by Thomas Moore
GREEK AIR
List! ’tis a Grecian maid that sings,
While, from Ilissus’ silvery springs,
She draws the cool lymph in her graceful urn;
And by her side, in Music’s charm dissolving,
Some patriot youth, the glorious past revolving,
Dreams of bright days that never can return;
When Athens nurst her olive bough
With hands by tyrant power unchained;
And braided for the muse’s brow
A wreath by tyrant touch unstained.
When heroes trod each classic field
Where coward feet now faintly falter;
When every arm was Freedom’s shield,
And every heart was Freedom’s altar!
FLOURISH OF TRUMPETS.
Hark, ’tis the sound that charms
The war-steed’s wakening ears! —
Oh! many a mother folds her arms
Round her boy-soldier when that call she hears;
And, tho’ her fond heart sink with fears,
Is proud to feel his young pulse bound
With valor’s fever at the sound.
See, from his native hills afar
The rude Helvetian flies to war;
Careless for what, for whom he fights,
For slave or despot, wrongs or rights:
A conqueror oft — a hero never —
Yet lavish of his life-blood still,
As if ‘twere like his mountain rill,
And gushed forever!
Yes, Music, here, even here,
Amid this thoughtless, vague career,
Thy soul-felt charm asserts its wondrous power. —
There’s a wild air which oft, among the rocks
Of his own loved land, at evening hour,
Is heard, when shepherds homeward pipe their flocks,
Whose every note hath power to thrill his mind
With tenderest thoughts; to bring around his knees
The rosy children whom he left behind,
And fill each little angel eye
With speaking tears, that ask him why
He wandered from his hut for scenes like these.
Vain, vain is then the trumpet’s brazen roar;
Sweet notes of home, of love, are all he hears;
And the stern eyes that looked for blood before
Now melting, mournful, lose themselves in tears.
SWISS AIR.— “RANZ DES VACHES.”
But wake, the trumpet’s blast again,
And rouse the ranks of warrior-men!
Oh War, when Truth thy arm employs,
And Freedom’s spirit guides the laboring storm,
’Tis then thy vengeance takes a hallowed form,
And like Heaven’s lightning sacredly destroys.
Nor, Music, thro’ thy breathing sphere,
Lives there a sound more grateful to the ear
Of Him who made all harmony,
Than the blest sound of fetters breaking,
And the first hymn that man awaking
From Slavery’s slumber breathes to Liberty.
SPANISH CHORUS.
Hark! from Spain, indignant Spain,
Burst the bold, enthusiast strain,
Like morning’s music on the air;
And seems in every note to swear
By Saragossa’s ruined streets,
By brave Gerona’s deathful story,
That, while one Spaniard’s life-blood beats,
That blood shall stain the conqueror’s glory.
SPANISH AIR.— “YA DESPERTO.”
But ah! if vain the patriot’s zeal,
If neither valor’s force nor wisdom’s light
Can break or melt that blood-cemented seal
Which shuts so close the books of Europe’s right —
What song shall then in sadness tell
Of broken pride, of prospects shaded,
Of buried hopes, remembered well
Of ardor quenched, and honor faded?
What muse shall mourn the breathless brave,
In sweetest dirge at Memory’s shrine?
What harp shall sigh o’er Freedom’s grave?
Oh Erin, Thine!
SET OF GLEES, MUSIC BY MOORE.
THE MEETING OF THE SHIPS.
When o’er the silent seas alone,
For days and nights we’ve cheerless gone,
Oh they who’ve felt it know how sweet,
Some sunny morn a sail to meet.
Sparkling at once is every eye,
“Ship ahoy!” our joyful cry;
While answering back the sounds we hear,
“Ship ahoy!” what cheer? what…cheer?
Then sails are backed, we nearer come,
Kind words are said of friends and home;
And soon, too soon, we part with pain,
To sail o’er silent seas again.
HIP, HIP, HURRA!
Come, fill round a bumper, fill up to the brim,
He who shrinks from a bumper I pledge not to him;
Here’s the girl that each loves, be her eye of what hue,
Or lustre, it may, so her heart is but true.
Charge! (drinks) hip, hip, hurra, hurra!
Come charge high, again, boy, nor let the full wine
Leave a space in the brimmer, where daylight may shine;
Here’s “the friends of our youth — tho’ of some we’re bereft,
May the links that are lost but endear what are left!”
Charge! (drinks) hip, hip, hurra, hurra!
Once more fill a bumper — ne’er talk of the hour;
On hearts thus united old Time has no power.
May our lives, tho’, alas! like the wine of to-night,
They must soon have an end, to the last flow as bright.
Charge! (drinks) hip, hip, hurra, hurra!
Quick, quick, now, I’ll give you, since Time’s glass will run
Even faster than ours doth, three bumpers in one;
Here’s the poet who sings — here’s the warrior who fights —
Here’s the, statesman who speaks, in the cause of men’s rights!
Charge! (drinks) hip, hip, hurra, hurra!
Come, once more, a bumper! — then drink as you please,
Tho’, who could fill half-way to toast such as these?
Here’s our next joyous meeting — and oh when we meet,
May our wine be as bright and our union as sweet!
Charge! (drinks) hip, hip, hurra, hurra!
HUSH, HUSH!
“Hush, hush!” — how well
That sweet word sounds,
When Love, the little sentinel,
Walks his night-rounds;
Then, if a foot but dare
One rose-leaf crush,
Myriads of voices in the air
Whisper, “Hush, hush!”
“Hark, hark, ’tis he!”
The night elves cry,
And hush their fairy harmony,
While he steals by;
But if his silvery feet
One dew-drop brush,
Voices are heard in chorus sweet,
Whispering, “Hush, hush!”
THE PARTING BEFORE THE BATTLE.
HE.
On to the field, our doom is sealed,
To conquer or be slaves:
This sun shall see our nation free,
Or set upon our graves.
SHE.
Farewell, oh farewell, my love,
May heaven thy guardian be,
And send bright angels from above
To bring thee back to me.
HE.
On to the field, the battle-field,
Where freedom’s standard waves,
This sun shall see our tyrant yield,
Or shine upon our graves.
THE WATCHMAN.
A TRIO.
WATCHMAN.
Past twelve o’clock — past
twelve.
Good night, good night, my dearest —
How fast the moments fly!
’Tis time to part, thou hearest
That hateful watchman’s cry.
WATCHMAN.
Past one o’clock — past one.
Yet stay a moment longer —
Alas! why is it so,
The wish to stay grows stronger,
The more ’tis time to go?
WATCHMAN.
Past two o’clock — past two.
Now wrap thy cloak about thee —
The hours must sure go wrong,
For when they’re past without thee,
They’re, oh, ten times as long.
WATCHMAN.
Past three o’clock — past three.
Again that dreadful warning!
Had ever time such flight?
And see the sky, ’tis morning —
So now, indeed, good night.
WATCHMAN.
Past three o’clock — past three.
Goodnight, good night.
SAY, WHAT SHALL WE DANCE?
Say, what shall we dance?
Shall we bound along the moonlight plain,
To music of Italy, Greece, or Spain?
Say, what shall we dance?
Shall we, like those who rove
Thro’ bright Grenada’s grove,
To the light Bolero’s measures move?
Or choose the Guaracia’s languishing lay,
And thus to its sound die away?
Strike the gay chords,
Let us hear each strain from every shore
That music haunts, or young feet wander o’er.
Hark! ’tis the light march, to whose measured time,
The Polish lady, by her lover led,
Delights thro’ gay saloons with step untried to tread,
Or sweeter still, thro’ moonlight walks
Whose shadows serve to hide
The blush that’s raised by who talks
Of love the while by her side,
Then comes the smooth waltz, to whose floating sound
Like dreams we go gliding around,
Say, which shall we dance? which shall we dance?
THE EVENING GUN.
Remember’st thou that setting sun,
The last I saw with thee,
When loud we heard the evening gun
Peal o’er the twilight sea?
Boom! — the sounds appeared to sweep
Far o’er the verge of day,
Till, into realms beyond the deep,
They seemed to die away.
Oft, when the toils of day are done,
In pensive dreams of thee,
I sit to hear that evening gun,
Peal o’er the stormy sea.
Boom! — and while, o’er billows curled.
The distant sounds decay,
I weep and wish, from this rough world
Like them to die away.
LEGENDARY BALLADS.
TO
THE MISS FEILDINGS, THIS VOLUME
IS INSCRIBED
BY
THEIR FAITHFUL FRIEND AND SERVANT, THOMAS MOORE.
LEGENDARY BALLADS
THE VOICE.
It came o’er her sleep, like a voice of those days,
When love, only love was the light of her ways;
And, soft as in moments of bliss long ago,
It whispered her name from the garden below.
“Alas,” sighed the maiden, “how fancy can cheat!
“The world once had lips that could whisper thus sweet;
“But cold now they slumber in yon fatal deep.
“Where, oh that beside them this heart too could sleep!”
She sunk on her pillow — but no, ’twas in vain
To chase the illusion, that Voice came again!
She flew to the casement — but, husht as the grave,
In moonlight lay slumbering woodland and wave.
“Oh sleep, come and shield me,” in anguish she said,
“From that call of the buried, that cry of the Dead!”
And sleep came around her — but, starting, she woke,
For still from the garden that spirit Voice spoke!
“I come,” she exclaimed, “be thy home where it may,
“On earth or in Heaven, that call I obey;”
Then forth thro’ the moonlight, with heart beating fast
And loud as a death-watch, the pale maiden past.
Still round her the scene all in loneliness shone;
And still, in the distance, that Voice led her on;
But whither she wandered, by wave or by shore,
None ever could tell, for she came back no more.
No, ne’er came she back, — but the watchman who stood,
That night, in the tower which o’ershadows the flood,
Saw dimly, ’tis said, o’er the moonlighted spray,
A youth on a steed bear the maiden away.
CUPID AND PSYCHE.
They told her that he, to whose vows she had listened
Thro’ night’s fleeting hours, was a spirit unblest; —
Unholy the eyes, that beside her had glistened,
And evil the lips she in darkness had prest.
“When next in thy chamber the bridegroom reclineth,
“Bring near him thy lamp, when in slumber he lies;
“And there, as the light, o’er his dark features shineth,
“Thou’lt see what a demon hath won all thy sighs!”
Too fond to believe them, yet doubting, yet fearing,
When calm lay the sleeper she stole with her light;
And saw — such a vision! — no image, appearing
To bards in their day-dreams, was ever so bright.
A youth, but just passing from childhood’s sweet morning,
While round him still lingered its innocent ray;
Tho’ gleams, from beneath his shut eyelids gave warning
Of summer-noon lightnings that under them lay.
His brow had a grace more than mortal around it,
While, glossy as gold from a fairy-land mine,
His sunny hair hung, and the flowers that crowned it
Seemed fresh from the breeze of some garden divine.
Entranced stood the bride, on that miracle gazing,
What late was but love is idolatry now;
But, ah — in her tremor the fatal lamp raising —
A sparkle flew from it and dropt on his brow.
All’s lost — with a start from his rosy sleep waking;
The Spirit flashed o’er her his glances of fire;
Then, slow from the clasp of her snowy arms breaking,
Thus said, in a voice more of sorrow than ire:
“Farewell — what a dream thy suspicion hath broken!
“Thus ever. Affection’s fond vision is crost;
“Dissolved are her spells when a doubt is but spoken,
“And love, once distrusted, for ever is lost!”
HERO AND LEANDER.
“The night wind is moaning with mournful sigh,
“There gleameth no moon in the misty sky
“No star over Helle’s sea;
“Yet, yet, there is shining one holy light,
“One love-kindled star thro’ the deep of night,
“To lead me, sweet Hero, to thee!”
Thus saying, he plunged in the foamy stream,
Still fixing his gaze on that distant beam
No eye but a lover’s could see;
And still, as the surge swept over his head,
“To night,” he said tenderly, “living or dead,
“Sweet Hero, I’ll rest with thee!”
But fiercer around him, the wild waves speed;
Oh, Love! in that hour of thy votary’s need,
Where, where could thy Spirit be?
He struggles — he sinks — while the hurricane’s breath
&n
bsp; Bears rudely away his last farewell in death —
“Sweet Hero, I die for thee!”
THE LEAF AND THE FOUNTAIN.
“Tell me, kind Seer, I pray thee,
“So may the stars obey thee
“So may each airy
“Moon-elf and fairy
“Nightly their homage pay thee!
“Say, by what spell, above, below,
“In stars that wink or flowers that blow,
“I may discover,
“Ere night is over,
“Whether my love loves me, or no,
“Whether my love loves me.”
“Maiden, the dark tree nigh thee
“Hath charms no gold could buy thee;
“Its stem enchanted.
“By moon-elves planted,
“Will all thou seek’st supply thee.
“Climb to yon boughs that highest grow,
“Bring thence their fairest leaf below;
“And thou’lt discover,
“Ere night is over,
“Whether thy love loves thee or no,
“Whether thy love loves thee.”
“See, up the dark tree going,
“With blossoms round me blowing,
“From thence, oh Father,
“This leaf I gather,
“Fairest that there is growing.
“Say, by what sign I now shall know
“If in this leaf lie bliss or woe
“And thus discover
“Ere night is over,
“Whether my love loves me or no,
“Whether my love loves me.”
“Fly to yon fount that’s welling
“Where moonbeam ne’er had dwelling,
“Dip in its water
“That leaf, oh Daughter,
“And mark the tale ’tis telling;1
“Watch thou if pale or bright it glow,
“List thou, the while, that fountain’s flow,
“And thou’lt discover
“Whether thy lover,
“Loved as he is, loves thee or no,
“Loved as he is, loves thee.”
Forth flew the nymph, delighted,
To seek that fount benighted;
But, scarce a minute
The leaf lay in it,
When, lo, its bloom was blighted!