by Thomas Moore
THE DAY-DREAM.1
They both were husht, the voice, the chords, —
I heard but once that witching lay;
And few the notes, and few the words.
My spell-bound memory brought away;
Traces, remembered here and there,
Like echoes of some broken strain; —
Links of a sweetness lost in air,
That nothing now could join again.
Even these, too, ere the morning, fled;
And, tho’ the charm still lingered on,
That o’er each sense her song had shed,
The song itself was faded, gone; —
Gone, like the thoughts that once were ours,
On summer days, ere youth had set;
Thoughts bright, we know, as summer flowers,
Tho’ what they were we now forget.
In vain with hints from other strains
I wooed this truant air to come —
As birds are taught on eastern plains
To lure their wilder kindred home.
In vain: — the song that Sappho gave,
In dying, to the mournful sea,
Not muter slept beneath the wave
Than this within my memory.
At length, one morning, as I lay
In that half-waking mood when dreams
Unwillingly at last gave way
To the full truth of daylight’s beams,
A face — the very face, methought,
From which had breathed, as from a shrine
Of song and soul, the notes I sought —
Came with its music close to mine;
And sung the long-lost measure o’er, —
Each note and word, with every tone
And look, that lent it life before, —
All perfect, all again my own!
Like parted souls, when, mid the Blest
They meet again, each widowed sound
Thro’ memory’s realm had winged in quest
Of its sweet mate, till all were found.
Nor even in waking did the clew,
Thus strangely caught, escape again;
For never lark its matins knew
So well as now I knew this strain.
And oft when memory’s wondrous spell
Is talked of in our tranquil bower,
I sing this lady’s song, and tell
The vision of that morning hour.
1 In these stanzas I have done little more than relate a fact in verse; and the lady, whose singing gave rise to this curious instance of the power of memory in sleep, is Mrs. Robert Arkwright.
SONG. WHERE IS THE HEART THAT WOULD NOT GIVE
Where is the heart that would not give
Years of drowsy days and nights,
One little hour, like this, to live —
Full, to the brim, of life’s delights?
Look, look around,
This fairy ground,
With love-lights glittering o’er;
While cups that shine
With freight divine
Go coasting round its shore.
Hope is the dupe of future hours,
Memory lives in those gone by;
Neither can see the moment’s flowers
Springing up fresh beneath the eye,
Wouldst thou, or thou,
Forego what’s now,
For all that Hope may say?
No — Joy’s reply,
From every eye,
Is, “Live we while we may,”
SONG OF THE POCO-CURANTE SOCIETY.
haud curat Hippoclides.
ERASM. Adag.
To those we love we’ve drank tonight;
But now attend and stare not,
While I the ampler list recite
Of those for whom WE CARE NOT.
For royal men, howe’er they frown,
If on their fronts they bear not
That noblest gem that decks a crown,
The People’s Love — WE CARE NOT.
For slavish men who bend beneath
A despot yoke, yet dare not
Pronounce the will whose very breath
Would rend its links — WE CARE NOT.
For priestly men who covet sway
And wealth, tho’ they declare not;
Who point, like finger-posts, the way
They never go — WE CARE NOT.
For martial men who on their sword,
Howe’er it conquers, wear not
The pledges of a soldier’s word,
Redeemed and pure — WE CARE NOT.
For legal men who plead for wrong.
And, tho’ to lies they swear not,
Are hardly better than the throng
Of those who do — WE CARE NOT.
For courtly men who feed upon
The land, like grubs, and spare not
The smallest leaf where they can sun
Their crawling limbs — WE CARE NOT.
For wealthy men who keep their mines
In darkness hid, and share not
The paltry ore with him who pines
In honest want — WE CARE NOT.
For prudent men who hold the power
Of Love aloof, and bare not
Their hearts in any guardless hour
To Beauty’s shaft — WE CARE NOT.
For all, in short, on land or sea,
In camp or court, who are not,
Who never were, or e’er will be
Good men and true — WE CARE NOT.
ANNE BOLEYN. TRANSLATION FROM THE METRICAL
“Histoire d’Anne Boleyn.”
“S’elle estoit belle et de taille élégante,
Estoit des yeulx encor plus attirante,
Lesquelz sçavoit bien conduyre à propos
En les lenant quelquefoys en repos;
Aucune foys envoyant en message
Porter du cueur le secret tesmoignage.”
Much as her form seduced the sight,
Her eyes could even more surely woo;
And when and how to shoot their light
Into men’s hearts full well she knew.
For sometimes in repose she hid
Their rays beneath a downcast lid;
And then again, with wakening air,
Would send their sunny glances out,
Like heralds of delight, to bear
Her heart’s sweet messages about.
THE DREAM OF THE TWO SISTERS.
FROM DANTE.
Nell ora, credo, che dell’oriente
Prima raggio nel monte Citerea,
Che di fuoco d’amor par sempre dente,
Giovane e bella in sogno mi parea
Donna vedere andar per una landa
Cogliendo flori; e cantando dicea ; —
Sappia qualunque’l mio nome dimanda,
Ch’io mi son Lia, e vo movendo ‘ntorno
Le belle mani a farmi una ghirlanda —
Per piacermi allo specchio qui m’adorno;
Ma mia suora Rachel mai non si smaga
Dal suo ammiraglio, e siede tutto il giorno.
Ell’ è de’suoi begli occhi veder vaga,
Com’ io dell’adornarmi con le mani;
Lei lo vodere e me l’ovrare appaga.
DANTE, Purg. Canto xxvii.
’Twas eve’s soft hour, and bright, above.
The star of beauty beamed,
While lulled by light so full of love,
In slumber thus I dreamed —
Methought, at that sweet hour,
A nymph came o’er the lea,
Who, gathering many a flower,
Thus said and sung to me: —
“Should any ask what Leila loves,
“Say thou, To wreathe her hair
“With flowerets culled from glens and groves,
“Is Leila’s only care.
“While thus in quest of flowers rare,
“O’er hill and dale I roam,
&nb
sp; “My sister, Rachel, far more fair,
“Sits lone and mute at home.
“Before her glass untiring,
“With thoughts that never stray,
“Her own bright eyes admiring,
“She sits the live-long day;
“While I! — oh, seldom even a look
“Of self salutes my eye;
“My only glass, the limpid brook,
“That shines and passes by.”
SOVEREIGN WOMAN.
A BALLAD.
The dance was o’er, yet still in dreams
That fairy scene went on;
Like clouds still flusht with daylight gleams
Tho’ day itself is gone.
And gracefully to music’s sound,
The same bright nymphs were gliding round;
While thou, the Queen of all, wert there —
The Fairest still, where all were fair.
The dream then changed — in halls of state,
I saw thee high enthroned;
While, ranged around, the wise, the great,
In thee their mistress owned;
And still the same, thy gentle sway
O’er willing subjects won its way —
Till all confest the Right Divine
To rule o’er man was only thine!
But, lo, the scene now changed again —
And borne on plumed steed,
I saw thee o’er the battle-plain
Our land’s defenders lead:
And stronger in thy beauty’s charms,
Than man, with countless hosts in arms,
Thy voice, like music, cheered the Free,
Thy very smile was victory!
Nor reign such queens on thrones alone —
In cot and court the same,
Wherever woman’s smile is known,
Victoria’s still her name.
For tho’ she almost blush to reign,
Tho’ Love’s own flowerets wreath the chain,
Disguise our bondage as we will,
’Tis woman, woman, rules us still.
COME, PLAY ME THAT SIMPLE AIR AGAIN.
A BALLAD.
Come, play me that simple air again,
I used so to love, in life’s young day,
And bring, if thou canst, the dreams that then
Were wakened by that sweet lay
The tender gloom its strain
Shed o’er the heart and brow
Grief’s shadow without its pain —
Say where, where is it now?
But play me the well-known air once more,
For thoughts of youth still haunt its strain
Like dreams of some far, fairy shore
We never shall see again.
Sweet air, how every note brings back
Some sunny hope, some daydream bright,
That, shining o’er life’s early track,
Filled even its tears with light.
The new-found life that came
With love’s first echoed vow; —
The fear, the bliss, the shame —
Ah — where, where are they now?
But, still the same loved notes prolong,
For sweet ‘twere thus, to that old lay,
In dreams of youth and love and song,
To breathe life’s hour away.
POEMS FROM THE EPICUREAN
(1827.)
THE VALLEY OF THE NILE.
Far as the sight can reach, beneath as clear
And blue a heaven as ever blest this sphere,
Gardens and pillared streets and porphyry domes
And high-built temples, fit to be the homes
Of mighty gods, and pyramids whose hour
Outlasts all time, above the waters tower!
Then, too, the scenes of pomp and joy that make
One theatre of this vast peopled lake,
Where all that Love, Religion, Commerce gives
Of life and motion, ever moves and lives,
Here, up in the steps of temples, from the wave
Ascending, in procession slow and grave,
Priests in white garments go, with sacred wands
And silver cymbals gleaming in their hands:
While there, rich barks — fresh from those sunny tracts
Far off, beyond the sounding cataracts —
Glide with their precious lading to the sea,
Plumes of bright birds, rhinoceros’ ivory,
Gems from the isle of Meroë, and those grains
Of gold, washed down by Abyssinian rains.
Here, where the waters wind into a bay
Shadowy and cool, some pilgrims on their way
To Saïs or Bubastus, among beds
Of lotos flowers that close above their heads,
Push their light barks, and hid as in a bower
Sing, talk, or sleep away the sultry hour,
While haply, not far off, beneath a bank
Of blossoming acacias, many a prank
Is played in the cool current by a train
Of laughing nymphs, lovely as she whose chain
Around two conquerors of the world was cast;
But, for a third too feeble, broke at last.
SONG OF THE TWO CUPBEARERS.
FIRST CUPBEARER.
Drink of this cup — Osiris sips
The same in his halls below;
And the same he gives, to cool the lips
Of the dead, who downward go.
Drink of this cup — the water within
Is fresh from Lethe’s stream;
‘Twill make the past, with all its sin,
And all its pain and sorrows, seem
Like a long forgotten dream;
The pleasure, whose charms
Are steeped in woe;
The knowledge, that harms
The soul to know;
The hope, that bright
As the lake of the waste,
Allures the sight
And mocks the taste;
The love, that binds
Its innocent wreath,
Where the serpent winds
In venom beneath! —
All that of evil or false, by thee
Hath ever been known or seen,
Shalt melt away in this cup, and be
Forgot as it never had been!
SECOND CUPBEARER.
Drink of this cup — when Isis led
Her boy of old to the beaming sky,
She mingled a draught divine and said. —
“Drink of this cup, thou’lt never die!”
Thus do I say and sing to thee.
Heir of that boundless heaven on high,
Though frail and fallen and lost thou be,
“Drink of this cup, thou’lt never die!”
* * * * *
And Memory, too, with her dreams shall come,
Dreams of a former, happier day,
When heaven was still the spirit’s home,
And her wings had not yet fallen away.
Glimpses of glory ne’er forgot,
That tell, like gleams on a sunset sea,
What once hath been, what now is not.
But oh! what again shall brightly be!”
SONG OF THE NUBIAN GIRL.
O Abyssinian tree,
We pray, we pray to thee;
By the glow of thy golden fruit
And the violet hue of the flower,
And the greeting mute
Of thy boughs’ salute
To the stranger who seeks thy bow.
O Abyssinian tree!
How the traveller blesses thee
When the light no moon allows,
And the sunset hour is near,
And thou bend’st thy boughs
To kiss his brows.
Saying, “Come, rest thee here.”
O Abyssinian tree!
Thus bow thy head to me!
THE SUMMER FÊTE.
TO THE HONOR
ABLE MRS. NORTON.
For the groundwork of the following Poem I am indebted to a memorable Fête, given some years since, at Boyle Farm, the seat of the late Lord Henry Fitzgerald. In commemoration of that evening — of which the lady to whom these pages are inscribed was, I well recollect, one of the most distinguished ornaments — I was induced at the time to write some verses, which were afterwards, however, thrown aside unfinished, on my discovering that the same task had been undertaken by a noble poet,1 whose playful and happy jeu d’esprit on the subject has since been published. It was but lately, that, on finding the fragments of my own sketch among my papers, I thought of founding on them such a description of an imaginary Fête as might furnish me with situations for the introduction of music.
Such is the origin and object of the following Poem, and to MRS. NORTON it is, with every feeling of admiration and regard, inscribed by her father’s warmly attached friend,
THOMAS MOORE.
Sloperton Cottage,
November 1881
1 Lord Francis Egerton.
THE SUMMER FÊTE
“Where are ye now, ye summer days,
“That once inspired the poet’s lays?
“Blest time! ere England’s nymphs and swains,
“For lack of sunbeams, took to coals —
“Summers of light, undimmed by rains,
“Whose only mocking trace remains
“In watering-pots and parasols.”
Thus spoke a young Patrician maid,
As, on the morning of that Fête
Which bards unborn shall celebrate,
She backward drew her curtain’s shade,
And, closing one half-dazzled eye,
Peeped with the other at the sky —
The important sky, whose light or gloom
Was to decide, this day, the doom
Of some few hundred beauties, wits,
Blues, Dandies, Swains, and Exquisites.
Faint were her hopes; for June had now
Set in with all his usual rigor!
Young Zephyr yet scarce knowing how
To nurse a bud, or fan a bough,
But Eurus in perpetual vigor;
And, such the biting summer air,
That she, the nymph now nestling there —
Snug as her own bright gems recline
At night within their cotton shrine —
Had more than once been caught of late
Kneeling before her blazing grate,
Like a young worshipper of fire,
With hands uplifted to the flame,
Whose glow as if to woo them nigher.