The Poetical Works of Thomas Moore :: :: University of Virginia Library

At night, when all is still around,
How sweet to hear the distant sound
Of footstep, coming soft and light!
What pleasure in the anxious beat,
With which the bosom flies to meet
That foot that comes so soft at night!

And then, at night, how sweet to say
“'Tis late, my love!” and chide delay,
Though still the western clouds are bright;
Oh! happy, too, the silent press,
The eloquence of mute caress,
With those we love exchang'd at night!

These lines allude to a curious lamp, which has for its device a Cupid, with the words “at night” written over him.

398

TO LADY HOLLAND.

ON NAPOLEON'S LEGACY OF A SNUFF-BOX.

Gift of the Hero, on his dying day,
To her, whose pity watch'd, for ever nigh;
Oh! could he see the proud, the happy ray,
This relic lights up on her generous eye,
Sighing, he'd feel how easy 'tis to pay
A friendship all his kingdoms could not buy.

Paris, July, 1821.

399

EPILOGUE. WRITTEN FOR LADY DACRE'S TRAGEDY OF INA.

Last night, as lonely o'er my fire I sat,
Thinking of cues, starts, exits, and—all that,
And wondering much what little knavish sprite
Had put it first in women's heads to write:—
Sudden I saw—as in some witching dream—
A bright-blue glory round my book-case beam,
From whose quick-opening folds of azure light
Out flew a tiny form, as small and bright
As Puck the Fairy, when he pops his head,
Some sunny morning from a violet bed.
“Bless me!” I starting cried, “what imp are you?”—
“A small he-devil, Ma'am—my name Bas Bleu—
“A bookish sprite, much given to routs and reading;
“'Tis I who teach your spinsters of good breeding,
“The reigning taste in chemistry and caps,
“The last new bounds of tuckers and of maps,

400

“And, when the waltz has twirl'd her giddy brain,
“With metaphysics twirl it back again!”

I view'd him, as he spoke—his hose were blue,
His wings—the covers of the last Review—
Cerulean, border'd with a jaundice hue,
And tinsell'd gaily o'er, for evening wear,
Till the next quarter brings a new-fledg'd pair.
“Inspir'd by me—(pursued this waggish Fairy)—
“That best of wives and Sapphos, Lady Mary,
“Votary alike of Crispin and the Muse,
“Makes her own splay-foot epigrams and shoes.
“For me the eyes of young Camilla shine,
“And mingle Love's blue brilliances with mine;
“For me she sits apart, from coxcombs shrinking,
“Looks wise—the pretty soul!—and thinks she's thinking.
“By my advice Miss Indigo attends
“Lectures on Memory, and assures her friends,
“‘'Pon honour!— (mimics)
—nothing can surpass the plan
“‘Of that professor— (trying to recollect)
—psha! that memory-man—

401

“‘That—what's his name?—him I attended lately—
“‘'Pon honour, he improv'd my memory greatly.’”

Here, curtseying low, I ask'd the blue-legg'd sprite,
What share he had in this our play to-night.
“Nay, there—(he cried)—there I am guiltless quite—
“What! choose a heroine from that Gothic time,
“When no one waltz'd, and none but monks could rhyme;
“When lovely woman, all unschool'd and wild,
“Blush'd without art, and without culture smil'd—
“Simple as flowers, while yet unclass'd they shone,
“Ere Science call'd their brilliant world her own,
“Rang'd the wild, rosy things in learned orders,
“And fill'd with Greek the garden's blushing borders!—
“No, no—your gentle Inas will not do—
“To-morrow evening, when the lights burn blue,
“I'll come— (pointing downwards)
—you understand—till then adieu!”

And has the sprite been here? No—jests apart—
Howe'er man rules in science and in art,
The sphere of woman's glories is the heart.

402

And, if our Muse have sketch'd with pencil true
The wife—the mother—firm, yet gentle too—
Whose soul, wrapp'd up in ties itself hath spun,
Trembles, if touch'd in the remotest one;
Who loves—yet dares even Love himself disown,
When Honour's broken shaft supports his throne:
If such our Ina, she may scorn the evils,
Dire as they are, of Critics and—Blue Devils.

403

THE DAY-DREAM.

They both were hush'd, 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, remember'd here and there,
Like echoes of some broken strain;—
Links of a sweetness lost in air,
That nothing now could join again.

Ev'n these, too, ere the morning, fled;
And, though the charm still linger'd on,
That o'er each sense her song had shed,
The song itself was faded, gone;—

404

Gone, like the thoughts that once were ours,
On summer days, ere youth had set;
Thoughts bright, we know, as summer flowers,
Though what they were, we now forget.

In vain, with hints from other strains,
I woo'd 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 give way
To the full truth of daylight's beams,

A face—the very face, methought,
From which had breath'd, as from a shrine
Of song and soul, the notes I sought—
Came with its music close to mine;

405

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 widow'd sound
Through memory's realm had wing'd in quest
Of its sweet mate, till all were found.

Nor ev'n in waking did the clue,
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 talk'd of in our tranquil bower,
I sing this lady's song, and tell
The vision of that morning hour.

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.

406

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.”

407

SONG OF THE POCO-CURANTE SOCIETY.

Haud curat Hippoclides. Erasm. Adag.

To those we love we've drank to-night;
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.

408

For priestly men, who covet sway
And wealth, though 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,
Redeem'd and pure—We care not.

For legal men, who plead for wrong,
And, though 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.

409

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.

410

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 tenant quelquefoys en repos;
Aucunefoys envoyant en message
Porter du cueur le secret tesmoignage.”

Much as her form seduc'd the sight,
Her eyes could ev'n 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.

411

THE DREAM OF THE TWO SISTERS.

FROM DANTE.

Nell ora, credo, che dell' oriente
Prima raggiò nel monte Citerea,
Che di fuoco d'amor par sempre ardente,
Giovane e bella in sogno mi parea
Donna vedere andar per una landa
Cogliendo fiori; 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 vedere e me l'ovrare appaga.

Dante, Purg. canto xxvii.

'Twas eve's soft hour, and bright, above,
The star of Beauty beam'd,
While lull'd by light so full of love,
In slumber thus I dream'd—
Methought, at that sweet hour,
A nymph came o'er the lea,

412

Who, gath'ring many a flow'r,
Thus said and sung to me:—
“Should any ask what Leila loves,
“Say thou, To wreathe her hair
“With flow'rets cull'd from glens and groves,
“Is Leila's only care.

“While thus in quest of flow'rets rare,
“O'er hill and dale I roam,
“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 ev'n a look
“Of self salutes my eye;—
“My only glass, the limpid brook,
“That shines and passes by.”

413

SOVEREIGN WOMAN.

A BALLAD.

The dance was o'er, yet still in dreams,
That fairy scene went on;
Like clouds still flush'd with daylight gleams
Though day itself is gone.
And gracefully to music's sound,
The same bright nymphs went gliding round;
While thou, the Queen of all, wert there—
The Fairest still, where all were fair.

The dream then chang'd—in halls of state,
I saw thee high enthron'd;
While, rang'd around, the wise, the great
In thee their mistress own'd:
And still the same, thy gentle sway
O'er willing subjects won its way—
'Till all confess'd the Right Divine
To rule o'er man was only thine!

414

But, lo, the scene now chang'd 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, cheer'd 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 though she almost blush to reign,
Though Love's own flow'rets wreath the chain,
Disguise our bondage as we will,
'Tis woman, woman, rules us still.

415

COME, PLAY ME THAT SIMPLE AIR AGAIN.

A BALLAD.

Come, play me that simple air again,
I us'd so to love, in life's young day,
And bring, if thou canst, the dreams that then
Were waken'd 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 day-dream bright,
That, shining o'er life's early track,
Fill'd ev'n its tears with light.

416

The new-found life that came
With love's first echo'd vow;—
The fear, the bliss, the shame—
Ah—where, where are they now?
But, still the same lov'd notes prolong,
For sweet 'twere thus, to that old lay,
In dreams of youth and love and song,
To breathe life's hour away.