Thomas Moore- Collected Poetical Works

by Thomas Moore

With Rome and all her sacred chickens,

  Put Supper and her fowls so white,

  Legs, wings, and drumsticks, all to flight.

  Now waked once more by wine — whose tide

  Is the true Hippocrene, where glide

  The Muse’s swans with happiest wing,

  Dipping their bills before they sing —

  The minstrels of the table greet

  The listening ear with descant sweet: —

  SONG AND TRIO. THE LEVÉE AND COUCHÉE.

  Call the Loves around,

  Let the whispering sound

  Of their wings be heard alone.

  Till soft to rest

  My Lady blest

  At this bright hour hath gone,

  Let Fancy’s beams

  Play o’er her dreams,

  Till, touched with light all through.

  Her spirit be

  Like a summer sea,

  Shining and slumbering too.

  And, while thus husht she lies,

  Let the whispered chorus rise —

  “Good evening, good evening, to our

  Lady’s bright eyes.”

  But the day-beam breaks,

  See, our Lady wakes!

  Call the Loves around once more,

  Like stars that wait

  At Morning’s gate,

  Her first steps to adore.

  Let the veil of night

  From her dawning sight

  All gently pass away,

  Like mists that flee

  From a summer sea,

  Leaving it full of day.

  And, while her last dream flies,

  Let the whispered chorus rise —

  “Good morning, good morning, to our

  Lady’s bright eyes.”

  SONG.

  If to see thee be to love thee,

  If to love thee be to prize

  Naught of earth or heaven above thee,

  Nor to live but for those eyes:

  If such love to mortal given,

  Be wrong to earth, be wrong to heaven,

  ’Tis not for thee the fault to blame,

  For from those eyes the madness came.

  Forgive but thou the crime of loving

  In this heart more pride ‘twill raise

  To be thus wrong with thee approving,

  Than right with all a world to praise!

  * * * * *

  But say, while light these songs resound,

  What means that buzz of whispering round,

  From lip to lip — as if the Power

  Of Mystery, in this gay hour,

  Had thrown some secret (as we fling

  Nuts among children) to that ring

  Of rosy, restless lips, to be

  Thus scrambled for so wantonly?

  And, mark ye, still as each reveals

  The mystic news, her hearer steals

  A look towards yon enchanted chair,

  Where, like the Lady of the Masque,

  A nymph, as exquisitely fair

  As Love himself for bride could ask,

  Sits blushing deep, as if aware

  Of the winged secret circling there.

  Who is this nymph? and what, oh Muse,

  What, in the name of all odd things

  That woman’s restless brain pursues,

  What mean these mystic whisperings?

  Thus runs the tale: — yon blushing maid,

  Who sits in beauty’s light arrayed,

  While o’er her leans a tall young Dervise,

  (Who from her eyes, as all observe, is

  Learning by heart the Marriage Service,)

  Is the bright heroine of our song, —

  The Love-wed Psyche, whom so long

  We’ve missed among this mortal train,

  We thought her winged to heaven again.

  But no — earth still demands her smile;

  Her friends, the Gods, must wait awhile.

  And if, for maid of heavenly birth,

  A young Duke’s proffered heart and hand

  Be things worth waiting for on earth,

  Both are, this hour, at her command.

  To-night, in yonder half-lit shade,

  For love concerns expressly meant,

  The fond proposal first was made,

  And love and silence blusht consent

  Parents and friends (all here, as Jews,

  Enchanters, house-maids, Turks, Hindoos,)

  Have heard, approved, and blest the tie;

  And now, hadst thou a poet’s eye,

  Thou might’st behold, in the air, above

  That brilliant brow, triumphant Love,

  Holding, as if to drop it down

  Gently upon her curls, a crown

  Of Ducal shape — but, oh, such gems!

  Pilfered from Peri diadems,

  And set in gold like that which shines

  To deck the Fairy of the Mines:

  In short, a crown all glorious — such as

  Love orders when he makes a Duchess.

  But see, ’tis morn in heaven; the Sun

  Up in the bright orient hath begun

  To canter his immortal beam;

  And, tho’ not yet arrived in sight,

  His leaders’ nostrils send a steam

  Of radiance forth, so rosy bright

  As makes their onward path all light.

  What’s to be done? if Sol will be

  So deuced early, so must we:

  And when the day thus shines outright,

  Even dearest friends must bid good night.

  So, farewell, scene of mirth and masking,

  Now almost a by-gone tale;

  Beauties, late in lamp-light basking,

  Now, by daylight, dim and pale;

  Harpers, yawning o’er your harps,

  Scarcely knowing flats from sharps;

  Mothers who, while bored you keep

  Time by nodding, nod to sleep;

  Heads of hair, that stood last night

  Crépé, crispy, and upright,

  But have now, alas, one sees, a

  Leaning like the tower of Pisa;

  Fare ye will — thus sinks away

  All that’s mighty, all that’s bright:

  Tyre and Sidon had their day,

  And even a Ball — has but its night!

  1 Archimedes.

  2 The name given to those large sleeves that hang loosely.

  3 In England the partition of this opera of Rossini was transferred to the story of Peter the Hermit; by which means the indecorum of giving such names as “Moyse,” “Pharaon,” etc., to the dancers selected from it (as was done in Paris), has been avoided.

  4 The celebrated portrait by Leonardo da Vinci, which he is said to have occupied four years in painting, — Vasari, vol. vii.

  EVENINGS IN GREECE

  In thus connecting together a series of Songs by a thread of poetical narrative, my chief object has been to combine Recitation with Music, so as to enable a greater number of persons to join in the performance, by enlisting as readers those who may not feel willing or competent to take a part as singers.

  The Island of Zea where the scene is laid was called by the ancients Ceos, and was the birthplace of Simonides, Bacchylides, and other eminent persons. An account of its present state may be found in the Travels of Dr. Clarke, who says, that “it appeared to him to be the best cultivated of any of the Grecian Isles.” — Vol. vi. .

  T.M.

  FIRST EVENING.

  “The sky is bright — the breeze is fair,

  “And the mainsail flowing, full and free —

  “Our farewell word is woman’s prayer,

  “And the hope before us — Liberty!

  “Farewell, farewell.

  “To Greece we give our shining blades,

  “And our hearts to you, young Zean Maids!

  “The moon is in the heavens above,

  “And the wind is on the foaming sea —

&n
bsp; “Thus shines the star of woman’s love

  “On the glorious strife of Liberty!

  “Farewell, farewell.

  “To Greece we give our shining blades,

  “And our hearts to you, young Zean Maids!”

  Thus sung they from the bark, that now

  Turned to the sea its gallant prow,

  Bearing within its hearts as brave,

  As e’er sought Freedom o’er the wave;

  And leaving on that islet’s shore,

  Where still the farewell beacons burn,

  Friends that shall many a day look o’er

  The long, dim sea for their return.

  Virgin of Heaven! speed their way —

  Oh, speed their way, — the chosen flower,

  Of Zea’s youth, the hope and stay

  Of parents in their wintry hour,

  The love of maidens and the pride

  Of the young, happy, blushing bride,

  Whose nuptial wreath has not yet died —

  All, all are in that precious bark,

  Which now, alas! no more is seen —

  Tho’ every eye still turns to mark

  The moonlight spot where it had been.

  Vainly you look, ye maidens, sires,

  And mothers, your beloved are gone! —

  Now may you quench those signal fires,

  Whose light they long looked back upon

  From their dark deck — watching the flame

  As fast it faded from their view,

  With thoughts, that, but for manly shame,

  Had made them droop and weep like you.

  Home to your chambers! home, and pray

  For the bright coming of that day,

  When, blest by heaven, the Cross shall sweep

  The Crescent from the Aegean deep,

  And your brave warriors, hastening back,

  Will bring such glories in their track,

  As shall, for many an age to come,

  Shed light around their name and home.

  There is a Fount on Zea’s isle,

  Round which, in soft luxuriance, smile

  All the sweet flowers, of every kind,

  On which the sun of Greece looks down,

  Pleased as a lover on the crown

  His mistress for her brow hath twined,

  When he beholds each floweret there,

  Himself had wisht her most to wear;

  Here bloomed the laurel-rose,1 whose wreath

  Hangs radiant round the Cypriot shines,

  And here those bramble-flowers, that breathe

  Their odor into Zante’s wines: —

  The splendid woodbine that, as eve,

  To grace their floral diadems,

  The lovely maids of Patmos weave: — 2

  And that fair plant whose tangled stems

  Shine like a Nereid’s hair,3 when spread,

  Dishevelled, o’er her azure bed: —

  All these bright children of the clime,

  (Each at its own most genial time,

  The summer, or the year’s sweet prime,)

  Like beautiful earth-stars, adorn

  The Valley where that Fount is born;

  While round, to grace its cradle green

  Groups of Velani oaks are seen

  Towering on every verdant height —

  Tall, shadowy, in the evening light,

  Like Genii set to watch the birth

  Of some enchanted child of earth —

  Fair oaks that over Zea’s vales,

  Stand with their leafy pride unfurled;

  While Commerce from her thousand sails

  Scatters their fruit throughout the world!4

  ’Twas here — as soon as prayer and sleep

  (Those truest friends to all who weep)

  Had lightened every heart; and made

  Even sorrow wear a softer shade —

  ’Twas here, in this secluded spot,

  Amid whose breathings calm and sweet

  Grief might be soothed if not forgot,

  The Zean nymphs resolved to meet

  Each evening now, by the same light

  That saw their farewell tears that night:

  And try if sound of lute and song,

  If wandering mid the moonlight flowers

  In various talk, could charm along

  With lighter step, the lingering hours,

  Till tidings of that Bark should come,

  Or Victory waft their warriors home!

  When first they met — the wonted smile

  Of greeting having gleamed awhile —

  ’Twould touch even Moslem heart to see

  The sadness that came suddenly

  O’er their young brows, when they looked round

  Upon that bright, enchanted ground;

  And thought how many a time with those

  Who now were gone to the rude wars

  They there had met at evening’s close,

  And danced till morn outshone the stars!

  But seldom long doth hang the eclipse

  Of sorrow o’er such youthful breasts —

  The breath from her own blushing lips,

  That on the maiden’s mirror rests,

  Not swifter, lighter from the glass,

  Than sadness from her brow doth pass.

  Soon did they now, as round the Well

  They sat, beneath the rising moon —

  And some with voice of awe would tell

  Of midnight fays and nymphs who dwell

  In holy founts — while some would time

  Their idle lutes that now had lain

  For days without a single strain; —

  And others, from the rest apart,

  With laugh that told the lightened heart,

  Sat whispering in each other’s ear

  Secrets that all in turn would hear; —

  Soon did they find this thoughtless play

  So swiftly steal their griefs away,

  That many a nymph tho’ pleased the while,

  Reproached her own forgetful smile,

  And sighed to think she could be gay.

  Among these maidens there was one

  Who to Leucadia5 late had been —

  Had stood beneath the evening sun

  On its white towering cliffs and seen

  The very spot where Sappho sung

  Her swan-like music, ere she sprung

  (Still holding, in that fearful leap,

  By her loved lyre,) into the deep,

  And dying quenched the fatal fire,

  At once, of both her heart and lyre.

  Mutely they listened all — and well

  Did the young travelled maiden tell

  Of the dread height to which that steep

  Beetles above the eddying deep — 6

  Of the lone sea-birds, wheeling round

  The dizzy edge with mournful sound —

  And of those scented lilies found

  Still blooming on that fearful place —

  As if called up by Love to grace

  The immortal spot o’er which the last

  Bright footsteps of his martyr past!

  While fresh to every listener’s thought

  These legends of Leucadia brought

  All that of Sappho’s hapless flame

  Is kept alive, still watcht by Fame —

  The maiden, tuning her soft lute,

  While all the rest stood round her, mute,

  Thus sketched the languishment of soul,

  That o’er the tender Lesbian stole;

  And in a voice whose thrilling tone

  Fancy might deem the Lesbian’s own,

  One of those fervid fragments gave,

  Which still, — like sparkles of Greek Fire,

  Undying, even beneath the wave, —

  Burn on thro’ Time and ne’er expire.

  SONG.

  As o’er her loom the Lesbian Maid

  In love-sick languor h
ung her head,

  Unknowing where her fingers strayed,

  She weeping turned away, and said,

  “Oh, my sweet Mother— ’tis in vain —

  “I cannot weave, as once I wove —

  “So wildered is my heart and brain

  “With thinking of that youth I love!”

  Again the web she tried to trace,

  But tears fell o’er each tangled thread;

  While looking in her mother’s face,

  Who watchful o’er her leaned, she said,

  “Oh, my sweet Mother— ’tis in vain —

  “I cannot weave, as once I wove —

  “So wildered is my heart and brain

  “With thinking of that youth I love!”

  * * * * *

  A silence followed this sweet air,

  As each in tender musing stood,

  Thinking, with lips that moved in prayer,

  Of Sappho and that fearful flood:

  While some who ne’er till now had known

  How much their hearts resembled hers,

  Felt as they made her griefs their own,

  That they too were Love’s worshippers.

  At length a murmur, all but mute,

  So faint it was, came from the lute

  Of a young melancholy maid,

  Whose fingers, all uncertain played

  From chord to chord, as if in chase

  Of some lost melody, some strain

  Of other times, whose faded trace

  She sought among those chords again.

  Slowly the half-forgotten theme

  (Tho’ born in feelings ne’er forgot)

  Came to her memory — as a beam

  Falls broken o’er some shaded spot; —

  And while her lute’s sad symphony

  Filled up each sighing pause between;

  And Love himself might weep to see

  What ruin comes where he hath been —

  As withered still the grass is found

  Where fays have danced their merry round —

  Thus simply to the listening throng

  She breathed her melancholy song: —

  SONG.

  Weeping for thee, my love, thro’ the long day,

  Lonely and wearily life wears away.

  Weeping for thee, my love, thro’ the long night —

  No rest in darkness, no joy in light!

  Naught left but Memory whose dreary tread

  Sounds thro’ this ruined heart, where all lies dead —

  Wakening the echoes of joy long fled!

  * * * * *

  Of many a stanza, this alone

  Had ‘scaped oblivion — like the one

  Stray fragment of a wreck which thrown

  With the lost vessel’s name ashore

  Tells who they were that live no more.

  When thus the heart is in a vein