by Thomas Moore
Lisp out love-sonnets as they glide —
Astonishing old Thames to find
Such doings on his moral tide.
So bright was still that tranquil river,
With the last shaft from Daylight’s quiver,
That many a group in turn were seen
Embarking on its wave serene;
And ‘mong the rest, in chorus gay,
A band of mariners, from the isles
Of sunny Greece, all song and smiles,
As smooth they floated, to the play
Of their oar’s cadence, sung this lay: —
TRIO.
Our home is on the sea, boy,
Our home is on the sea;
When Nature gave
The ocean-wave,
She markt it for the Free.
Whatever storms befall, boy,
Whatever storms befall,
The island bark
Is Freedom’s ark,
And floats her safe thro’ all.
Behold yon sea of isles, boy,
Behold yon sea of isles,
Where every shore
Is sparkling o’er
With Beauty’s richest smiles.
For us hath Freedom claimed, boy,
For us hath Freedom claimed
Those ocean-nests
Where Valor rests
His eagle wing untamed.
And shall the Moslem dare, boy,
And shall the Moslem dare,
While Grecian hand
Can wield a brand,
To plant his Crescent there?
No — by our fathers, no, boy,
No, by the Cross, we show —
From Maina’s rills
To Thracia’s hills
All Greece re-echoes “No!”
* * * * *
Like pleasant thoughts that o’er the mind
A minute come and go again,
Even so by snatches in the wind,
Was caught and lost that choral strain,
Now full, now faint upon the ear,
As the bark floated far or near.
At length when, lost, the closing note
Had down the waters died along,
Forth from another fairy boat,
Freighted with music, came this song —
SONG. SMOOTHLY FLOWING THRO’ VERDANT VALES,
Smoothly flowing thro’ verdant vales,
Gentle river, thy current runs,
Sheltered safe from winter gales,
Shaded cool from summer suns.
Thus our Youth’s sweet moments glide.
Fenced with flowery shelter round;
No rude tempest wakes the tide,
All its path is fairy ground.
But, fair river, the day will come,
When, wooed by whispering groves in vain,
Thou’lt leave those banks, thy shaded home,
To mingle with the stormy main.
And thou, sweet Youth, too soon wilt pass
Into the world’s unsheltered sea,
Where, once thy wave hath mixt, alas,
All hope of peace is lost for thee.
Next turn we to the gay saloon,
Resplendent as a summer noon,
Where, ‘neath a pendent wreath of lights,
A Zodiac of flowers and tapers —
(Such as in Russian ball-rooms sheds
Its glory o’er young dancers’ heads) —
Quadrille performs her mazy rites,
And reigns supreme o’er slides and capers; —
Working to death each opera strain,
As, with a foot that ne’er reposes,
She jigs thro’ sacred and profane,
From “Maid and Magpie” up to “Moses;” — 3
Wearing out tunes as fast as shoes,
Till fagged Rossini scarce respires;
Till Meyerbeer for mercy sues,
And Weber at her feet expires.
And now the set hath ceased — the bows
Of fiddlers taste a brief repose,
While light along the painted floor,
Arm within arm, the couples stray,
Talking their stock of nothings o’er,
Till — nothing’s left at last to say.
When lo! — most opportunely sent —
Two Exquisites, a he and she,
Just brought from Dandyland, and meant
For Fashion’s grand Menagerie,
Entered the room — and scarce were there
When all flocked round them, glad to stare
At any monsters, any where.
Some thought them perfect, to their tastes;
While others hinted that the waists
(That in particular of the he thing)
Left far too ample room for breathing:
Whereas, to meet these critics’ wishes,
The isthmus there should be so small,
That Exquisites, at last, like fishes,
Must manage not to breathe at all.
The female (these same critics said),
Tho’ orthodox from toe to chin,
Yet lacked that spacious width of head
To hat of toadstool much akin —
That build of bonnet, whose extent
Should, like a doctrine of dissent,
Puzzle church-doors to let it in.
However — sad as ’twas, no doubt,
That nymph so smart should go about,
With head unconscious of the place
It ought to fill in Infinite Space —
Yet all allowed that, of her kind,
A prettier show ’twas hard to find;
While of that doubtful genus, “dressy men,”
The male was thought a first-rate specimen.
Such Savans, too, as wisht to trace
The manners, habits, of this race —
To know what rank (if rank at all)
‘Mong reasoning things to them should fall —
What sort of notions heaven imparts
To high-built heads and tight-laced hearts
And how far Soul, which, Plato says,
Abhors restraint, can act in stays —
Might now, if gifted with discerning,
Find opportunities of learning:
As these two creatures — from their pout
And frown, ’twas plain — had just fallen out;
And all their little thoughts, of course.
Were stirring in full fret and force; —
Like mites, through microscope espied,
A world of nothings magnified.
But mild the vent such beings seek,
The tempest of their souls to speak:
As Opera swains to fiddles sigh,
To fiddles fight, to fiddles die,
Even so this tender couple set
Their well-bred woes to a Duet.
WALTZ DUET.
HE.
Long as I waltzed with only thee,
Each blissful Wednesday that went by,
Nor stylish Stultz, nor neat Nugee
Adorned a youth so blest as I.
Oh! ah! ah! oh!
Those happy days are gone — heigho!
SHE.
Long as with thee I skimmed the ground,
Nor yet was scorned for Lady Jane,
No blither nymph tetotumed round
To Collinet’s immortal strain.
Oh! ah! etc.
Those happy days are gone — heigho!
HE.
With Lady Jane now whirled about,
I know no bounds of time or breath;
And, should the charmer’s head hold out,
My heart and heels are hers till death.
Oh! ah! etc.
Still round and round thro’ life we’ll go.
SHE.
To Lord Fitznoodle’s eldest son,
A youth renowned for waistcoats smart,
I now have given (excuse the pun)
A vested inte
rest in my heart.
Oh! ah! etc.
Still round and round with him I’ll go.
HE.
What if by fond remembrance led
Again to wear our mutual chain.
For me thou cut’st Fitznoodle
dead,
And I levant from Lady Jane.
Oh! ah! etc.
Still round and round again we’ll go.
SHE.
Tho’ he the Noodle honors give,
And thine, dear youth, are not so high,
With thee in endless waltz I’d live,
With thee, to Weber’s Stop —
Waltz, die!
Oh! ah! etc.
Thus round and round thro’ life we’ll go.
[Exeunt waltzing.
* * * * *
While thus, like motes that dance away
Existence in a summer ray,
These gay things, born but to quadrille,
The circle of their doom fulfil —
(That dancing doom whose law decrees
That they should live on the alert toe
A life of ups-and-downs, like keys
Of Broadwood’s in a long concerto: — )
While thus the fiddle’s spell, within,
Calls up its realm of restless sprites.
Without, as if some Mandarin
Were holding there his Feast of Lights,
Lamps of all hues, from walks and bowers,
Broke on the eye, like kindling flowers,
Till, budding into light, each tree
Bore its full fruit of brilliancy.
Here shone a garden-lamps all o’er,
As tho’ the Spirits of the Air
Had taken it in their heads to pour
A shower of summer meteors there; —
While here a lighted shrubbery led
To a small lake that sleeping lay,
Cradled in foliage but, o’er-head,
Open to heaven’s sweet breath and ray;
While round its rim there burning stood
Lamps, with young flowers beside them bedded,
That shrunk from such warm neighborhood,
And, looking bashful in the flood,
Blushed to behold themselves so wedded.
Hither, to this embowered retreat,
Fit but for nights so still and sweet;
Nights, such as Eden’s calm recall
In its first lonely hour, when all
So silent is, below, on high,
That is a star falls down the sky,
You almost think you hear it fall —
Hither, to this recess, a few,
To shun the dancers’ wildering noise,
And give an hour, ere night-time flew,
To music’s more ethereal joys,
Came with their voices-ready all
As Echo waiting for a call —
In hymn or ballad, dirge or glee,
To weave their mingling ministrelsy,
And first a dark-eyed nymph, arrayed —
Like her whom Art hath deathless made,
Bright Mona Lisa4 — with that braid
Of hair across the brow, and one
Small gem that in the centre shone —
With face, too, in its form resembling
Da Vinci’s Beauties-the dark eyes,
Now lucid as thro’ crystal trembling,
Now soft as if suffused with sighs —
Her lute that hung beside her took,
And, bending o’er it with shy look,
More beautiful, in shadow thus,
Than when with life most luminous,
Past her light finger o’er the chords,
And sung to them these mournful words: —
SONG.
Bring hither, bring thy lute, while day is dying —
Here will I lay me and list to thy song;
Should tones of other days mix with its sighing,
Tones of a light heart, now banisht so long,
Chase them away-they bring but pain,
And let thy theme be woe again.
Sing on thou mournful lute — day is fast going,
Soon will its light from thy chords die away;
One little gleam in the west is still glowing,
When that hath vanisht, farewell to thy lay.
Mark, how it fades!-see, it is fled!
Now, sweet lute, be thou, too, dead.
The group that late in garb of Greeks
Sung their light chorus o’er the tide —
Forms, such as up the wooded creeks
Of Helle’s shore at noon-day glide,
Or nightly on her glistening sea,
Woo the bright waves with melody —
Now linked their triple league again
Of voices sweet, and sung a strain,
Such as, had Sappho’s tuneful ear
But caught it, on the fatal steep,
She would have paused, entranced, to hear,
And for that day deferred her leap.
SONG AND TRIO.
On one of those sweet nights that oft
Their lustre o’er the AEgean fling,
Beneath my casement, low and soft,
I heard a Lesbian lover sing;
And, listening both with ear and thought,
These sounds upon the night breeze caught —
“Oh, happy as the gods is he,
“Who gazes at this hour on thee!”
The song was one by Sappho sung,
In the first love-dreams of her lyre,
When words of passion from her tongue
Fell like a shower of living fire.
And still, at close of every strain,
I heard these burning words again —
“Oh, happy as the gods is he,
“Who listens at this hour to thee!”
Once more to Mona Lisa turned
Each asking eye — nor turned in vain
Tho’ the quick, transient blush that burned
Bright o’er her cheek and died again,
Showed with what inly shame and fear
Was uttered what all loved to hear.
Yet not to sorrow’s languid lay
Did she her lute-song now devote;
But thus, with voice that like a ray
Of southern sunshine seemed to float —
So rich with climate was each note —
Called up in every heart a dream
Of Italy with this soft theme: —
SONG.
Oh, where art thou dreaming,
On land, or on sea?
In my lattice is gleaming
The watch-light for thee;
And this fond heart is glowing
To welcome thee home,
And the night is fast going,
But thou art not come:
No, thou com’st not!
’Tis the time when night-flowers
Should wake from their rest;
’Tis the hour of all hours,
When the lute singeth best,
But the flowers are half sleeping
Till thy glance they see;
And the husht lute is keeping
Its music for thee.
Yet, thou com’st not!
* * * * *
Scarce had the last word left her lip,
When a light, boyish form, with trip
Fantastic, up the green walk came,
Prankt in gay vest to which the flame
Of every lamp he past, or blue
Or green or crimson, lent its hue;
As tho’ a live chameleon’s skin
He had despoiled, to robe him in.
A zone he wore of clattering shells,
And from his lofty cap, where shone
A peacock’s plume, there dangled bells
That rung as he came dancing on.
Close after him, a page — in dress
And shape, his miniature express —
An ample basket,
filled with store
Of toys and trinkets, laughing bore;
Till, having reached this verdant seat,
He laid it at his master’s feet,
Who, half in speech and half in song,
Chanted this invoice to the throng: —
SONG.
Who’ll buy?— ’tis Folly’s shop, who’ll buy? —
We’ve toys to suit all ranks and ages;
Besides our usual fools’ supply,
We’ve lots of playthings, too, for sages.
For reasoners here’s a juggler’s cup
That fullest seems when nothing’s in it;
And nine-pins set, like systems, up,
To be knocked down the following minute.
Who’ll buy?— ’tis Folly’s shop, who’ll buy?
Gay caps we here of foolscap make.
For bards to wear in dog-day weather;
Or bards the bells alone may take,
And leave to wits the cap and feather,
Tetotums we’ve for patriots got,
Who court the mob with antics humble;
Like theirs the patriot’s dizzy lot,
A glorious spin, and then — a tumble,
Who’ll buy, etc.
Here, wealthy misers to inter,
We’ve shrouds of neat post-obit paper;
While, for their heirs, we’ve quicksilver,
That, fast as they can wish, will caper.
For aldermen we’ve dials true,
That tell no hour but that of dinner;
For courtly parsons sermons new,
That suit alike both saint and sinner.
Who’ll buy, etc.
No time we’ve now to name our terms,
But, whatsoe’er the whims that seize you,
This oldest of all mortal firms,
Folly and Co., will try to please you.
Or, should you wish a darker hue
Of goods than we can recommend you,
Why then (as we with lawyers do)
To Knavery’s shop next door we’ll send you.
Who’ll buy, etc.
While thus the blissful moments rolled,
Moments of rare and fleeting light,
That show themselves, like grains of gold
In the mine’s refuse, few and bright;
Behold where, opening far away,
The long Conservatory’s range,
Stript of the flowers it wore all day,
But gaining lovelier in exchange,
Presents, on Dresden’s costliest ware,
A supper such as Gods might share.
Ah much-loved Supper! — blithe repast
Of other times, now dwindling fast,
Since Dinner far into the night
Advanced the march of appetite;
Deployed his never-ending forces
Of various vintage and three courses,
And, like those Goths who played the dickens