The Poetical Works of Thomas Moore Collected by Himself. In Ten Volumes |
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THE DAY-DREAM.
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 | The Poetical Works of Thomas Moore |  |
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;
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.
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;—
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.
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.
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.
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,
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;
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!
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.
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.
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.
Is talk'd of in our tranquil bower,
I sing this lady's song, and tell
The vision of that morning hour.
| The Poetical Works of Thomas Moore | |