Thomas Moore- Collected Poetical Works

by Thomas Moore

  Ye breezes mild and warm —

  One winter’s gale would wither

  So soft, so pure a form.

  The fields where she was straying

  Are blest with endless light,

  With zephyrs always playing

  Thro’ gardens always bright.

  Then now, sweet May! be sweeter

  Than e’er, thou’st been before;

  Let sighs from roses meet her

  When she comes near our shore.

  POOR BROKEN FLOWER.

  Poor broken flower! what art can now recover thee?

  Torn from the stem that fed thy rosy breath —

  In vain the sunbeams seek

  To warm that faded cheek;

  The dews of heaven, that once like balm fell over thee;

  Now are but tears, to weep thy early death.

  So droops the maid whose lover hath forsaken her, —

  Thrown from his arms, as lone and lost as thou;

  In vain the smiles of all

  Like sunbeams round her fall:

  The only smile that could from death awaken her,

  That smile, alas! is gone to others now.

  THE PRETTY ROSE-TREE.

  Being weary of love,

  I flew to the grove,

  And chose me a tree of the fairest;

  Saying, “Pretty Rose-tree,

  “Thou my mistress shall be,

  “And I’ll worship each bud thou bearest.

  “For the hearts of this world are hollow,

  “And fickle the smiles we follow;

  “And ’tis sweet, when all

  “Their witcheries pall

  “To have a pure love to fly to:

  “So, my pretty Rose-tree,

  “Thou my mistress shalt be,

  “And the only one now I shall sigh to.”

  When the beautiful hue

  Of thy cheek thro’ the dew

  Of morning is bashfully peeping,

  “Sweet tears,” I shall say

  (As I brush them away),

  “At least there’s no art in this weeping”

  Altho thou shouldst die to-morrow;

  ‘Twill not be from pain or sorrow;

  And the thorns of thy stem

  Are not like them

  With which men wound each other;

  So, my pretty Rose-tree,

  Thou my mistress shalt be

  And I’ll never again sigh to another.

  SHINE OUT, STARS!

  Shine out, Stars! let Heaven assemble

  Round us every festal ray,

  Lights that move not, lights that tremble,

  All to grace this Eve of May.

  Let the flower-beds all lie waking,

  And the odors shut up there,

  From their downy prisons breaking,

  Fly abroad thro sea and air.

  And Would Love, too, bring his sweetness,

  With our other joys to weave,

  Oh what glory, what completeness,

  Then would crown this bright May Eve!

  Shine out, Stars! let night assemble

  Round us every festal ray,

  Lights that move not, lights that tremble,

  To adorn this Eve of May.

  THE YOUNG MULETEERS OF GRENADA.

  Oh, the joys of our evening posada,

  Where, resting, at close of day,

  We, young Muleteers of Grenada,

  Sit and sing the sunshine away;

  So merry, that even the slumbers

  That round us hung seem gone;

  Till the lute’s soft drowsy numbers

  Again beguile them on.

  Oh the joys, etc.

  Then as each to his loved sultana

  In sleep still breathes the sigh,

  The name of some black-eyed Tirana,

  Escapes our lips as we lie.

  Till, with morning’s rosy twinkle,

  Again we’re up and gone —

  While the mule-bell’s drowsy tinkle

  Beguiles the rough way on.

  Oh the joys of our merry posada,

  Where, resting at close of day,

  We, young Muleteers of Grenada,

  Thus sing the gay moments away.

  TELL HER, OH, TELL HER.

  Tell her, oh, tell her, the lute she left lying

  Beneath the green arbor is still lying there;

  And breezes like lovers around it are sighing,

  But not a soft whisper replies to their prayer.

  Tell her, oh, tell her, the tree that, in going,

  Beside the green arbor she playfully set,

  As lovely as, ever is blushing and blowing,

  And not a, bright leaflet has fallen from it yet.

  So while away from that arbor forsaken,

  The maiden is wandering, still let her be

  As true as the lute that no sighing can waken

  And blooming for ever, unchanged as the tree!

  NIGHTS OF MUSIC.

  Nights of music, nights of loving,

  Lost too soon, remembered long.

  When we went by moonlight roving,

  Hearts all love and lips all song.

  When this faithful lute recorded

  All my spirit felt to thee;

  And that smile the song rewarded —

  Worth Whole years of fame to me!

  Nights of song, and nights of splendor,

  Filled with joys too sweet to last —

  Joys that, like the star-light, tender,

  While they shore no shadow cast.

  Tho’ all other happy hours

  From my fading memory fly,

  Of, that starlight, of those bowers,

  Not a beam, a leaf may die!

  OUR FIRST YOUNG LOVE.

  Our first young love resembles

  That short but brilliant ray,

  Which smiles and weeps and trembles

  Thro’ April’s earliest day.

  And not all life before us,

  Howe’er its lights may play,

  Can shed a lustre o’er us

  Like that first April ray.

  Our summer sun may squander

  A blaze serener, grander;

  Our autumn beam

  May, like a dream

  Of heaven, die calm away;

  But no — let life before us

  Bring all the light it may,

  ‘Twill ne’er shed lustre o’er us

  Like that first youthful ray.

  BLACK AND BLUE EYES.

  The brilliant black eye

  May in triumph let fly

  All its darts without Caring who feels ’em;

  But the soft eye of blue,

  Tho’ it scatter wounds too,

  Is much better pleased when it heals ’em —

  Dear Fanny!

  Is much better pleased when it heals ’em.

  The black eye may say,

  “Come and worship my ray —

  “By adoring, perhaps you may move me!”

  But the blue eye, half hid,

  Says from under its lid,

  “I love and am yours, if you love me!”

  Yes, Fanny!

  The blue eye, half hid,

  Says, from under its lid,

  “I love and am yours, if you love me!”

  Come tell me, then, why

  In that lovely blue eye

  Not a charm of its tint I discover;

  Oh why should you wear

  The only blue pair

  That ever said “No” to a lover?

  Dear Fanny!

  Oh, why should you wear

  The only blue pair

  That ever said “No” to a lover?

  DEAR FANNY.

  “She has beauty, but still you must keep your heart cool;

  “She has wit, but you mustn’t be caught, so;”

  Thus Reason advises, but Reason’s a fool,

  And ’tis not the first time I have thoug
ht so,

  Dear Fanny.

  ’Tis not the first time I have thought so.

  “She is lovely; then love her, nor let the bliss fly;

  “’Tis the charm of youth’s vanishing season;”

  Thus Love has advised me and who will deny

  That Love reasons much better than Reason,

  Dear Fanny?

  Love reasons much better than Reason.

  FROM LIFE WITHOUT FREEDOM.

  From life without freedom, say, who would not fly?

  For one day of freedom, oh! who would not die?

  Hark! — hark! ’tis the trumpet! the call of the brave,

  The death-song of tyrants, the dirge of the slave.

  Our country lies bleeding — haste, haste to her aid;

  One arm that defends is worth hosts that invade.

  In death’s kindly bosom our last hope remains —

  The dead fear no tyrants, the grave has no chains.

  On, on to the combat! the heroes that bleed

  For virtue and mankind are heroes indeed.

  And oh, even if Freedom from this world be driven,

  Despair not — at least we shall find her in heaven.

  HERE’S THE BOWER.

  Here’s the bower she loved so much,

  And the tree she planted;

  Here’s the harp she used to touch —

  Oh, how that touch enchanted!

  Roses now unheeded sigh;

  Where’s the hand to wreathe them?

  Songs around neglected lie;

  Where’s the lip to breathe them?

  Here’s the bower, etc.

  Spring may bloom, but she we loved

  Ne’er shall feel its sweetness;

  Time, that once so fleetly moved,

  Now hath lost its fleetness.

  Years were days, when here she strayed,

  Days were moments near her;

  Heaven ne’er formed a brighter maid,

  Nor Pity wept a dearer!

  Here’s the bower, etc.

  I SAW THE MOON RISE CLEAR.

  A FINLAND LOVE SONG.

  I saw the moon rise clear

  O’er hills and vales of snow

  Nor told my fleet reindeer

  The track I wished to go.

  Yet quick he bounded forth;

  For well my reindeer knew

  I’ve but one path on earth —

  The path which leads to you.

  The gloom that winter cast,

  How soon the heart forgets,

  When summer brings, at last,

  Her sun that never sets!

  So dawned my love for you;

  So, fixt thro’ joy and pain,

  Than summer sun more true,

  ‘Twill never set again.

  LOVE AND THE SUN-DIAL.

  Young Love found a Dial once in a dark shade

  Where man ne’er had wandered nor sunbeam played;

  “Why thus in darkness lie?” whispered young Love,

  “Thou, whose gay hours in sunshine should move.”

  “I ne’er,” said the Dial, “have seen the warm sun,

  “So noonday and midnight to me, Love, are one.”

  Then Love took the Dial away from the shade,

  And placed her where Heaven’s beam warmly played.

  There she reclined, beneath Love’s gazing eye,

  While, marked all with sunshine, her hours flew by.

  “Oh, how,” said the Dial, “can any fair maid

  “That’s born to be shone upon rest in the shade?”

  But night now comes on and the sunbeam’s o’er,

  And Love stops to gaze on the Dial no more.

  Alone and neglected, while bleak rain and winds

  Are storming around her, with sorrow she finds

  That Love had but numbered a few sunny hours, —

  Then left the remainder to darkness and showers!

  LOVE AND TIME.

  ’Tis said — but whether true or not

  Let bards declare who’ve seen ’em —

  That Love and Time have only got

  One pair of wings between ’em.

  In Courtship’s first delicious hour,

  The boy full oft can spare ’em;

  So, loitering in his lady’s bower,

  He lets the gray-beard wear ’em.

  Then is Time’s hour of play;

  Oh, how be flies, flies away!

  But short the moments, short as bright,

  When he the wings can borrow;

  If Time to-day has had his flight,

  Love takes his turn to-morrow.

  Ah! Time and Love, your change is then

  The saddest and most trying,

  When one begins to limp again,

  And t’other takes to flying.

  Then is Love’s hour to stray;

  Oh, how he flies, flies away!

  But there’s a nymph, whose chains I feel,

  And bless the silken fetter,

  Who knows, the dear one, how to deal

  With Love and Time much better.

  So well she checks their wanderings,

  So peacefully she pairs ’em,

  That Love with her ne’er thinks of wings,

  And Time for ever wears ’em.

  This is Time’s holiday;

  Oh, how he flies, flies away!

  LOVE’S LIGHT SUMMER-CLOUD.

  Pain and sorrow shall vanish before us —

  Youth may wither, but feeling will last;

  All the shadow that e’er shall fall o’er us

  Love’s light summer-cloud only shall cast.

  Oh, if to love thee more

  Each hour I number o’er —

  If this a passion be

  Worthy of thee,

  Then be happy, for thus I adore thee.

  Charms may wither, but feeling shall last:

  All the shadow that e’er shall fall o’er thee,

  Love’s light summer-cloud sweetly shall cast.

  Rest, dear bosom, no sorrows shall pain thee,

  Sighs of pleasure alone shalt thou steal;

  Beam, bright eyelid, no weeping shall stain thee,

  Tears of rapture alone shalt thou feel.

  Oh, if there be a charm,

  In love, to banish harm —

  If pleasure’s truest spell

  Be to love well,

  Then be happy, for thus I adore thee,

  Charms may wither, but feeling shall last;

  All the shadow that e’er shall fall o’er thee.

  Love’s light summer-cloud sweetly shall cast.

  LOVE, WANDERING THRO’ THE GOLDEN MAZE.

  Love, wandering through the golden maze

  Of my beloved’s hair,

  Traced every lock with fond delays,

  And, doting, lingered there.

  And soon he found ‘twere vain to fly;

  His heart was close confined,

  For, every ringlet was a tie —

  A chain by beauty twined.

  MERRILY EVERY BOSOM BOUNDETH.

  (THE TYROLESE SONG OF LIBERTY.)

  Merrily every bosom boundeth,

  Merrily, oh!

  Where the song of Freedom soundeth,

  Merrily oh!

  There the warrior’s arms

  Shed more splendor;

  There the maiden’s charm’s

  Shine more tender;

  Every joy the land surroundeth,

  Merrily, oh! merrily, oh!

  Wearily every bosom pineth,

  Wearily, oh!

  Where the bond of slavery twineth

  Wearily, oh

  There the warrior’s dart

  Hath no fleetness;

  There the maiden’s heart

  Hath no sweetness —

  Every flower of life declineth,

  Wearily, oh! wearily, oh!

  Cheerily then from hill and valley,

  Cheerily, oh!

&nbs
p; Like your native fountain sally,

  Cheerily, oh!

  If a glorious death,

  Won by bravery,

  Sweeter be than breath

  Sighed in slavery,

  Round the flag of Freedom rally,

  Cheerily, oh! cheerily, oh!

  REMEMBER THE TIME.

  (THE CASTILIAN MAID.)

  Remember the time, in La Mancha’s shades,

  When our moments so blissfully flew;

  When you called me the flower of Castilian maids,

  And I blushed to be called so by you;

  When I taught you to warble the gay seguadille.

  And to dance to the light castanet;

  Oh, never, dear youth, let you roam where you will,

  The delight of those moments forget.

  They tell me, you lovers from Erin’s green isle,

  Every hour a new passion can feel;

  And that soon, in the light of some lovelier smile.

  You’ll forget the poor maid of Castile.

  But they know not how brave in battle you are,

  Or they never could think you would rove;

  For ’tis always the spirit most gallant in war

  That is fondest and truest in Love.

  OH, SOON RETURN.

  Our white sail caught the evening ray,

  The wave beneath us seemed to burn,

  When all the weeping maid could say,

  Was, “Oh, soon return!”

  Thro’ many a clime our ship was driven

  O’er many a billow rudely thrown;

  Now chilled beneath a northern heaven,

  Now sunned in summer’s zone:

  And still, where’er we bent our way,

  When evening bid the west wave burn,

  I fancied still I heard her say,

  “Oh, soon return!”

  If ever yet my bosom found

  Its thoughts one moment turned from thee,

  ’Twas when the combat raged around,

  And brave men looked to me.

  But tho’ the war-field’s wild alarm

  For gentle love was all unmeet,

  He lent to glory’s brow the charm,

  Which made even danger sweet.

  And still, when victory’s calm came o’er

  The hearts where rage had ceased to burn,

  Those parting words I heard once more,

  “Oh, soon return! — Oh, soon return!”

  LOVE THEE?