword and away!

  Let those, who brook the chain

  Of Saxon or of Dane,

  Ignobly by their firesides stay;

  One sigh to home be given,

  One heartfelt prayer to heaven,

  Then, for Erin and her cause, boy, hurra! hurra! hurra!

  Then, for Erin and her cause, hurra!

  THE WANDERING BARD.

  What life like that of the bard can be —

  The wandering bard, who roams as free

  As the mountain lark that o’er him sings,

  And, like that lark, a music brings

  Within him, where’er he comes or goes, —

  A fount that for ever flows!

  The world’s to him like some playground,

  Where fairies dance their moonlight round; —

  If dimmed the turf where late they trod,

  The elves but seek some greener sod;

  So, when less bright his scene of glee,

  To another away flies he!

  Oh, what would have been young Beauty’s doom,

  Without a bard to fix her bloom?

  They tell us, in the moon’s bright round,

  Things lost in this dark world are found;

  So charms, on earth long past and gone,

  In the poet’s lay live on. —

  Would ye have smiles that ne’er grow dim?

  You’ve only to give them all to him.

  Who, with but a touch of Fancy’s wand,

  Can lend them life, this life beyond,

  And fix them high, in Poesy’s sky, —

  Young stars that never die!

  Then, welcome the bard where’er he comes, —

  For, tho’ he hath countless airy homes,

  T
o which his wing excursive roves,

  Yet still, from time to time, he loves

  To light upon earth and find such cheer

  As brightens our banquet here.

  No matter how far, how fleet he flies,

  You’ve only to light up kind young eyes,

  Such signal-fires as here are given, —

  And down he’ll drop from Fancy’s heaven,

  The minute such call to love or mirth

  Proclaims he’s wanting on earth!

  ALONE IN CROWDS TO WANDER ON.

  Alone in crowds to wander on,

  And feel that all the charm is gone

  Which voices dear and eyes beloved

  Shed round us once, where’er we roved —

  This, this the doom must be

  Of all who’ve loved, and lived to see

  The few bright things they thought would stay

  For ever near them, die away.

  Tho’ fairer forms around us throng,

  Their smiles to others all belong,

  And want that charm which dwells alone

  Round those the fond heart calls its own.

  Where, where the sunny brow?

  The long-known voice — where are they now?

  Thus ask I still, nor ask in vain,

  The silence answers all too plain.

  Oh, what is Fancy’s magic worth,

  If all her art can not call forth

  One bliss like those we felt of old

  From lips now mute, and eyes now cold?

  No, no, — her spell is vain, —

  As soon could she bring back again

  Those eyes themselves from out the grave,

  As wake again one bliss they gave.

  I’VE A SECRET TO TELL THEE.

  I’ve a secret to tell thee, but hush! not here, —

  Oh! not where the world its vigil keeps:

  I’ll seek, to whisper it in thine ear,

  Some shore where the Spirit of Silence sleeps;

  Where summer’s wave unmurmuring dies,

  Nor fay can hear the fountain’s gush;

  Where, if but a note her night-bird sighs,

  The rose saith, chidingly, “Hush, sweet, hush!”

  There, amid the deep silence of that hour,

  When stars can be heard in ocean dip,

  Thyself shall, under some rosy bower,

  Sit mute, with thy finger on thy lip:

  Like him, the boy,1 who born among

  The flowers that on the Nile-stream blush,

  Sits ever thus, — his only song