Thomas Moore- Collected Poetical Works

by Thomas Moore

  What can match a lover’s speed?

  See, ’tis daylight, breaking pale!

  Brightly hath the northern star

  Lit us from yon radiant Skies;

  But, behold, how brighter far

  Yonder shine my lady’s eyes!

  A SELECTION FROM THE SONGS IN M. P.; OR, THE BLUE-STOCKING

  A COMIC OPERA IN THREE ACTS.

  1811.

  BOAT GLEE.

  The song that lightens the languid way,

  When brows are glowing,

  And faint with rowing,

  Is like the spell of Hope’s airy lay,

  To whose sound thro’ life we stray;

  The beams that flash on the oar awhile,

  As we row along thro’ the waves so clear,

  Illume its spray, like the fleeting smile

  That shines o’er sorrow’s tear.

  Nothing is lost on him who sees

  With an eye that feeling gave; —

  For him there’s a story in every breeze,

  And a picture in every wave.

  Then sing to lighten the languid way;

  When brows are glowing,

  And faint with rowing,

  ’Tis like the spell of Hope’s airy lay,

  To whose sound thro’ life we stray.

  * * * * *

  ’Tis sweet to behold when the billows are sleeping,

  Some gay-colored bark moving gracefully by;

  No damp on her deck but the eventide’s weeping,

  No breath in her sails but the summer wind’s sigh.

  Yet who would not turn with a fonder emotion,

  To gaze on the life-boat, tho’ rugged and worn.

  Which often hath wafted o’er hills of the ocean

  The lost light of hope to the seaman forlorn!

  Oh! grant that of those who in life’s sunny slumber

  Around us like summer-barks idly have played,

  When storms are abroad we may find in the number

  One friend, like the life-boat, to fly to our aid.

  * * * * *

  When Lelia touched the lute,

  Not then alone ’twas felt,

  But when the sounds were mute,

  In memory still they dwelt.

  Sweet lute! in nightly slumbers

  Still we heard thy morning numbers.

  Ah, how could she who stole

  Such breath from simple wire,

  Be led, in pride of soul,

  To string with gold her lyre?

  Sweet lute! thy chords she breaketh;

  Golden now the strings she waketh!

  But where are all the tales

  Her lute so sweetly told?

  In lofty themes she fails,

  And soft ones suit not gold.

  Rich lute! we see thee glisten,

  But, alas! no more we listen!

  * * * * *

  Young Love lived once in a humble shed,

  Where roses breathing

  And woodbines wreathing

  Around the lattice their tendrils spread,

  As wild and sweet as the life he led.

  His garden flourisht,

  For young Hope nourisht.

  The infant buds with beams and showers;

  But lips, tho’ blooming, must still be fed,

  And not even Love can live on flowers.

  Alas! that Poverty’s evil eye

  Should e’er come hither,

  Such sweets to wither!

  The flowers laid down their heads to die,

  And Hope fell sick as the witch drew nigh.

  She came one morning.

  Ere Love had warning,

  And raised the latch, where the young god lay;

  “Oh ho!” said Love— “is it you? good-by;”

  So he oped the window and flew away!

  * * * * *

  Spirit of Joy, thy altar lies

  In youthful hearts that hope like mine;

  And ’tis the light of laughing eyes

  That leads us to thy fairy shrine.

  There if we find the sigh, the tear,

  They are not those to sorrow known;

  But breathe so soft, and drop so clear,

  That bliss may claim them for her own.

  Then give me, give me, while I weep,

  The sanguine hope that brightens woe,

  And teaches even our tears to keep

  The tinge of pleasure as they flow.

  The child who sees the dew of night

  Upon the spangled hedge at morn,

  Attempts to catch the drops of light,

  But wounds his finger with the thorn.

  Thus oft the brightest joys we seek,

  Are lost when touched, and turned to pain;

  The flush they kindle leaves the cheek,

  The tears they waken long remain.

  But give me, give me, etc.

  * * * * *

  To sigh, yet feel no pain.

  To weep, yet scarce know why;

  To sport an hour with Beauty’s chain,

  Then throw it idly by;

  To kneel at many a shrine,

  Yet lay the heart on none;

  To think all other charms divine,

  But those we just have won;

  This is love, careless love,

  Such as kindleth hearts that rove.

  To keep one sacred flame,

  Thro’ life unchilled, unmoved,

  To love in wintry age the same

  As first in youth we loved;

  To feel that we adore

  To such refined excess.

  That tho’ the heart would break with more,

  We could not live with less;

  This is love, faithful love,

  Such as saints might feel above.

  * * * * *

  Dear aunt, in the olden time of love,

  When women like slaves were spurned,

  A maid gave her heart, as she would her glove,

  To be teased by a fop, and returned!

  But women grow wiser as men improve.

  And, tho’ beaux, like monkeys, amuse us,

  Oh! think not we’d give such a delicate gem

  As the heart to be played with or sullied by them;

  No, dearest aunt, excuse us.

  We may know by the head on Cupid’s seal

  What impression the heart will take;

  If shallow the head, oh! soon we feel

  What a poor impression ‘twill make!

  Tho’ plagued, Heaven knows! by the foolish zeal

  Of the fondling fop who pursues me,

  Oh, think not I’d follow their desperate rule,

  Who get rid of the folly by wedding the fool;

  No, dearest aunt! excuse me.

  * * * * *

  When Charles was deceived by the maid he loved,

  We saw no cloud his brow o’er-casting,

  But proudly he smiled as if gay and unmoved,

  Tho’ the wound in his heart was deep and lasting.

  And oft at night when the tempest rolled

  He sung as he paced the dark deck over —

  “Blow, wind, blow! thou art not so cold

  As the heart of a maid that deceives her lover.”

  Yet he lived with the happy and seemed to be gay,

  Tho’ the wound but sunk more deep for concealing;

  And Fortune threw many a thorn in his way,

  Which, true to one anguish, he trod without feeling!

  And still by the frowning of Fate unsubdued

  He sung as if sorrow had placed him above her —

  “Frown, Fate, frown! thou art not so rude

  As the heart of a maid that deceives her lover.”

  At length his career found a close in death,

  The close he long wished to his cheerless roving,

  For Victory shone on his latest breath,

  And he died in a cause of his heart’s approving.

  But sti
ll he remembered his sorrow, — and still

  He sung till the vision of life was over —

  “Come, death, come! thou art not so chill

  As the heart of a maid that deceives her lover.”

  * * * * *

  When life looks lone and dreary,

  What light can dispel the gloom?

  When Time’s swift wing grows weary,

  What charm can refresh his plume?

  ’Tis woman whose sweetness beameth

  O’er all that we feel or see;

  And if man of heaven e’er dreameth,

  ’Tis when he thinks purely of thee,

  O woman!

  Let conquerors fight for glory,

  Too dearly the meed they gain;

  Let patriots live in story —

  Too often they die in vain;

  Give kingdoms to those who choose ’em,

  This world can offer to me

  No throne like Beauty’s bosom,

  No freedom like serving thee,

  O woman!

  CUPID’S LOTTERY.

  A lottery, a Lottery,

  In Cupid’s court there used to be;

  Two roguish eyes

  The highest prize

  In Cupid’s scheming Lottery;

  And kisses, too,

  As good as new,

  Which weren’t very hard to win,

  For he who won

  The eyes of fun

  Was sure to have the kisses in

  A Lottery, a Lottery, etc.

  This Lottery, this Lottery,

  In Cupid’s court went merrily,

  And Cupid played

  A Jewish trade

  In this his scheming Lottery;

  For hearts, we’re told,

  In shares he sold

  To many a fond believing drone,

  And cut the hearts

  In sixteen parts

  So well, each thought the whole his own.

  Chor. — A Lottery, a Lottery, etc.

  * * * * *

  Tho’ sacred the tie that our country entwineth,

  And dear to the heart her remembrance remains,

  Yet dark are the ties where no liberty shineth,

  And sad the remembrance that slavery stains.

  O thou who wert born in the cot of the peasant,

  But diest in languor in luxury’s dome,

  Our vision when absent — our glory, when present —

  Where thou art, O Liberty! there is my home.

  Farewell to the land where in childhood I’ve wandered!

  In vain is she mighty, in vain, is she brave!

  Unblest is the blood that for tyrants is squandered,

  And fame has no wreaths for the brow of the slave.

  But hail to thee, Albion! who meet’st the commotion.

  Of Europe as calm as thy cliffs meet the foam!

  With no bonds but the law, and no slave but the ocean,

  Hail, Temple of Liberty! thou art my home.

  * * * * *

  Oh think, when a hero is sighing,

  What danger in such an adorer!

  What woman can dream’ of denying

  The hand that lays laurels before her?

  No heart is so guarded around,

  But the smile of the victor will take it;

  No bosom can slumber so sound,

  But the trumpet of glory will wake it.

  Love sometimes is given to sleeping,

  And woe to the heart that allows him;

  For oh, neither smiling nor weeping

  Has power at those moments to rouse him.

  But tho’ he was sleeping so fast,

  That the life almost seemed to forsake him,

  Believe me, one soul-thrilling blast

  From the trumpet of glory would wake him.

  * * * * *

  Mr. Orator Puff had two tones in his voice,

  The one squeaking thus, and the other down so!

  In each sentence he uttered he gave you your choice,

  For one was B alt, and the rest G below.

  Oh! oh, Orator Puff!

  One voice for one orator’s surely enough.

  But he still talked away spite of coughs and of frowns,

  So distracting all ears with his ups and his downs,

  That a wag once on hearing the orator say,

  “My voice is for war,” asked him, “Which of them, pray?”

  Oh! oh! etc.

  Reeling homewards one evening, top-heavy with gin,

  And rehearsing his speech on the weight of the crown,

  He tript near a sawpit, and tumbled right in,

  “Sinking Fund,” the last words as his noddle came down.

  Oh! oh, etc.

  “Help! help!” he exclaimed, in his he and she tones,

  “Help me out! help me out — I have broken my bones!”

  “Help you out?” said a Paddy who passed, “what a bother!

  Why, there’s two of you there, can’t you help one another?”

  Oh I oh! etc.

  MISCELLANEOUS POEMS.

  OCCASIONAL EPILOGUE.

  SPOKEN BY MR. COBBY, IN THE CHARACTER OF VAPID, AFTER THE PLAY OF THE DRAMATIST, AT THE KILKENNY THEATRE.

  (Entering as if to announce the Play.)

  Ladies and Gentlemen, on Monday night,

  For the ninth time — oh accents of delight

  To the poor author’s ear, when three times three

  With a full bumper crowns, his Comedy!

  When, long by money, and the muse, forsaken,

  He finds at length his jokes and boxes taken,

  And sees his play-bill circulate — alas,

  The only bill on which his name will pass!

  Thus, Vapid, thus shall Thespian scrolls of fame

  Thro’ box and gallery waft your well-known name,

  While critic eyes the happy cast shall con,

  And learned ladies spell your Dram. Person.

  ’Tis said our worthy Manager1intends

  To help my night, and he, ye know, has friends.

  Friends, did I say? for fixing friends, or parts,

  Engaging actors, or engaging hearts,

  There’s nothing like him! wits, at his request.

  Are turned to fools, and dull dogs learn to jest;

  Soldiers, for him, good “trembling cowards” make,

  And beaus, turned clowns, look ugly for his sake;

  For him even lawyers talk without a fee,

  For him (oh friendship) I act tragedy!

  In short, like Orpheus, his persuasive tricks

  Make boars amusing, and put life in sticks.

  With such a manager we can’t but please,

  Tho’ London sent us all her loud O. P.’s,2

  Let them come on, like snakes, all hiss and rattle,

  Armed with a thousand fans, we’d give them battle;

  You, on our side, R. P.3upon our banners,

  Soon should we teach the saucy O. P.’s manners:

  And show that, here — howe’er John Bull may doubt —

  In all our plays, the Riot-Act’s cut out;

  And, while we skim the cream of many a jest,

  Your well-timed thunder never sours its zest.

  Oh gently thus, when three short weeks are past,

  At Shakespeare’s altar,4 shall we breathe our last;

  And, ere this long-loved dome to ruin nods,

  Die all, die nobly, die like demigods!

  1 The late Mr. Richard Power.

  2 The brief appellation by which these persons were distinguished who, at the opening of the new theatre of Convent Garden, clamored for the continuance of the old prices of admission.

  3 The initials of our manager’s name.

  4 This alludes to a scenic representation then preparing for the last night of the performances.

  EXTRACT FROM A PROLOGUE WRITTEN AND SPOKEN BY THE AUTHOR, AT THE OPENING OF THE KILKENNY THEATRE, OCTOBER, 1809.

&n
bsp; * * * * *

  Yet, even here, tho’ Fiction rules the hour,

  There shine some genuine smiles, beyond her power;

  And there are tears, too — tears that Memory sheds

  Even o’er the feast that mimic fancy spreads,

  When her heart misses one lamented guest,1

  Whose eye so long threw light o’er all the rest!

  There, there, indeed, the Muse forgets her task,

  And drooping weeps behind Thalia’s mask.

  Forgive this gloom — forgive this joyless strain,

  Too sad to welcome pleasure’s smiling train.

  But, meeting thus, our hearts will part the lighter,

  As mist at dawn but makes the setting brighter;

  Gay Epilogue will shine where Prologue fails —

  As glow-worms keep their splendor for their tails.

  I know not why — but time, methinks, hath past

  More fleet than usual since we parted last.

  It seems but like a dream of yesternight.

  Whose charm still hangs, with fond, delaying light;

  And, ere the memory lose one glowing hue

  Of former joy, we come to kindle new.

  Thus ever may the flying moments haste

  With trackless foot along life’s vulgar waste,

  But deeply print and lingeringly move,

  When thus they reach the sunny spots we love.

  Oh yes, whatever be our gay career,

  Let this be still the solstice of the year,

  Where Pleasure’s sun shall at its height remain,

  And slowly sink to level life again.

  1 The late Mr. John Lyster, one of the oldest members and best actors of the Kilkenny Theatrical Society.

  THE SYLPH’S BALL.

  A sylph, as bright as ever sported

  Her figure thro’ the fields of air,

  By an old swarthy Gnome was courted.

  And, strange to say, he won the fair.

  The annals of the oldest witch

  A pair so sorted could not show,

  But how refuse? — the Gnome was rich,

  The Rothschild of the world below;

  And Sylphs, like other pretty creatures,

  Are told, betimes, they must consider

  Love as an auctioneer of features,

  Who knocks them down to the best bidder.

  Home she was taken to his Mine —

  A Palace paved with diamonds all —

  And, proud as Lady Gnome to shine,

  Sent out her tickets for a ball.

  The lower world of course was there,

  And all the best; but of the upper

  The sprinkling was but shy and rare, —

  A few old Sylphids who loved supper.

  As none yet knew the wondrous Lamp