by Thomas Moore
And as she asked, with voice of woe —
Listening, the while, that fountain’s flow —
“Shall I recover
“My truant lover?”
The fountain seemed to answer, “No;”
The fountain answered, “No.”
1 The ancients had a mode of divination somewhat similar to this; and we find the Emperor Adrian, when he went to consult the Fountain of Castalia, plucking a bay leaf, and dipping it into the sacred water.
CEPHALUS AND PROCRIS.
A hunter once in that grove reclined,
To shun the noon’s bright eye,
And oft he wooed the wandering wind,
To cool his brow with its sigh,
While mute lay even the wild bee’s hum,
Nor breath could stir the aspen’s hair,
His song was still “Sweet air, oh come?”
While Echo answered, “Come, sweet Air!”
But, hark, what sounds from the thicket rise!
What meaneth that rustling spray?
“’Tis the white-horned doe,” the Hunter cries,
“I have sought since break of day.”
Quick o’er the sunny glade he springs,
The arrow flies from his sounding bow,
“Hilliho-hilliho!” he gayly sings,
While Echo sighs forth “Hilliho!”
Alas, ’twas not the white-horned doe
He saw in the rustling grove,
But the bridal veil, as pure as snow,
Of his own young wedded love.
And, ah, too sure that arrow sped,
For pale at his feet he sees her lie; —
“I die, I die,” was all she said,
While Echo murmured. “I die, I die!”
YOUTH AND AGE.
“Tell me, what’s Love?” said Youth, one day,
To drooping Age, who crest his way. —
“It is a sunny hour of play,
“For which repentance dear doth pay;
“Repentance! Repentance!
“And this is Love, as wise men say.”
“Tell me, what’s Love?” said Youth once more,
Fearful, yet fond, of Age’s lore. —
“Soft as a passing summer’s wind,
“Wouldst know the blight it leaves behind?
“Repentance! Repentance!
“And this is Love — when love is o’er.”
“Tell me, what’s Love? “said Youth again,
Trusting the bliss, but not the pain.
“Sweet as a May tree’s scented air —
“Mark ye what bitter fruit ‘twill bear,
“Repentance! Repentance!
“This, this is Love — sweet Youth, beware.”
Just then, young Love himself came by,
And cast on Youth a smiling eye;
Who could resist that glance’s ray?
In vain did Age his warning say,
“Repentance! Repentance!”
Youth laughing went with Love away.
THE DYING WARRIOR.
A wounded Chieftain, lying
By the Danube’s leafy side,
Thus faintly said, in dying,
“Oh! bear, thou foaming tide.
“This gift to my lady-bride.”
’Twas then, in life’s last quiver,
He flung the scarf he wore
Into the foaming river,
Which, ah too quickly, bore
That pledge of one no more!
With fond impatience burning,
The Chieftain’s lady stood,
To watch her love returning
In triumph down the flood,
From that day’s field of blood.
But, field, alas, ill-fated!
The lady saw, instead
Of the bark whose speed she waited,
Her hero’s scarf, all red
With the drops his heart had shed.
One shriek — and all was over —
Her life-pulse ceased to beat;
The gloomy waves now cover
That bridal-flower so sweet.
And the scarf is her winding sheet!
THE MAGIC MIRROR.
“Come, if thy magic Glass have power
“To call up forms we sigh to see;
“Show me my, love, in that, rosy bower,
“Where last she pledged her truth to me.”
The Wizard showed him his Lady bright,
Where lone and pale in her bower she lay;
“True-hearted maid,” said the happy Knight,
“She’s thinking of one, who is far away.”
But, lo! a page, with looks of joy,
Brings tidings to the Lady’s ear;
“’Tis,” said the Knight, “the same bright boy,
“Who used to guide me to my dear.”
The Lady now, from her favorite tree,
Hath, smiling, plucked a rosy flower:
“Such,” he exclaimed, “was the gift that she
“Each morning sent me from that bower!”
She gives her page the blooming rose,
With looks that say, “Like lightning, fly!”
“Thus,” thought the Knight, “she soothes her woes,
“By fancying, still, her true-love nigh.”
But the page returns, and — oh, what a sight,
For trusting lover’s eyes to see! —
Leads to that bower another Knight,
As young and, alas, as loved as he!
“Such,” quoth the Youth, “is Woman’s love!”
Then, darting forth, with furious bound,
Dashed at the Mirror his iron glove,
And strewed it all in fragments round.
MORAL.
Such ills would never have come to pass,
Had he ne’er sought that fatal view;
The Wizard would still have kept his Glass,
And the Knight still thought his Lady true.
THE PILGRIM.
Still thus, when twilight gleamed,
Far off his Castle seemed,
Traced on the sky;
And still, as fancy bore him.
To those dim towers before him,
He gazed, with wishful eye;
And thought his home was nigh.
“Hall of my Sires!” he said,
“How long, with weary tread,
“Must I toil on?
“Each eve, as thus I wander,
“Thy towers seem rising yonder,
“But, scarce hath daylight shone,
“When, like a dream, thou’rt gone!”
So went the Pilgrim still,
Down dale and over hill,
Day after day;
That glimpse of home, so cheering,
At twilight still appearing,
But still, with morning’s ray,
Melting, like mist, away!
Where rests the Pilgrim now?
Here, by this cypress bough,
Closed his career;
That dream, of fancy’s weaving,
No more his steps deceiving,
Alike past hope and fear,
The Pilgrim’s home is here.
THE HIGH-BORN LADYE.
In vain all the Knights to the Underwald wooed her,
Tho’ brightest of maidens, the proudest was she;
Brave chieftains they sought, and young minstrels they sued her,
But worthy were none of the high-born Ladye.
“Whosoever I wed,” said this maid, so excelling,
“That Knight must the conqueror of conquerors be;
“He must place me in halls fit for monarchs to dwell in: —
“None else shall be Lord of the high-born Ladye!
Thus spoke the proud damsel, with scorn looking round her
On Knights and on Nobles of highest degree;
Who humbly and hopelessly left as they found her,
And worshipt at distance the high-born Ladye.
At length came a Knight, from a far land to woo her,
With plumes on his helm like the foam of the sea;
His visor was down — but, with voice that thrilled thro her,
He whispered his vows to the high-born Ladye.
“Proud maiden! I come with high spousals to grace thee,
“In me the great conqueror of conquerors see;
“Enthroned in a hall fit for monarchs I’ll place thee,
“And mine, thou’rt for ever, thou high-born Ladye!”
The maiden she smiled, and in jewels arrayed her,
Of thrones and tiaras already dreamt she;
And proud was the step, as her bridegroom conveyed her
In pomp to his home, of that highborn Ladye.
“But whither,” she, starting, exclaims, “have you, led me?
“Here’s naught but a tomb and a dark cypress tree;
“Is this the bright palace in which thou wouldst wed me?”
With scorn in her glance said the high-born Ladye.
“Tis the home,” he replied, “of earth’s loftiest creatures” —
Then lifted his helm for the fair one to see;
But she sunk on the ground— ’twas a skeleton’s features
And Death was the Lord of the high-born Ladye!
THE INDIAN BOAT.
’Twas midnight dark,
The seaman’s bark,
Swift o’er the waters bore him,
When, thro’ the night,
He spied a light
Shoot o’er the wave before him.
“A sail! a sail!” he cries;
“She comes from the Indian shore
“And to-night shall be our prize,
“With her freight of golden ore;
“Sail on! sail on!”
When morning shone
He saw the gold still clearer;
But, though so fast
The waves he past
That boat seemed never the nearer.
Bright daylight came,
And still the same
Rich bark before him floated;
While on the prize
His wishful eyes
Like any young lover’s doted:
“More sail! more sail!” he cries,
While the waves overtop the mast;
And his bounding galley flies,
Like an arrow before the blast.
Thus on, and on,
Till day was gone,
And the moon thro’ heaven did hie her,
He swept the main,
But all in vain,
That boat seemed never the nigher.
And many a day
To night gave way,
And many a morn succeeded:
While still his flight,
Thro day and night,
That restless mariner speeded.
Who knows — who knows what seas
He is now careering o’er?
Behind, the eternal breeze,
And that mocking bark, before!
For, oh, till sky
And earth shall die,
And their death leave none to rue it,
That boat must flee
O’er the boundless sea,
And that ship in vain pursue it.
THE STRANGER.
Come list, while I tell of the heart-wounded Stranger
Who sleeps her last slumber in this haunted ground;
Where often, at midnight, the lonely wood-ranger
Hears soft fairy music re-echo around.
None e’er knew the name of that heart-stricken lady,
Her language, tho’ sweet, none could e’er understand;
But her features so sunned, and her eyelash so shady,
Bespoke her a child of some far Eastern land.
’Twas one summer night, when the village lay sleeping,
A soft strain of melody came o’er our ears;
So sweet, but so mournful, half song and half weeping,
Like music that Sorrow had steeped in her tears.
We thought ’twas an anthem some angel had sung us; —
But, soon as the day-beams had gushed from on high,
With wonder we saw this bright stranger among us,
All lovely and lone, as if strayed from the sky.
Nor long did her life for this sphere seem intended,
For pale was her cheek, with that spirit-like hue,
Which comes when the day of this world is nigh ended,
And light from another already shines through.
Then her eyes, when she sung — oh, but once to have seen them —
Left thoughts in the soul that can never depart;
While her looks and her voice made a language between them,
That spoke more than holiest words to the heart.
But she past like a day-dream, no skill could restore her —
Whate’er was her sorrow, its ruin came fast;
She died with the same spell of mystery o’er her.
That song of past days on her lips to the last.
Not even in the grave is her sad heart reposing —
Still hovers the spirit of grief round her tomb;
For oft, when the shadows of midnight are closing,
The same strain of music is heard thro’ the gloom.
BALLADS, SONGS, ETC.
TO-DAY, DEAREST! IS OURS.
To-day, dearest! is ours;
Why should Love carelessly lose it?
This life shines or lowers
Just as we, weak mortals, use it.
’Tis time enough, when its flowers decay,
To think of the thorns of Sorrow
And Joy, if left on the stem to-day,
May wither before to-morrow.
Then why, dearest! so long
Let the sweet moments fly over?
Tho’ now, blooming and young
Thou hast me devoutly thy lover;
Yet Time from both, in his silent lapse,
Some treasure may steal or borrow;
Thy charms may be less in bloom, perhaps,
Or I less in love to-morrow.
WHEN ON THE LIP THE SIGH DELAYS.
When on the lip the sigh delays,
As if ’twould linger there for ever;
When eyes would give the world to gaze,
Yet still look down and venture never;
When, tho’ with fairest nymphs we rove,
There’s one we dream of more than any —
If all this is not real love,
’Tis something wondrous like it, Fanny!
To think and ponder, when apart,
On all we’ve got to say at meeting;
And yet when near, with heart to heart,
Sit mute and listen to their beating:
To see but one bright object move,
The only moon, where stars are many —
If all this is not downright love,
I prithee say what is, my Fanny!
When Hope foretells the brightest, best,
Tho’ Reason on the darkest reckons;
When Passion drives us to the west,
Tho’ Prudence to the eastward beckons;
When all turns round, below, above,
And our own heads the most of any —
If this is not stark, staring love,
Then you and I are sages, Fanny.
HERE, TAKE MY HEART.
Here, take my heart— ‘twill be safe in thy keeping,
While I go wandering o’er land and o’er sea;
Smiling or sorrowing, waking or sleeping,
What need I care, so my heart is with thee?
If in the race we are destined to run, love,
They who have light hearts the happiest be,
Then happier still must be they who have none, love.
And that will be my case when mine is with thee.
It matters not where I may now be a rover,
I care not how many brigh
t eyes I may see;
Should Venus herself come and ask me to love her,
I’d tell her I couldn’t — my heart is with thee.
And there let it lie, growing fonder and, fonder —
For, even should Fortune turn truant to me,
Why, let her go — I’ve a treasure beyond her,
As long as my heart’s out at interest With thee!
OH, CALL IT BY SOME BETTER NAME.
Oh, call it by some better name,
For Friendship sounds too cold,
While Love is now a worldly flame,
Whose shrine must be of gold:
And Passion, like the sun at noon,
That burns o’er all he sees,
Awhile as warm will set as soon —
Then call it none of these.
Imagine something purer far,
More free from stain of clay
Than Friendship, Love, or Passion are,
Yet human, still as they:
And if thy lip, for love like this,
No mortal word can frame,
Go, ask of angels what it is,
And call it by that name!
POOR WOUNDED HEART
Poor wounded heart, farewell!
Thy hour of rest is come;
Thou soon wilt reach thy home,
Poor wounded heart, farewell!
The pain thou’lt feel in breaking
Less bitter far will be,
Than that long, deadly aching,
This life has been to thee.
There — broken heart, farewell!
The pang is o’er —
The parting pang is o’er;
Thou now wilt bleed no more.
Poor broken heart, farewell!
No rest for thee but dying —
Like waves whose strife is past,
On death’s cold shore thus lying,
Thou sleepst in peace at last —
Poor broken heart, farewell!
THE EAST INDIAN.
Come, May, with all thy flowers,
Thy sweetly-scented thorn,
Thy cooling evening showers,
The fragrant breath at morn:
When, May-flies haunt the willow,
When May-buds tempt the bee,
Then o’er the shining billow
My love will come to me.
From Eastern Isles she’s winging
Thro’ watery wilds her way,
And on her cheek is bringing
The bright sun’s orient ray:
Oh, come and court her hither,