Thomas Moore- Collected Poetical Works
Page 61
Closer still will they enfold thee
When thou bring’st fresh laurels home.
Dost thou dote on woman’s brow?
Dost thou live but in her breath?
March! — one hour of victory now
Wins thee woman’s smile till death.
Oh what bliss when war is over
Beauty’s long-missed smile to meet.
And when wreaths our temples cover
Lay them shining at her feet.
Who would not that hour to reach
Breathe out life’s expiring sigh, —
Proud as waves that on the beach
Lay their war-crests down and die.
There! I see thy soul is burning —
She herself who clasps thee so
Paints, even now, thy glad returning,
And while clasping bids thee go.
One deep sigh to passion given,
One last glowing tear and then —
March! — nor rest thy sword till Heaven
Brings thee to those arms again.
* * * * *
Even then ere loath their hands could part
A promise the youth gave which bore
Some balm unto the maiden’s heart,
That, soon as the fierce fight was o’er,
To home he’d speed, if safe and free —
Nay, even if dying, still would come,
So the blest word of “Victory!”
Might be the last he’d breathe at home.
“By day,” he cried, “thou’lt know my bark;
“But should I come thro’ midnight dark,
“A blue light on the prow shall tell
“That Greece hath won and all is well!”
Fondly the maiden every night,
Had stolen to seek that promised light;
Nor long her eyes had now been turned
From watching when the signal burned.
Signal of joy — for her, for all —
Fleetly the boat now nears the land,
While voices from the shore-edge call
For tidings of the long-wished band.
Oh the blest hour when those who’ve been
Thro’ peril’s paths by land or sea
Locked in our arms again are seen
Smiling in glad security;
When heart to heart we fondly strain,
Questioning quickly o’er and o’er —
Then hold them off to gaze affain
And ask, tho’ answered oft before,
If they indeed are ours once more?
Such is the scene so full of joy
Which welcomes now this warrior-boy,
As fathers, sisters, friends all run
Bounding to meet him — all but one
Who, slowest on his neck to fall,
Is yet the happiest of them all.
And now behold him circled round
With beaming faces at that board,
While cups with laurel foliage crowned,
Are to the coming warriors poured —
Coming, as he, their herald, told,
With blades from victory scarce yet cold,
With hearts untouched by Moslem steel
And wounds that home’s sweet breath will heal.
“Ere morn,” said he, — and while he spoke
Turned to the east, where clear and pale
The star of dawn already broke —
“We’ll greet on yonder wave their sail!”
Then wherefore part? all, all agree
To wait them here beneath this bower;
And thus, while even amidst their glee,
Each eye is turned to watch the sea,
With song they cheer the anxious hour.
SONG.
“’Tis the Vine! ’tis the Vine!” said the cup-loving boy
As he saw it spring bright from the earth,
And called the young Genii of Wit, Love, and Joy,
To witness and hallow its birth.
The fruit was full grown, like a ruby it flamed
Till the sunbeam that kist it looked pale;
“’Tis the Vine! ’tis the Vine!” every Spirit exclaimed
“Hail, hail to the Wine-tree, all hail!”
First, fleet as a bird to the summons Wit flew,
While a light on the vine-leaves there broke
In flashes so quick and so brilliant all knew
T’was the light from his lips as he spoke.
“Bright tree! let thy nectar but cheer me,” he cried,
“And the fount of Wit never can fail:”
“’Tis the Vine! ’tis the Vine!” hills and valleys reply,
“Hail, hail to the Wine-tree, all hail!”
Next Love as he leaned o’er the plant to admire
Each tendril and cluster it wore,
From his rosy mouth sent such a breath of desire,
As made the tree tremble all o’er.
Oh! never did flower of the earth, sea, or sky,
Such a soul-giving odor inhale:
“’Tis the Vine! ’tis the Vine!” all re-echo the cry,
“Hail, hail to the Wine-tree, all hail!”
Last, Joy, without whom even Love and Wit die,
Came to crown the bright hour with his ray;
And scarce had that mirth-waking tree met his eye,
When a laugh spoke what Joy could not say; —
A laugh of the heart which was echoed around
Till like music it swelled on the gale:
“T is the Vine! ’tis the Vine!” laughing myriads resound,
“Hail, hail to the Wine-tree, all hail!”
1 “Nerium Oleander. In Cyprus it retains its ancient name, Rhododaphne, and the Cypriots adorn their churches with the flowers on feast-days.” — Journal of Dr. Sibthorpe, Walpole’s, Turkey.
2 Lonicera caprifolium, used by the girls of Patmos for garlands.
3 Cuscuta europoea. “From the twisting and twining of the stems, it is compared by the Greeks to the dishevelled hair of the Nereids.” — Walpole’s Turkey.
4 “The produce of the island in these acorns alone amounts annually to fifteen thousand quintals.” — Clarke’s Travels.
5 Now Santa Maura — the island, from whose cliffs Sappho leaped into the sea.
6 “The precipice, which is fearfully dizzy, is about one hundred and fourteen feet from the water, which is of a profound depth, as appears from the dark blue color and the eddy that plays round the pointed and projecting rocks.” — Goodisson’s Ionian Isles.
7 This word is defrauded here, I suspect, of a syllable; Dr. Clarke, if I recollect right, makes it “Balalaika.”
8 “I saw above thirty parties engaged in dancing the Romaika upon the sand; in some of these groups, the girl who led them chased the retreating wave.” — Douglas on the Modern Greeks.
9 “In dancing the Romaika [says Mr. Douglas] they begin in slow and solemn step till they have gained the time, but by degrees the air becomes more sprightly; the conductress of the dance sometimes setting to her partners, sometimes darting before the rest, and leading them through the most rapid revolutions: sometimes crossing under the hands, which are held up to let her pass, and giving as much liveliness and intricacy as she can to the figures, into which she conducts her companions, while their business is to follow her in all her movements, without breaking the chain, or losing the measure,”
10 The sword was the weapon chiefly used in this dance.
11 It is said that Leonidas and his companions employed themselves, on the eve of the battle, in music and the gymnastic exercises of their country.
12 “This morning we paid our visit to the Cave of Trophonius, and the Fountains of Memory and Oblivion, just upon the water of Hercyna, which flows through stupendous rocks.” — Williams’s Travels in Greece.
13 This superstitious custom of the Thessalians exists also, as Pietro dello Valle tells us, among the Persians.
14 An ancient ci
ty of Zea, the walls of which were of marble. Its remains (says Clarke) “extend from the shore, quite into a valley watered by the streams of a fountain, whence Ioulis received its name.”
15 Zea was the birthplace of this poet, whose verses are by Catullus called “tears.”
16 These “Songs of the Well,” as they were called among the ancients, still exist in Greece. De Guys tells us that he has seen “the young women in Prince’s Island, assembled in the evening at a public well, suddenly strike up a dance, while others sung in concert to them.”
17 “The inhabitants of Syra, both ancient and modern, may be considered as the worshippers of water. The old fountain, at which the nymphs of the island assembled in the earliest ages, exists in its original state; the same rendezvous as it was formerly, whether of love and gallantry, or of gossiping and tale-telling. It is near to the town, and the most limpid water gushes continually from the solid rock. It is regarded by the inhabitants with a degree of religious veneration; and they p reserve a tradition, that the pilgrims of old time, in their way to Delos, resorted hither for purification.” — Clarke.
18 “Violet-crowned Athens.” — Pindar.
19 The whole of this scene was suggested by Pliny’s account of the artist Pausias and his mistress Glycera, Lib. 35 c. 40.
20 The traveller Shaw mentions a beautiful rill In Barbary, which is received into a large basin called Shrub wee krub, “Drink and away” — there being great danger of meeting with thieves and assassins in such places.
21 The Arabian shepherd has a peculiar ceremony in weaning the young camel; when the proper time arrives, he turns the camel towards the rising star, Canopus, and says, “Do you see Canopus? from this moment you taste not another drop of milk.” — Richardson.
22 “Whoever returns from a pilgrimage to Mecca hangs this plant (the mitre-shaped Aloe) over his street door, as a token of his having performed this holy journey.” — Hasselquist.
23 This form of notice to the caravans to prepare for marching was applied by Hafiz to the necessity of relinquishing the pleasures of this world, and preparing for death:— “For me what room is there for pleasure in the bower of Beauty, when every moment the bell makes proclamation, ‘Bind on your burden’?”
24 The watchmen, in the camp of the caravans, go their rounds, crying one after another, “God is one,” etc.
25 “It was customary,” says Irwin, “to light up fires on the mountains, within view of Cosseir, to give notice of the approach of the caravans that came from the Nile.”
26 the Hume.
27 The name which the Greeks give to the Virgin Mary.
ALCIPHRON: A FRAGMENT.
LETTER I.
FROM ALCIPHRON AT ALEXANDRIA TO CLEON AT ATHENS.
Well may you wonder at my flight
From those fair Gardens in whose bowers
Lingers whate’er of wise and bright,
Of Beauty’s smile or Wisdom’s light,
Is left to grace this world of ours.
Well may my comrades as they roam
On such sweet eyes as this inquire
Why I have left that happy home
Where all is found that all desire,
And Time hath wings that never tire:
Where bliss in all the countless shapes
That Fancy’s self to bliss hath given
Comes clustering round like roadside grapes
That woo the traveller’s lip at even;
Where Wisdom flings not joy away —
As Pallas in the stream they say
Once flung her flute — but smiling owns
That woman’s lip can send forth tones
Worth all the music of those spheres
So many dream of but none hears;
Where Virtue’s self puts on so well
Her sister Pleasure’s smile that, loath
From either nymph apart to dwell,
We finish by embracing both.
Yes, such the place of bliss, I own
From all whose charms I just have flown;
And even while thus to thee I write,
And by the Nile’s dark flood recline,
Fondly, in thought I wing my flight
Back to those groves and gardens bright,
And often think by this sweet light
How lovelily they all must shine;
Can see that graceful temple throw
Down the green slope its lengthened shade,
While on the marble steps below
There sits some fair Athenian maid,
Over some favorite volume bending;
And by her side a youthful sage
Holds back the ringlets that descending
Would else o’ershadow all the page.
But hence such thoughts! — nor let me grieve
O’er scenes of joy that I but leave,
As the bird quits awhile its nest
To come again with livelier zest.
And now to tell thee — what I fear
Thou’lt gravely smile at — why I’m here
Tho’ thro’ my life’s short, sunny dream,
I’ve floated without pain or care
Like a light leaf down pleasure’s stream,
Caught in each sparkling eddy there;
Tho’ never Mirth awaked a strain
That my heart echoed not again;
Yet have I felt, when even most gay,
Sad thoughts — I knew not whence or why —
Suddenly o’er my spirit fly,
Like clouds that ere we’ve time to say
“How bright the sky is!” shade the sky.
Sometimes so vague, so undefined
Were these strange darkenings of my mind —
“While naught but joy around me beamed
So causelessly they’ve come and flown,
That not of life or earth they seemed,
But shadows from some world unknown.
More oft, however, ’twas the thought
How soon that scene with all its play
Of life and gladness must decay —
Those lips I prest, the hands I caught —
Myself — the crowd that mirth had brought
Around me — swept like weeds away!
This thought it was that came to shed
O’er rapture’s hour its worst alloys;
And close as shade with sunshine wed
Its sadness with my happiest joys.
Oh, but for this disheartening voice
Stealing amid our mirth to say
That all in which we most rejoice
Ere night may be the earthworm’s prey —
But for this bitter — only this —
Full as the world is brimmed with bliss,
And capable as feels my soul
Of draining to its dregs the whole,
I should turn earth to heaven and be,
If bliss made Gods, a Deity?
Thou know’st that night — the very last
That ‘mong my Garden friends I past —
When the School held its feast of mirth
To celebrate our founder’s birth.
And all that He in dreams but saw
When he set Pleasure on the throne
Of this bright world and wrote her law
In human hearts was felt and known —
Not in unreal dreams but true,
Substantial joy as pulse e’er knew —
By hearts and bosoms, that each felt
Itself the realm where Pleasure dwelt.
That night when all our mirth was o’er,
The minstrels silent, and the feet
Of the young maidens heard no more —
So stilly was the time, so sweet,
And such a calm came o’er that scene,
Where life and revel late had been —
Lone as the quiet of some bay
From which the sea hath ebbed away —
That still I lingered, lost in thought,
Sad and intent as if I sought
Some mournful secret in their light;
And asked them mid that silence why
Man, glorious man, alone must die
While they, less wonderful than he,
Shine on thro’ all eternity.
That night — thou haply may’st forget
Its loveliness — but ’twas a night
To make earth’s meanest slave regret
Leaving a world so soft and bright.
On one side in the dark blue sky
Lonely and radiant was the eye
Of Jove himself, while on the other,
‘Mong stars that came out one by one,
The young moon — like the Roman mother
Among her living jewels — shone.
“Oh that from yonder orbs,” I thought,
“Pure and eternal as they are,
“There could to earth some power be brought,
“Some charm with their own essence fraught
“To make man deathless as a star,
“And open to his vast desires
“A course, as boundless and sublime
“As that which waits those comet-fires,
“That burn and roam throughout all time!”
While thoughts like these absorbed my mind,
That weariness which earthly bliss
However sweet still leaves behind,
As if to show how earthly ’tis,
Came lulling o’er me and I laid
My limbs at that fair statue’s base —
That miracle, which Art hath made
Of all the choice of Nature’s grace —
To which so oft I’ve knelt and sworn.
That could a living maid like her
Unto this wondering world be born,
I would myself turn worshipper.
Sleep came then o’er me — and I seemed
To be transported far away
To a bleak desert plain where gleamed
One single, melancholy ray.
Throughout that darkness dimly shed
From a small taper in the hand
Of one who pale as are the dead
Before me took his spectral stand,
And said while awfully a smile
Came o’er the wanness of his cheek —
“Go and beside the sacred Nile
“You’ll find the Eternal Life you seek.”
Soon as he spoke these words the hue
Of death o’er all his features grew
Like the pale morning when o’er night
She gains the victory full of light;
While the small torch he held became
A glory in his hand whose flame