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

It came o'er her sleep, like a voice of those days,
When love, only love, was the light of her ways;
And, soft as in moments of bliss long ago,
It whisper'd her name from the garden below.

“Alas,” sigh'd the maiden, “how fancy can cheat!
“The world once had lips that could whisper thus sweet;
“But cold now they slumber in yon fatal deep,
“Where, oh that beside them this heart too could sleep!”

She sunk on her pillow—but no, 'twas in vain
To chase the illusion, that Voice came again!
She flew to the casement—but, hush'd as the grave,
In moonlight lay slumbering woodland and wave.

“Oh sleep, come and shield me,” in anguish she said,
“From that call of the buried, that cry of the Dead!”
And sleep came around her—but, starting, she woke,
For still from the garden that spirit Voice spoke!

“I come,” she exclaimed, “be thy home where it may,
“On earth or in heaven, that call I obey;”
Then forth through the moonlight, with heart beating fast
And loud as a death-watch, the pale maiden past.

Still round her the scene all in loneliness shone;
And still, in the distance, that Voice led her on;
But whither she wander'd, by wave or by shore,
None ever could tell, for she came back no more.

No, ne'er came she back,—but the watchman who stood,
That night, in the tower which o'ershadows the flood,
Saw dimly, 'tis said, o'er the moon-lighted spray,
A youth on a steed bear the maiden away.

CUPID AND PSYCHE.

They told her that he, to whose vows she had listen'd
Through night's fleeting hours, was a Spirit unblest;—
Unholy the eyes, that beside her had glisten'd,
And evil the lips she in darkness had prest.

“When next in thy chamber the bridegroom reclineth,
“Bring near him thy lamp, when in slumber he lies;
“And there, as the light o'er his dark features shineth,
“Thou'lt see what a demon hath won all thy sighs!”

Too fond to believe them, yet doubting, yet fearing,
When calm lay the sleeper she stole with her light;
And saw—such a vision!—no image, appearing
To bards in their day-dreams, was ever so bright.

A youth, but just passing from childhood's sweet morning,
While round him still linger'd its innocent ray;
Though gleams, from beneath his shut eyelids gave warning
Of summer-noon lightnings that under them lay.

His brow had a grace more than mortal around it,
While, glossy as gold from a fairy-land mine,
His sunny hair hung, and the flowers that crown'd it
Seem'd fresh from the breeze of some garden divine.

Entranced stood the bride, on that miracle gazing,
What late was but love is idolatry now;
But, ah—in her tremor the fatal lamp raising—
A sparkle flew from it and dropp'd on his brow.

All's lost—with a start from his rosy sleep waking,
The Spirit flash'd o'er her his glances of fire;
Then, slow from the clasp of her snowy arms breaking,
Thus said, in a voice more of sorrow than ire:

“Farewell—what a dream thy suspicion hath broken!
“Thus ever Affection's fond vision is crost;
“Dissolved are her spells when a doubt is but spoken,
“And love, once distrusted, for ever is lost!”

HERO AND LEANDER.

“The night-wind is moaning with mournful sigh,
“There gleameth no moon in the misty sky,
“No star over Helle's sea;
“Yet, yet, there is shining one holy light,
“One love-kindled star through the deep of night,
“To lead me, sweet Hero, to thee!”

Thus saying, he plunged in the foamy stream,
Still fixing his gaze on that distant beam
No eye but a lover's could see;
And still, as the surge swept over his head,
“To-night,” he said tenderly, “living or dead,
“Sweet Hero, I'll rest with thee!”

But fiercer around him the wild waves speed;
Oh, Love! in that hour of thy votary's need,
Where, where could thy Spirit be?
He struggles—he sinks—while the hurricane's breath
Bears rudely away his last farewell in death—
“Sweet Hero, I die for thee!”

THE LEAF AND THE FOUNTAIN.

“Tell me, kind Seer, I pray thee,
“So may the stars obey thee,
“So may each airy
“Moon-elf and fairy
“Nightly their homage pay thee!
“Say, by what spell, above, below,
“In stars that wink or flowers that blow,
“I may discover,
“Ere night is over,
“Whether my love loves me, or no,
“Whether my love loves me.”

“Maiden, the dark tree nigh thee
“Hath charms no gold could buy thee;
“Its stem enchanted,
“By moon-elves planted,
“Will all thou seek'st supply thee.
“Climb to yon boughs that highest grow,
“Bring thence their fairest leaf below;

“And thou'lt discover,
“Ere night is over,
“Whether thy love loves thee or no,
“Whether thy love loves thee.”

“See, up the dark tree going,
“With blossoms round me blowing,
“From thence, oh Father,
“This leaf I gather,
“Fairest that there is growing.
“Say, by what sign I now shall know
“If in this leaf lie bliss or woe
“And thus discover
“Ere night is over,
“Whether my love loves me or no,
“Whether my love loves me.”

“Fly to yon fount that's welling
“Where moonbeam ne'er had dwelling,
“Dip in its water
“That leaf, oh Daughter,
“And mark the tale 'tis telling ;

“Watch thou if pale or bright it grow,
“List thou, the while, that fountain's flow,
“And thou'lt discover
“Whether thy lover,
“Loved as he is, loves thee or no,
“Loved as he is, loves thee.”

Forth flew the nymph, delighted,
To seek that fount benighted;
But, scarce a minute
The leaf lay in it,
When, lo, its bloom was blighted!
And as she ask'd, with voice of woe—
Listening, the while, that fountain's flow—
“Shall I recover
“My truant lover?”
The fountain seem'd to answer, “No;”
The fountain answered, “No.”

The ancients had a mode of divination somewhat similar to this; and we find the Emperor Adrian, when he went to consult the Fountain of Castalia, plucking a bay-leaf and dipping it into the sacred water.

CEPHALUS AND PROCRIS.

A hunter once in that grove reclined,
To shun the noon's bright eye,
And oft he wooed the wandering wind,
To cool his brow with its sigh.
While mute lay even the wild bee's hum,
Nor breath could stir the aspen's hair,
His song was still “Sweet air, oh come!”
While Echo answered, “Come, sweet Air!”

But, hark, what sounds from the thicket rise!
What meaneth that rustling spray?
“'Tis the white-horn'd doe,” the Hunter cries,
“I have sought since break of day.”
Quick o'er the sunny glade he springs,
The arrow flies from his sounding bow,
“Hilliho—hilliho!” he gaily sings,
While Echo sighs forth “Hilliho!”

Alas, 'twas not the white-horn'd doe
He saw in the rustling grove,
But the bridal veil, as pure as snow,
Of his own young wedded love.
And, ah, too sure that arrow sped,
For pale at his feet he sees her lie;—
“I die, I die,” was all she said,
While Echo murmur'd, “I die, I die!”

100

YOUTH AND AGE.

“Tell me, what's Love?” said Youth, one day,
To drooping Age, who crost his way.—
“It is a sunny hour of play,
“For which repentance dear doth pay;
“Repentance! Repentance!
“And this is Love, as wise men say.”

“Tell me, what's Love?” said Youth once more,
Fearful, yet fond, of Age's lore.—
“Soft as a passing summer's wind,
“Would'st know the blight it leaves behind?
“Repentance! Repentance!
“And this is Love—when love is o'er.”

101

“Tell me, what's Love?” said Youth again,
Trusting the bliss, but not the pain.
“Sweet as a May tree's scented air—
“Mark ye what bitter fruit 'twill bear,
“Repentance! Repentance!
“This, this is Love—sweet Youth, beware.”

Just then, young Love himself came by,
And cast on Youth a smiling eye;
Who could resist that glance's ray?
In vain did Age his warning say,
“Repentance! Repentance!”
Youth laughing went with Love away.

The air, to which I have adapted these words, was composed by Mrs. Arkwright to some old verses, “Tell me what's love, kind shepherd, pray?” and it has been my object to retain as much of the structure and phraseology of the original words as possible.

102

THE DYING WARRIOR.

A wounded Chieftain, lying
By the Danube's leafy side,
Thus faintly said, in dying,
“Oh! bear, thou foaming tide,
“This gift to my lady-bride.”

'Twas then, in life's last quiver,
He flung the scarf he wore
Into the foaming river,
Which, ah too quickly, bore
That pledge of one no more!

With fond impatience burning,
The Chieftain's lady stood,
To watch her love returning
In triumph down the flood,
From that day's field of blood.

103

But, field, alas, ill-fated!
The lady saw, instead
Of the bark whose speed she waited,
Her hero's scarf, all red
With the drops his heart had shed.

One shriek—and all was over—
Her life-pulse ceased to beat;
The gloomy waves now cover
That bridal-flower so sweet,
And the scarf is her winding sheet!

104

THE MAGIC MIRROR.

“Come, if thy magic Glass have power
“To call up forms we sigh to see;
“Show me my love, in that rosy bower,
“Where last she pledged her truth to me.”

The Wizard show'd him his Lady bright,
Where lone and pale in her bow'r she lay;
“True-hearted maid,” said the happy Knight,
“She's thinking of one, who is far away.”

But, lo! a page, with looks of joy,
Brings tidings to the Lady's ear;
“'Tis,” said the Knight, “the same bright boy,
“Who used to guide me to my dear.”

The Lady now, from her fav'rite tree,
Hath, smiling, pluck'd a rosy flower;
“Such,” he exclaim'd, “was the gift that she
“Each morning sent me from that bower!”

105

She gives her page the blooming rose,
With looks that say, “Like lightning, fly!”
“Thus,” thought the Knight, “she soothes her woes,
“By fancying, still, her true-love nigh.”

But the page returns, and—oh, what a sight,
For trusting lover's eyes to see!—
Leads to that bower another Knight,
As young and, alas, as loved as he!

“Such,” quoth the Youth, “is Woman's love!”
Then, darting forth, with furious bound,
Dash'd at the Mirror his iron glove,
And strew'd it all in fragments round.

MORAL.

Such ills would never have come to pass,
Had he ne'er sought that fatal view;
The Wizard would still have kept his Glass,
And the Knight still thought his Lady true.

106

THE PILGRIM.

Still thus, when twilight gleam'd,
Far off his Castle seem'd,
Traced on the sky;
And still, as fancy bore him
To those dim towers before him,
He gazed, with wishful eye,
And thought his home was nigh.

“Hall of my Sires!” he said,
“How long, with weary tread,
“Must I toil on?
“Each eve, as thus I wander,
“Thy towers seem rising yonder,
“But, scarce hath daylight shone,
“When, like a dream, thou'rt gone!”

So went the Pilgrim still,
Down dale and over hill,
Day after day;

107

That glimpse of home, so cheering,
At twilight still appearing,
But still, with morning's ray,
Melting, like mist, away!

Where rests the Pilgrim now?
Here, by this cypress bough,
Closed his career;
That dream, of fancy's weaving,
No more his steps deceiving,
Alike past hope and fear,
The Pilgrim's home is here.

108

THE HIGH-BORN LADYE.

In vain all the Knights of the Underwald wooed her,
Tho' brightest of maidens, the proudest was she;
Brave chieftains they sought, and young minstrels they sued her,
But worthy were none of the high-born Ladye.

“Whomsoever I wed,” said this maid, so excelling,
“That Knight must the conqu'ror of conquerors be;
“He must place me in halls fit for monarchs to dwell in;—
“None else shall be Lord of the high-born Ladye!”

Thus spoke the proud damsel, with scorn looking round her
On Knights and on Nobles of highest degree;
Who humbly and hopelessly left as they found her,
And worshipp'd at distance the high-born Ladye.

109

At length came a Knight, from a far land to woo her,
With plumes on his helm like the foam of the sea;
His vizor was down—but, with voice that thrill'd through her,
He whisper'd his vows to the high-born Ladye.

“Proud maiden! I come with high spousals to grace thee,
“In me the great conqu'ror of conquerors see;
“Enthroned in a hall fit for monarchs I'll place thee,
“And mine thou'rt for ever, thou high-born Ladye!”

The maiden she smiled, and in jewels array'd her,
Of thrones and tiaras already dreamt she;
And proud was the step, as her bridegroom convey'd her
In pomp to his home, of that high-born Ladye.

“But whither,” she, starting, exclaims, “have you led me?
“Here's nought but a tomb and a dark cypress tree;

110

“Is this the bright palace in which thou wouldst wed me?”
With scorn in her glance said the high-born Ladye.

“'Tis the home,” he replied, “of earth's loftiest creatures”—
Then lifted his helm for the fair one to see;
But she sunk on the ground—'twas a skeleton's features,
And Death was the Lord of the high-born Ladye!

111

THE INDIAN BOAT.

'Twas midnight dark,
The seaman's bark,
Swift o'er the waters bore him,
When, through the night,
He spied a light
Shoot o'er the wave before him.
“A sail! a sail!” he cries,
“She comes from the Indian shore,
“And to-night shall be our prize,
“With her freight of golden ore:
“Sail on! sail on!”
When morning shone
He saw the gold still clearer;
But, though so fast
The waves he pass'd,
That boat seem'd never the nearer.

Bright daylight came,
And still the same

112

Rich bark before him floated;
While on the prize
His wishful eyes
Like any young lover's doated:
“More sail! more sail!” he cries,
While the waves o'ertop the mast;
And his bounding galley flies,
Like an arrow before the blast.
Thus on, and on,
Till day was gone,
And the moon through heaven did hie her,
He swept the main,
But all in vain,
That boat seem'd never the nigher

And many a day
To night gave way,
And many a morn succeeded:
While still his flight,
Through day and night,
That restless mariner speeded.
Who knows—who knows what seas
He is now careering o'er?

113

Behind, the eternal breeze,
And that mocking bark, before!
For, oh, till sky
And earth shall die,
And their death leave none to rue it,
That boat must flee
O'er the boundless sea,
And that ship in vain pursue it.

114

THE STRANGER.

Come list, while I tell of the heart-wounded Stranger
Who sleeps her last slumber in this haunted ground;
Where often, at midnight, the lonely wood-ranger
Hears soft fairy music re-echo around.

None e'er knew the name of that heart-stricken lady,
Her language, though sweet, none could e'er understand;
But her features so sunn'd, and her eyelash so shady,
Bespoke her a child of some far Eastern land.

'Twas one summer night, when the village lay sleeping,
A soft strain of melody came o'er our ears;
So sweet, but so mournful, half song and half weeping,
Like music that Sorrow had steep'd in her tears.

115

We thought 'twas an anthem some angel had sung us;—
But, soon as the day—beams had gush'd from on high,
With wonder we saw this bright stranger among us,
All lovely and lone, as if stray'd from the sky.

Nor long did her life for this sphere seem intended,
For pale was her check, with that spirit-like hue,
Which comes when the day of this world is nigh ended,
And light from another already shines through.

Then her eyes, when she sung—oh, but once to have seen them—
Left thoughts in the soul that can never depart;
While her looks and her voice made a language between them,
That spoke more than holiest words to the heart.

But she pass'd like a day-dream, no skill could restore her—
Whate'er was her sorrow, its ruin came fast;
She died with the same spell of mystery o'er her,
That song of past days on her lips to the last.

116

Nor ev'n in the grave is her sad heart reposing—
Still hovers the spirit of grief round her tomb;
For oft, when the shadows of midnight are closing,
The same strain of music is heard through the gloom.