by Thomas Moore
The words, whose parting tone
Lingers still in dreams of bliss,
That haunt young hearts alone.
LOVE IS A HUNTER-BOY.
(LANGUEDOCIAN AIR.)
Love is a hunter-boy,
Who, makes young hearts his prey,
And in his nets of joy
Ensnares them night and day.
In vain concealed they lie —
Love tracks them every where;
In vain aloft they fly —
Love shoots them flying there.
But ’tis his joy most sweet,
At early dawn to trace
The print of Beauty’s feet,
And give the trembler chase.
And if, thro’ virgin snow,
He tracks her footsteps fair,
How sweet for Love to know
None went before him there.
COME, CHASE THAT STARTING TEAR AWAY.
(FRENCH AIR.)
Come, chase that starting tear away,
Ere mine to meet it springs;
To-night, at least, to-night be gay,
Whate’er to-morrow brings.
Like sunset gleams, that linger late
When all is darkening fast,
Are hours like these we snatch from Fate —
The brightest, and the last.
Then, chase that starting tear, etc.
To gild the deepening gloom, if Heaven
But one bright hour allow,
Oh, think that one bright hour is given,
In all its splendor, now.
Let’s live it out — then sink in night,
Like waves that from the shore
One minute swell, are touched with light,
Then lost for evermore!
Come, chase that starting tear, etc.
JOYS OF YOUTH, HOW FLEETING!
(PORTUGUESE AIR.)
Whisperings, heard by wakeful maids,
To whom the night-stars guide us;
Stolen walks thro’ moonlight shades,
With those we love beside us,
Hearts beating,
At meeting;
Tears starting,
At parting;
Oh, sweet youth, how soon it fades!
Sweet joys of youth, how fleeting!
Wanderings far away from home,
With life all new before us;
Greetings warm, when home we come,
From hearts whose prayers watched o’er us.
Tears starting,
At parting;
Hearts beating,
At meeting;
Oh, sweet youth, how lost on some!
To some, how bright and fleeting!
HEAR ME BUT ONCE.
(FRENCH AIR.)
Hear me but once, while o’er the grave,
In which our Love lies cold and dead,
I count each flattering hope he gave
Of joys now lost and charms now fled.
Who could have thought the smile he wore
When first we met would fade away?
Or that a chill would e’er come o’er
Those eyes so bright thro’ many a day?
Hear me but once, etc.
WHEN LOVE WAS A CHILD
(SWEDISH AIR.)
When Love was a child, and went idling round,
‘Mong flowers the whole summer’s day,
One morn in the valley a bower he found,
So sweet, it allured him to stay.
O’erhead, from the trees, hung a garland fair,
A fountain ran darkly beneath; —
’Twas Pleasure had hung up the flowerets there;
Love knew it, and jumped at the wreath.
But Love didn’t know — and, at his weak years,
What urchin was likely to know? —
That Sorrow had made of her own salt tears
The fountain that murmured below.
He caught at the wreath — but with too much haste,
As boys when impatient will do —
It fell in those waters of briny taste,
And the flowers were all wet through.
This garland he now wears night and day;
And, tho’ it all sunny appears
With Pleasure’s own light, each leaf, they say,
Still tastes of the Fountain of Tears.
SAY, WHAT SHALL BE OUR SPORT TO-DAY?
(SICILIAN AIR.)
Say, what shall be our sport today?
There’s nothing on earth, in sea, or air,
Too bright, too high, too wild, too gay
For spirits like mine to dare!
’Tis like the returning bloom
Of those days, alas, gone by,
When I loved, each hour — I scarce knew whom —
And was blest — I scarce knew why.
Ay — those were days when life had wings,
And flew, oh, flew so wild a height
That, like the lark which sunward springs,
’Twas giddy with too much light.
And, tho’ of some plumes bereft,
With that sun, too, nearly set,
I’ve enough of light and wing still left
For a few gay soarings yet.
BRIGHT BE THY DREAMS.
(WELSH AIR.)
Bright be thy dreams — may all thy weeping
Turn into smiles while thou art sleeping.
May those by death or seas removed,
The friends, who in thy springtime knew thee,
All thou hast ever prized or loved,
In dreams come smiling to thee!
There may the child, whose love lay deepest,
Dearest of all, come while thou sleepest;
Still as she was — no charm forgot —
No lustre lost that life had given;
Or, if changed, but changed to what
Thou’lt find her yet in Heaven!
GO, THEN— ‘TIS VAIN.
(SICILIAN AIR.)
Go, then— ’tis vain to hover
Thus round a hope that’s dead;
At length my dream is over;
’Twas sweet— ’twas false— ’tis fled!
Farewell! since naught it moves thee,
Such truth as mine to see —
Some one, who far less loves thee,
Perhaps more blest will be.
Farewell, sweet eyes, whose brightness
New life around me shed;
Farewell, false heart, whose lightness
Now leaves me death instead.
Go, now, those charms surrender
To some new lover’s sigh —
One who, tho’ far less tender,
May be more blest than I.
THE CRYSTAL-HUNTERS.
(SWISS AIR.)
O’er mountains bright
With snow and light,
We Crystal-Hunters speed along;
While rocks and caves,
And icy wares,
Each instant echo to our song;
And, when we meet with store of gems,
We grudge not kings their diadems.
O’er mountains bright
With snow and light,
We Crystal-Hunters speed along;
While grots and caves,
And icy waves,
Each instant echo to our song.
Not half so oft the lover dreams
Of sparkles from his lady’s eyes,
As we of those refreshing gleams
That tell where deep the crystal lies;
Tho’, next to crystal, we too grant,
That ladies’ eyes may most enchant.
O’er mountains bright, etc.
Sometimes, when on the Alpine rose
The golden sunset leaves its ray,
So like a gem the floweret glows,
We hither bend our headlong way;
And, tho’ we find no treasure there,
We bless the rose that shines so fair.
&nb
sp; O’er mountains bright
With snow and light,
We Crystal-Hunters speed along;
While rocks and caves,
And icy waves,
Each instant echo to our song,
ROW GENTLY HERE.
(VENETIAN AIR.)
Row gently here,
My gondolier,
So softly wake the tide,
That not an ear.
On earth, may hear,
But hers to whom we glide.
Had Heaven but tongues to speak, as well
As starry eyes to see,
Oh, think what tales ’twould have to tell
Of wandering youths like me!
Now rest thee here.
My gondolier;
Hush, hush, for up I go,
To climb yon light
Balcony’s height,
While thou keep’st watch below.
Ah! did we take for Heaven above
But half such pains as we
Take, day and night, for woman’s love,
What’ Angels we should be.
OH, DAYS OF YOUTH.
(FRENCH AIR.)
Oh, days of youth and joy, long clouded,
Why thus for ever haunt my view?
When in the grave your light lay shrouded,
Why did not Memory die there too?
Vainly doth hope her strain now sing me,
Telling of joys that yet remain —
No, never more can this life bring me
One joy that equals youth’s sweet pain.
Dim lies the way to death before me,
Cold winds of Time blow round my brow;
Sunshine of youth! that once fell o’er me,
Where is your warmth, your glory now?
’Tis not that then no pain could sting me;
’Tis not that now no joys remain;
Oh, ’tis that life no more can bring me
One joy so sweet as that worst pain.
WHEN FIRST THAT SMILE.
(VENETIAN AIR.)
When first that smile, like sunshine, blest my sight,
Oh what a vision then came o’er me!
Long years of love, of calm and pure delight,
Seemed in that smile to pass before me.
Ne’er did the peasant dream of summer skies,
Of golden fruit and harvests springing,
With fonder hope than I of those sweet eyes,
And of the joy their light was bringing.
Where now are all those fondly-promised hours?
Ah! woman’s faith is like her brightness —
Fading as fast as rainbows or day-flowers,
Or aught that’s known for grace and lightness.
Short as the Persian’s prayer, at close of day,
Should be each vow of Love’s repeating;
Quick let him worship Beauty’s precious ray —
Even while he kneels, that ray is fleeting!
PEACE TO THE SLUMBERERS!
(CATALONIAN AIR.)
Peace to the slumberers!
They lie on the battle-plain.
With no shroud to cover them;
The dew and the summer rain
Are all that weep over them.
Peace to the slumberers!
Vain was their bravery! —
The fallen oak lies where it lay,
Across the wintry river;
But brave hearts, once swept away,
Are gone, alas! forever.
Vain was their bravery!
Woe to the conqueror!
Our limbs shall lie as cold as theirs
Of whom his sword bereft us.
Ere we forget the deep arrears
Of vengeance they have left us!
Woe to the conqueror!
WHEN THOU SHALT WANDER.
(SICILIAN AIR.)
When thou shalt wander by that sweet light
We used to gaze on so many an eve,
When love was new and hope was bright,
Ere I could doubt or thou deceive —
Oh, then, remembering how swift went by
Those hours of transport, even thou may’st sigh.
Yes, proud one! even thy heart may own
That love like ours was far too sweet
To be, like summer garments thrown
Aside, when past the summer’s heat;
And wish in vain to know again
Such days, such nights, as blest thee then.
WHO’LL BUY MY LOVE-KNOTS?
(PORTUGUESE AIR.)
Hymen, late, his love-knots selling,
Called at many a maiden’s dwelling:
None could doubt, who saw or knew them,
Hymen’s call was welcome to them.
“Who’ll buy my love-knots?
“Who’ll buy my love-knots?”
Soon as that sweet cry resounded
How his baskets were surrounded!
Maids, who now first dreamt of trying
These gay knots of Hymen’s tying;
Dames, who long had sat to watch him
Passing by, but ne’er could catch him; —
“Who’ll buy my love-knots?
“Who’ll buy my love-knots?” —
All at that sweet cry assembled;
Some laughed, some blushed, and some trembled.
“Here are knots,” said Hymen, taking
Some loose flowers, “of Love’s own making;
“Here are gold ones — you may trust ’em” —
(These, of course, found ready custom).
“Come, buy my love-knots!
“Come, buy my love-knots!
“Some are labelled ‘Knots to tie men —
“Love the maker — Bought of Hymen.’”
Scarce their bargains were completed,
When the nymphs all cried, “We’re cheated!
“See these flowers — they’re drooping sadly;
“This gold-knot, too, ties but badly —
“Who’d buy such love-knots?
“Who’d buy such love-knots?
“Even this tie, with Love’s name round it —
“All a sham — He never bound it.”
Love, who saw the whole proceeding,
Would have laughed, but for good breeding;
While Old Hymen, who was used to
Cries like that these dames gave loose to —
“Take back our love-knots!
“Take back our love-knots!”
Coolly said, “There’s no returning
“Wares on Hymen’s hands — Good morning!”
SEE, THE DAWN FROM HEAVEN.
(TO AN AIR SUNG AT ROME, ON CHRISTMAS EVE.)
See, the dawn from Heaven is breaking
O’er our sight,
And Earth from sin awaking,
Hails the light!
See those groups of angels, winging
From the realms above,
On their brows, from Eden, bringing
Wreaths of Hope and Love.
Hark, their hymns of glory pealing
Thro’ the air,
To mortal ears revealing
Who lies there!
In that dwelling, dark and lowly,
Sleeps the Heavenly Son,
He, whose home’s above, — the Holy,
Ever Holy One!
NETS AND CAGES.1
(SWEDISH AIR.)
Come, listen to my story, while
Your needle task you ply:
At what I sing some maids will smile,
While some, perhaps, may sigh.
Though Love’s the theme, and Wisdom blames
Such florid songs as ours,
Yet Truth sometimes, like eastern dames,
Can speak her thoughts by flowers.
Then listen, maids, come listen, while
Your needle’s task you ply;
At what I sing there’s some may smile,
While some, perhaps, will sigh.
&
nbsp; Young Cloe, bent on catching Loves,
Such nets had learned to frame,
That none, in all our vales and groves,
E’er caught so much small game:
But gentle Sue, less given to roam,
While Cloe’s nets were taking
Such lots of Loves, sat still at home,
One little Love-cage making.
Come, listen, maids, etc.
Much Cloe laughed at Susan’s task;
But mark how things went on:
These light-caught Loves, ere you could ask
Their name and age, were gone!
So weak poor Cloe’s nets were wove,
That, tho’ she charm’d into them
New game each hour, the youngest Love
Was able to break thro’ them.
Come, listen, maids, etc.
Meanwhile, young Sue, whose cage was wrought
Of bars too strong to sever,
One Love with golden pinions caught.
And caged him there for ever;
Instructing, thereby, all coquettes,
Whate’er their looks or ages,
That, tho ’tis pleasant weaving Nets,
’Tis wiser to make Cages.
Thus, maidens, thus do I beguile
The task your fingers ply. —
May all who hear like Susan smile,
And not, like Cloe, sigh!
1 Suggested by the following remark of Swift’s;— “The reason why so few marriages are happy, is, because young ladies spend their time in making nets, not in making cages.”
WHEN THROUGH THE PIAZZETTA.
(VENETIAN AIR.)
When thro’ the Piazzetta
Night breathes her cool air,
Then, dearest Ninetta,
I’ll come to thee there.
Beneath thy mask shrouded,
I’ll know thee afar,
As Love knows tho’ clouded
His own Evening Star.
In garb, then, resembling
Some gay gondolier,
I’ll whisper thee, trembling,
“Our bark, love, is near:
“Now, now, while there hover
“Those clouds o’er the moon,
“‘Twill waft thee safe over
“Yon silent Lagoon.”
GO, NOW, AND DREAM.
(SICILIAN AIR.)
Go, now, and dream o’er that joy in thy slumber —
Moments so sweet again ne’er shalt thou number.
Of Pain’s bitter draught the flavor ne’er flies,