The Poetical Works of Thomas Moore Collected by Himself. In Ten Volumes |
I, II. |
III, IV. |
V. |
VI, VII. |
VIII, IX. |
X. |
The Poetical Works of Thomas Moore | ||
BALLADS, SONGS, MISCELLANEOUS POEMS, ETC.
TO-DAY, DEAREST! IS OURS.
Why should Love carelessly lose it?
This life shines or low'rs
Just as we, weak mortals, use it.
'Tis time enough, when its flow'rs decay,
To think of the thorns of Sorrow;
And Joy, if left on the stem to-day,
May wither before to-morrow.
Let the sweet moments fly over?
Though now, blooming and young,
Thou hast me devoutly thy lover,
Yet Time from both, in his silent lapse,
Some treasure may steal or borrow;
Thy charms may be less in bloom, perhaps,
Or I less in love to-morrow.
WHEN ON THE LIP THE SIGH DELAYS.
As if 'twould linger there for ever;
When eyes would give the world to gaze,
Yet still look down, and venture never;
When, though with fairest nymphs we rove,
There's one we dream of more than any—
If all this is not real love,
'Tis something wond'rous like it, Fanny!
On all we've got to say at meeting;
And yet when near, with heart to heart,
Sit mute, and listen to their beating:
To see but one bright object move,
The only moon, where stars are many—
If all this is not downright love,
I prithee say what is, my Fanny!
Though Reason on the darkest reckons;
When Passion drives us to the west,
Though Prudence to the eastward beckons;
When all turns round, below, above,
And our own heads the most of any—
If this is not stark, staring love,
Then you and I are sages, Fanny.
HERE, TAKE MY HEART.
While I go wand'ring o'er land and o'er sea;
Smiling or sorrowing, waking or sleeping,
What need I care, so my heart is with thee?
They who have light hearts the happiest be,
Then, happier still must be they who have none, love,
And that will be my case when mine is with thee.
I care not how many bright eyes I may see;
Should Venus herself come and ask me to love her,
I'd tell her I couldn't—my heart is with thee.
For, even should Fortune turn truant to me,
Why, let her go—I've a treasure beyond her,
As long as my heart's out at int'rest with thee!
OH, CALL IT BY SOME BETTER NAME.
For Friendship sounds too cold,
While Love is now a worldly flame,
Whose shrine must be of gold;
And Passion, like the sun at noon,
That burns o'er all he sees,
Awhile as warm, will set as soon—
Then, call it none of these.
More free from stain of clay
Than Friendship, Love, or Passion are,
Yet human still as they:
And if thy lip, for love like this,
No mortal word can frame,
Go, ask of angels what it is,
And call it by that name!
POOR WOUNDED HEART.
Thy hour of rest is come;
Thou soon wilt reach thy home,
Poor wounded heart, farewell!
The pain thou'lt feel in breaking
Less bitter far will be,
Than that long, deadly aching,
This life has been to thee.
The pang is o'er—
The parting pang is o'er;
Thou now wilt bleed no more,
Poor broken heart, farewell!
No rest for thee but dying—
Like waves, whose strife is past,
On death's cold shore thus lying,
Thou sleep'st in peace at last—
Poor broken heart, farewell!
THE EAST INDIAN.
Thy sweetly-scented thorn,
Thy cooling ev'ning showers,
Thy fragrant breath at morn:
When May-flies haunt the willow,
When May-buds tempt the bee,
Then o'er the shining billow
My love will come to me.
Through wat'ry wilds her way,
And on her cheek is bringing
The bright sun's orient ray:
Oh, come and court her hither,
Ye breezes mild and warm—
One winter's gale would wither
So soft, so pure a form.
Are blest with endless light,
With zephyrs always playing
Through gardens always bright.
Then now, sweet May! be sweeter
Than e'er thou'st been before;
Let sighs from roses meet her
When she comes near our shore.
POOR BROKEN FLOWER.
Torn from the stem that fed thy rosy breath—
In vain the sun-beams seek
To warm that faded cheek;
The dews of heav'n, that once like balm fell over thee,
Now are but tears, to weep thy early death.
Thrown from his arms, as lone and lost as thou;
In vain the smiles of all
Like sun-beams round her fall;
The only smile that could from death awaken her,
That smile, alas! is gone to others now.
THE PRETTY ROSE TREE.
I flew to the grove,
And chose me a tree of the fairest;
Saying, “Pretty Rose-tree,
“Thou my mistress shalt be,
“And I'll worship each bud thou bearest.
“For the hearts of this world are hollow,
“And fickle the smiles we follow;
“And 'tis sweet, when all
“Their witch'ries pall
“To have a pure love to fly to:
“So, my pretty Rose-tree,
“Thou my mistress shalt be,
“And the only one now I shall sigh to.”
Of thy cheek through the dew
Of morning is bashfully peeping,
(As I brush them away),
“At least there's no art in this weeping.”
Although thou shouldst die to-morrow,
'Twill not be from pain or sorrow;
And the thorns of thy stem
Are not like them
With which men wound each other:
So my pretty Rose-tree,
Thou my mistress shalt be,
And I'll ne'er again sigh to another.
SHINE OUT, STARS!
Round us every festal ray,
Lights that move not, lights that tremble,
All to grace this Eve of May.
Let the flow'r-beds all lie waking,
And the odours shut up there,
From their downy prisons breaking,
Fly abroad through sea and air.
With our other joys to weave,
Oh what glory, what completeness,
Then would crown this bright May Eve!
Shine out, Stars! let night assemble
Round us every festal ray,
Lights that move not, lights that tremble,
To adorn this Eve of May.
THE YOUNG MULETEERS OF GRENADA.
Where, resting at close of day,
We, young Muleteers of Grenada,
Sit and sing the sunshine away;
So merry, that even the slumbers,
That round us hung, seem gone;
Till the lute's soft drowsy numbers
Again beguile them on.
Oh the joys, &c.
In sleep still breathes the sigh,
The name of some black-eyed Tirana
Escapes our lips as we lie.
Till, with morning's rosy twinkle,
Again we're up and gone—
While the mule-bell's drowsy tinkle
Beguiles the rough way on.
Where, resting at close of day,
We, young Muleteers of Grenada,
Thus sing the gay moments away.
TELL HER, OH, TELL HER.
Beneath the green arbour, is still lying there;
And breezes, like lovers, around it are sighing,
But not a soft whisper replies to their pray'r.
Beside the green arbour she playfully set,
As lovely as ever is blushing and blowing,
And not a bright leaflet has fall'n from it yet.
The maiden is wandering, still let her be
As true as the lute, that no sighing can waken,
And blooming for ever, unchanged as the tree!
NIGHTS OF MUSIC.
Lost too soon, remember'd long,
When we went by moonlight roving,
Hearts all love and lips all song.
When this faithful lute recorded
All my spirit felt to thee;
And that smile the song rewarded—
Worth whole years of fame to me!
Fill'd with joys too sweet to last—
Joys that, like the star-light, tender,
While they shone, no shadow cast.
Though all other happy hours
From my fading mem'ry fly,
Of that star-light, of those bowers,
Not a beam, a leaf shall die!
OUR FIRST YOUNG LOVE.
That short but brilliant ray,
Which smiles, and weeps, and trembles
Through April's earliest day.
And not all life before us,
Howe'er its lights may play,
Can shed a lustre o'er us
Like that first April ray.
A blaze serener, grander;
Our autumn beam
May, like a dream
Of heav'n, die calm away;
But, no—let life before us
Bring all the light it may,
'Twill ne'er shed lustre o'er us
Like that first youthful ray.
BLACK AND BLUE EYES.
May in triumph let fly
All its darts without caring who feels 'em;
But the soft eye of blue,
Though it scatter wounds too,
Is much better pleased when it heals 'em—
Dear Fanny!
Is much better pleased when it heals 'em.
“Come and worship my ray—
“By adoring, perhaps you may move me!”
But the blue eye, half hid,
Says, from under its lid,
“I love, and am yours, if you love me!”
Yes, Fanny!
The blue eye, half hid,
Says, from under its lid,
“I love, and am yours if you love me!”
In that lovely blue eye,
Not a charm of its tint I discover;
Oh why should you wear
The only blue pair
That ever said “No” to a lover?
Dear Fanny!
Oh, why should you wear
The only blue pair
That ever said “No” to a lover?
DEAR FANNY.
“She has wit, but you mustn't be caught so:”
Thus Reason advises, but Reason's a fool,
And 'tis not the first time I have thought so,
Dear Fanny.
'Tis not the first time I have thought so.
“'Tis the charm of youth's vanishing season:”
Thus Love has advised me, and who will deny
That Love reasons much better than Reason,
Dear Fanny?
Love reasons much better than Reason.
FROM LIFE WITHOUT FREEDOM.
For one day of freedom, oh! who would not die?
Hark!—hark! 'tis the trumpet! the call of the brave,
The death-song of tyrants, the dirge of the slave.
Our country lies bleeding—haste, haste to her aid;
One arm that defends is worth hosts that invade.
The dead fear no tyrants, the grave has no chains.
On, on to the combat! the heroes that bleed
For virtue and mankind are heroes indeed.
And oh, ev'n if Freedom from this world be driven,
Despair not—at least we shall find her in heaven.
HERE'S THE BOWER.
And the tree she planted;
Here's the harp she used to touch—
Oh, how that touch enchanted!
Roses now unheeded sigh;
Where's the hand to wreathe them?
Songs around neglected lie;
Where's the lip to breathe them?
Here's the bower, &c.
Ne'er shall feel its sweetness;
Time, that once so fleetly moved,
Now hath lost its fleetness.
Years were days, when here she stray'd,
Days were moments near her;
Heaven ne'er form'd a brighter maid,
Nor Pity wept a dearer!
Here's the bower, &c.
I SAW THE MOON RISE CLEAR.
A FINLAND LOVE SONG.
O'er hills and vales of snow,
Nor told my fleet rein-deer
The track I wish'd to go.
Yet quick he bounded forth;
For well my rein-deer knew
I've but one path on earth—
The path which leads to you.
How soon the heart forgets,
When Summer brings, at last,
Her sun that never sets!
So dawn'd my love for you;
So, fix'd through joy and pain,
Than summer sun more true,
'Twill never set again.
LOVE AND THE SUN-DIAL.
Where man ne'er had wander'd nor sunbeam play'd;
“Why thus in darkness lie?” whisper'd young Love,
“Thou, whose gay hours in sunshine should move.”
“I ne'er,” said the Dial, “have seen the warm sun,
“So noonday and midnight to me, Love, are one.”
And placed her where Heav'n's beam warmly play'd.
There she reclined, beneath Love's gazing eye,
While, mark'd all with sunshine, her hours flew by.
“Oh, how,” said the Dial, “can any fair maid,
“That's born to be shone upon, rest in the shade?”
And Love stops to gaze on the Dial no more.
Are storming around her, with sorrow she finds
That Love had but number'd a few sunny hours,—
Then left the remainder to darkness and showers!
LOVE AND TIME.
Let bards declare who've seen 'em—
That Love and Time have only got
One pair of wings between 'em.
In courtship's first delicious hour,
The boy full oft can spare 'em;
So, loitering in his lady's bower,
He lets the grey-beard wear 'em.
Then is Time's hour of play;
Oh, how he flies, flies away!
When he the wings can borrow;
If Time to-day has had his flight,
Love takes his turn to-morrow.
Ah! Time and Love, your change is then
The saddest and most trying,
And t'other takes to flying.
Then is Love's hour to stray;
Oh, how he flies, flies away!
And bless the silken fetter,
Who knows, the dear one, how to deal
With Love and Time much better.
So well she checks their wanderings,
So peacefully she pairs 'em,
That Love with her ne'er thinks of wings,
And Time for ever wears 'em.
This is Time's holyday;
Oh, how he flies, flies away!
LOVE'S LIGHT SUMMER-CLOUD.
Youth may wither, but feeling will last;
All the shadow that e'er shall fall o'er us
Love's light summer-cloud only shall cast.
Oh, if to love thee more
Each hour I number o'er—
If this a passion be
Worthy of thee,
Then be happy, for thus I adore thee.
Charms may wither, but feeling shall last:
All the shadow that e'er shall fall o'er thee,
Love's light summer-cloud sweetly shall cast.
Sighs of pleasure alone shalt thou steal;
Beam, bright eyelid, no weeping shall stain thee,
Tears of rapture alone shalt thou feel.
In love, to banish harm—
If pleasure's truest spell
Be to love well,
Then be happy, for thus I adore thee.
Charms may wither, but feeling shall last:
All the shadow that e'er shall fall o'er thee,
Love's light summer-cloud sweetly shall cast.
LOVE, WAND'RING THROUGH THE GOLDEN MAZE.
Love, wand'ring through the golden mazeOf my beloved's hair,
Traced every lock with fond delays,
And, doting, linger'd there.
And soon he found 'twere vain to fly;
His heart was close confined,
For, every ringlet was a tie—
A chain by beauty twined.
MERRILY EVERY BOSOM BOUNDETH.
THE TYROLESE SONG OF LIBERTY.
Merrily, oh!
Where the song of Freedom soundeth,
Merrily, oh!
There the warrior's arms
Shed more splendour;
There the maiden's charms
Shine more tender;
Every joy the land surroundeth,
Merrily, oh! merrily, oh!
Wearily, oh!
Where the bond of slavery twineth
Wearily, oh!
There the warrior's dart
Hath no fleetness;
Hath no sweetness—
Every flower of life declineth,
Wearily, oh! wearily, oh!
Cheerily, oh!
Like your native fountains sally,
Cheerily, oh!
If a glorious death,
Won by bravery,
Sweeter be than breath
Sigh'd in slavery,
Round the flag of Freedom rally,
Cheerily, oh! cheerily, oh!
REMEMBER THE TIME.
THE CASTILIAN MAID.
When our moments so blissfully flew;
When you call'd me the flower of Castilian maids,
And I blush'd to be call'd so by you;
When I taught you to warble the gay seguadille,
And to dance to the light castanet;
Oh, never, dear youth, let you roam where you will,
The delight of those moments forget.
Every hour a new passion can feel;
And that soon, in the light of some lovelier smile,
You'll forget the poor maid of Castile.
But they know not how brave in the battle you are,
Or they never could think you would rove;
For 'tis always the spirit most gallant in war
That is fondest and truest in love.
OH, SOON RETURN.
The wave beneath us seem'd to burn,
When all the weeping maid could say
Was, “Oh, soon return!”
Through many a clime our ship was driven,
O'er many a billow rudely thrown;
Now chill'd beneath a northern heaven,
Now sunn'd in summer's zone:
And still, where'er we bent our way,
When evening bid the west wave burn,
I fancied still I heard her say,
“Oh, soon return!”
Its thoughts one moment turn'd from thee,
'Twas when the combat raged around,
And brave men look'd to me.
For gentle Love was all unmeet,
He lent to Glory's brow the charm,
Which made even danger sweet.
And still, when victory's calm came o'er
The hearts where rage had ceased to burn,
Those parting words I heard once more,
“Oh, soon return!—Oh, soon return!”
LOVE THEE?
Thou'rt loved, adored by me,
Fame, fortune, wealth, and liberty,
Were worthless without thee.
Though brimm'd with blessings, pure and rare,
Life's cup before me lay,
Unless thy love were mingled there,
I'd spurn the draught away.
Love thee?—so well, so tenderly
Thou'rt loved, adored by me,
Fame, fortune, wealth, and liberty,
Are worthless without thee.
To me were dark and lone,
While, with it, ev'n the humblest cot
Were brighter than his throne.
For me would have no charms;
My only world thy gentle eyes—
My throne thy circling arms!
Oh, yes, so well, so tenderly
Thou'rt loved, adored by me,
Whole realms of light and liberty
Were worthless without thee.
ONE DEAR SMILE.
First I sigh'd for thee;
Couldst thou make me feel again
Every wish I breath'd thee then,
Oh, how blissful life would be!
Hopes, that now beguiling leave me,
Joys, that lie in slumber cold—
All would wake, couldst thou but give me
One dear smile like those of old.
But to mourn the past;
Vain was every ardent vow—
Never yet did Heaven allow
Love so warm, so wild, to last.
Not even hope could now deceive me—
Life itself looks dark and cold:
Oh, thou never more canst give me
One dear smile like those of old.
YES, YES, WHEN THE BLOOM.
He'll turn into friendship that feels no decay;
And, though Time may take from him the wings he once wore,
The charms that remain will be bright as before,
And he'll lose but his young trick of flying away.
That Friendship our last happy moments will crown:
Like the shadows of morning, Love lessens away,
While Friendship, like those at the closing of day,
Will linger and lengthen as life's sun goes down.
THE DAY OF LOVE.
Stole o'er the mountain brook,
With timid ray resembling
Affection's early look.
Thus love begins—sweet morn of love!
And o'er the valley's stream
Diffused a glow as splendid
As passion's riper dream.
Thus love expands—warm noon of love!
The glories of the sky,
Like faith and fondness fading
From passion's alter'd eye.
Thus love declines—cold eve of love!
LUSITANIAN WAR-SONG.
Till not one hateful link remains
Of slavery's lingering chains;
Till not one tyrant tread our plains,
Nor traitor lip pollute our fountains.
No! never till that glorious day
Shall Lusitania's sons be gay,
Or hear, oh Peace, thy welcome lay
Resounding through her sunny mountains.
Till Victory's self shall, smiling, say,
“Your cloud of foes hath pass'd away,
“And Freedom comes, with new-born ray,
“To gild your vines and light your fountains.”
Oh, never till that glorious day
Shall Lusitania's sons be gay,
Or hear, sweet Peace, thy welcome lay
Resounding through her sunny mountains.
THE YOUNG ROSE.
Was the flow'ret most dear to the sweet bird of night,
Who oft, by the moon, o'er her blushes hath hung,
And thrill'd every leaf with the wild lay he sung.
Prolong'd by the breath she will borrow from thee;
For, while o'er her bosom thy soft notes shall thrill,
She'll think the sweet night-bird is courting her still.
WHEN 'MIDST THE GAY I MEET.
That gentle smile of thine,
Though still on me it turns most sweet,
I scarce can call it mine:
But when to me alone
Your secret tears you show,
Oh, then I feel those tears my own,
And claim them while they flow.
Then still with bright looks bless
The gay, the cold, the free;
Give smiles to those who love you less,
But keep your tears for me.
Can smile in many a beam,
Yet still in chains of coldness sleep,
How bright soe'er it seem.
Whose touch is fire, appears,
Oh, then the smile is warm'd away,
And, melting, turns to tears.
Then still with bright looks bless
The gay, the cold, the free;
Give smiles to those who love you less,
But keep your tears for me.
WHEN TWILIGHT DEWS.
Upon the rosy sea, love,
I watch the star, whose beam so oft
Has lighted me to thee, love.
And thou too, on that orb so dear,
Dost often gaze at even,
And think, though lost for ever here,
Thou'lt yet be mine in heaven.
There's not a flower I see, love,
But brings to mind some hope that's fled,
Some joy that's gone with thee, love.
And still I wish that hour was near,
When, friends and foes forgiven,
The pains, the ills we've wept through here,
May turn to smiles in heaven.
YOUNG JESSICA.
With heart o'er idle love-thoughts pining;
Her needle bright beside her lay,
So active once!—now idly shining.
Ah, Jessy, 'tis in idle hearts
That love and mischief are most nimble;
The safest shield against the darts
Of Cupid, is Minerva's thimble.
Well knowing all its arts, so wily,
The tempter near a needle lays,
And laughing says, “We'll steal it slily.”
The needle, having nought to do,
Is pleased to let the magnet wheedle;
Till closer, closer come the two,
And—off, at length, elopes the needle.
To some gay reticule's construction,
It ne'er had stray'd from duty's tie,
Nor felt the magnet's sly seduction.
Thus, girls, would you keep quiet hearts,
Your snowy fingers must be nimble;
The safest shield against the darts
Of Cupid, is Minerva's thimble.
HOW HAPPY, ONCE.
My moments flew along,
While looking on those smiling eyes,
And list'ning to thy magic song!
But vanish'd now, like summer dreams,
Those moments smile no more;
For me that eye no longer beams,
That song for me is o'er.
Mine the cold brow,
That speaks thy alter'd vow,
While others feel thy sunshine now.
One hope might yet be mine—
Some other eyes as bright to see,
And hear a voice as sweet as thine:
But never, never can this heart
Be waked to life again;
And wither'd then!
Cold its pulse lies,
And mute are ev'n its sighs,
All other grief it now defies.
I LOVE BUT THEE.
And think this heart to other loves will stray,
If I must swear, then, lovely doubter, hear me;
By ev'ry dream I have when thou'rt away,
By ev'ry throb I feel when thou art near me,
I love but thee—I love but thee!
Where Love, in depth of shadow, holds his throne,
And by those lips, which give whate'er thou'rt saying,
Or grave or gay, a music of its own,
A music far beyond all minstrel's playing,
I love but thee—I love but thee!
As pure as moonlight sleeping upon snow,
A hue too bright to bless this world below,
And only fit to dwell on Eden's roses,
I love but thee—I love but thee!
LET JOY ALONE BE REMEMBER'D NOW.
Let thy sorrows go sleep awhile;
Or if thought's dark cloud come o'er thy brow,
Let Love light it up with his smile.
For thus to meet, and thus to find,
That Time, whose touch can chill
Each flower of form, each grace of mind,
Hath left thee blooming still,—
Oh, joy alone should be thought of now,
Let our sorrows go sleep awhile;
Or, should thought's dark cloud come o'er thy brow,
Let Love light it up with his smile.
If but one bright leaf remain,
Of the many that once its glory made,
It is not for us to complain.
In all Love's early bliss;
Oh, Time all other gifts may take,
So he but leaves us this!
Then let joy alone be remember'd now,
Let our sorrows go sleep awhile;
Or if thought's dark cloud come o'er the brow,
Let Love light it up with his smile!
LOVE THEE, DEAREST? LOVE THEE?
Yes, by yonder star I swear,
Which thro' tears above thee
Shines so sadly fair;
Though often dim,
With tears, like him,
Like him my truth will shine,
And—love thee, dearest? love thee?
Yes, till death I'm thine.
No, that star is not more true;
When my vows deceive thee,
He will wander too.
A cloud of night
May veil his light,
And death shall darken mine—
But—leave thee, dearest? leave thee?
No, till death I'm thine.
MY HEART AND LUTE.
Tho' poor the off'ring be;
My heart and lute are all the store
That I can bring to thee.
A lute whose gentle song reveals
The soul of love full well;
And, better far, a heart that feels
Much more than lute could tell.
To keep life's clouds away,
At least 'twill make them lighter pass
Or gild them if they stay.
And ev'n if Care, at moments, flings
A discord o'er life's happy strain,
Let Love but gently touch the strings,
'Twill all be sweet again!
PEACE, PEACE TO HIM THAT'S GONE!
Then lay my head
In some lone, distant dell,
Where voices ne'er
Shall stir the air,
Or break its silent spell.
Be heard around,
Let the sweet bird alone,
That weeps in song,
Sing all night long,
“Peace, peace to him that's gone!”
One sigh of thine,
One pitying word from thee,
Like gleams of heaven,
To sinners given,
Would be that word to me.
My shade would rest
While list'ning to that tone;—
Enough 'twould be
To hear from thee,
“Peace, peace, to him that's gone!”
ROSE OF THE DESERT.
Lonely and lovely, fleets unseen away;
No hand to cull thee, none to woo thy sigh,—
In vestal silence left to live and die,—
Rose of the Desert! thus should woman be,
Shining uncourted, lone and safe, like thee.
Destined for others, not thyself, to bloom:
Cull'd e'er thy beauty lives through half its day;
A moment cherish'd, and then cast away;
Rose of the Garden! such is woman's lot,—
Worshipp'd, while blooming—when she fades, forgot.
'TIS ALL FOR THEE.
'Tis all from thee,
My thoughts by day, my dreams by night,
Are but of thee, of only thee.
Whate'er of hope or peace I know,
My zest in joy, my balm in woe,
To those dear eyes of thine I owe,
'Tis all from thee.
Seem'd doom'd to thee;
Kept pure till then from other ties,
'Twas all for thee, for only thee.
Like plants that sleep, till sunny May
Calls forth their life, my spirit lay,
Till, touch'd by Love's awak'ning ray,
It lived for thee, it lived for thee.
She speaks by thee;
And dim would shine her proudest lights,
Unshared by thee, unshared by thee.
Whene'er I seek the Muse's shrine,
Where Bards have hung their wreaths divine,
And wish those wreaths of glory mine,
'Tis all for thee, for only thee.
THE SONG OF THE OLDEN TIME.
Falling sad o'er the ear,
Like the dream of some village chime,
Which in youth we loved to hear.
And ev'n amidst the grand and gay,
When Music tries her gentlest art,
I never hear so sweet a lay,
Or one that hangs so round my heart,
As that song of the olden time,
Falling sad o'er the ear,
Like the dream of some village chime,
Which in youth we loved to hear.
Ev'n the hope, ling'ring now,
Autumn's sere and faded bough,—
'Twill seem as still those friends were near,
Who loved me in youth's early day,
If in that parting hour I hear
The same sweet notes, and die away,—
To that song of the olden time,
Breath'd, like Hope's farewell strain,
To say, in some brighter clime,
Life and youth will shine again!
In this song, which is one of the many set to music by myself, the occasional lawlessness of the metre arises, I need hardly say, from the peculiar structure of the air.
WAKE THEE, MY DEAR.
Till darker hours will keep;
While such a moon is beaming,
'Tis wrong tow'rds Heav'n to sleep.
Moments of pain and care,
Which to oblivious slumber
Gladly the wretch would spare.
But now,—who'd think of dreaming
When Love his watch should keep?
While such a moon is beaming,
'Tis wrong tow'rds Heaven to sleep.
My life and hopes from thee, love,
The sleep that lasts for ever
Would then be sweet to me, love;
Till darker hours 'twill keep;
While such a moon is beaming,
'Tis wrong tow'rds Heaven to sleep.
THE BOY OF THE ALPS.
Tread the mountains over;
Rude is the path thou'st yet to go;
Snow cliffs hanging o'er thee,
Fields of ice before thee,
While the hid torrent moans below.
Hark, the deep thunder,
Through the vales yonder!
'Tis the huge av'lanche downward cast;
From rock to rock
Rebounds the shock.
But courage, boy! the danger's past.
Onward, youthful rover,
Tread the glacier over,
Safe shalt thou reach thy home at last.
Soon will dusk o'ertake thee:
O'er yon ice-bridge lies thy way!
Now, for the risk prepare thee;
Safe it yet may bear thee,
Though 'twill melt in morning's ray.
'Tis the wolf prowling,—
Scent of thy track the foe hath got;
And cliff and shore
Resound his roar.
But courage, boy,—the danger's past!
Watching eyes have found thee,
Loving arms are round thee,
Safe hast thou reach'd thy father's cot.
This and the Songs that follow (as far as page 266.) have been published, with music, by Messrs. Addison and Beale, Regent Street.
FOR THEE ALONE.
Those eyes my light through ev'ry distant sea;
My waking thoughts, the dream that gilds my sleep,
The noon-tide rev'rie, all are given to thee,
To thee alone, to thee alone.
Fair forms of light that crowd the distant air,
When nearer view'd, the fairy phantoms fly,
The crowds dissolve, and thou alone art there,
Thou, thou alone.
While Hope's sweet voice is heard in every blast,
Still whisp'ring on, that when some years are o'er,
One bright reward shall crown my toil at last,
Thy smile alone, thy smile alone.
All earth can boast of fair, of rich, and bright,
Wealth's radiant mines, the lofty thrones of power,—
Then ask where first thy lover's choice would light?
On thee alone, on thee alone.
HER LAST WORDS, AT PARTING.
Deep treasured through life, in my heart they shall stay;
Like music, whose charm in the soul lingers yet,
When its sounds from the ear have long melted away.
Let Fortune assail me, her threat'nings are vain;
Those still-breathing words shall my talisman be,—
“Remember, in absence, in sorrow, and pain,
“There's one heart, unchanging, that beats but for thee.”
Never more of that fresh-springing fountain to taste,
He hath still of its bright drops a treasured supply,
Whose sweetness lends life to his lips through the waste.
These words shall my well in the wilderness be,—
“Remember, in absence, in sorrow, and pain,
“There's one heart, unchanging, that beats but for thee.”
LET'S TAKE THIS WORLD AS SOME WIDE SCENE.
Through which, in frail, but buoyant boat,
With skies now dark and now serene,
Together thou and I must float;
Beholding oft, on either shore,
Bright spots where we should love to stay;
But Time plies swift his flying oar,
And away we speed, away, away.
We'll raise our awning 'gainst the show'r;
Sit closer till the storm is gone,
And, smiling, wait a sunnier hour.
And if that sunnier hour should shine,
We'll know its brightness cannot stay,
But happy, while 'tis thine and mine,
Complain not when it fades away.
Down which life's currents all must go,—
The dark, the brilliant, destined all
To sink into the void below.
Nor ev'n that hour shall want its charms
If, side by side, still fond we keep,
And calmly, in each other's arms
Together link'd, go down the steep.
LOVE'S VICTORY.
Who won the glorious day;
Strew the wreaths of victory
Along the conqu'ror's way.
Yoke the Muses to his car,
Let them sing each trophy won;
While his mother's joyous star
Shall light the triumph on.
Let spirits sing around;
While the hill, the dale, and grove,
With “mighty Love” resound;
Or, should a sigh of sorrow steal
Amid the sounds thus echo'd o'er,
Twill but teach the god to feel
His victories the more.
Of sunny Ind their hue;
They trembled through and through.
Flowers spring beneath his feet;
Angel forms beside him run;
While unnumber'd lips repeat
“Love's victory is won!”
Hail to Love, to mighty Love, &c.
SONG OF HERCULES TO HIS DAUGHTER.
“To fountain and sea,
“To seek in their water
“Some bright gem for thee.
“Where diamonds were sleeping,
“Their sparkle I sought,
“Where crystal was weeping,
“Its tears I have caught.
“In rich coral halls;
“With Naiads have sported
“By bright waterfalls.
“But sportive or tender,
“Still sought I around
“Thou yet shalt be crown'd.
“Yon soft light afar;—
“The pearl I've been seeking
“There floats like a star!
“In the deep Indian Ocean
“I see the gem shine,
“And quick as light's motion
“Its wealth shall be thine.”
The hero-god flew,
His sunny looks bright'ning
The air he went through.
And sweet was the duty,
And hallow'd the hour,
Which saw thus young Beauty
Embellish'd by Power.
Founded on the fable reported by Arrian (in Indicis) of Hercules having searched the Indian Ocean, to find the pearl with which he adorned his daughter Pandæa.
THE DREAM OF HOME.
The dream of home, the dream of home,
Steals o'er the heart, too soon to fleet,
When far o'er sea or land we roam?
Sunlight more soft may o'er us fall,
To greener shores our bark may come;
But far more bright, more dear than all,
That dream of home, that dream of home.
His light bark bounds o'er ocean's foam,
What charms him most, when ev'ning's star
Smiles o'er the wave? to dream of home.
Fond thoughts of absent friends and loves
At that sweet hour around him come;
His heart's best joy where'er he roves,
That dream of home, that dream of home.
THEY TELL ME THOU'RT THE FAVOUR'D GUEST.
Of every fair and brilliant throng;
No wit like thine to wake the jest,
No voice like thine to breathe the song;
And none could guess, so gay thou art,
That thou and I are far apart.
With thee and me the time away!
Not that I wish thee sad—heav'n knows—
Still if thou can'st, be light and gay;
I only know, that without thee
The sun himself is dark to me.
Among the proud and gay to shine?
Or deck my hair with gem and flower,
To flatter other eyes than thine?
Ah, no, with me love's smiles are past,
Thou had'st the first, thou had'st the last.
Part of a translation of some Latin verses, supposed to have been addressed by Hippolyta Taurella to her husband, during his absence at the gay court of Leo the Tenth. The verses may be found in the Appendix to Roscoe's Work.
THE YOUNG INDIAN MAID.
Gracefully, gracefully,
Her eye a light glancing
Like the blue sea;
And while all this gladness
Around her steps hung,
Such sweet notes of sadness
Her gentle lips sung,
That ne'er while I live from my mem'ry shall fade
The song, or the look, of that young Indian maid.
Cheerily, cheerily,
Chimed to her singing
Light echos of glee;
But in vain did she borrow
Of mirth the gay tone,
And sorrow alone.
Nor e'er while I live from my mem'ry shall fade
The song, or the look, of that young Indian maid.
THE HOMEWARD MARCH.
Those sounds announce my lover near:
The march that brings our warriors home
Proclaims he'll soon be here.
O'er the mountain's head,
While hills and dales repeat the sound;
And the forest deer
Stand still to hear,
As those echoing steps ring round.
Those sounds that speak my soldier near;
Those joyous steps seem wing'd for home,—
Rest, rest, he'll soon be here.
And now they wind to distant glades;
To gladden happier maids!
The footsteps seem,
As down the hills they die away;
And the march, whose song
So peal'd along,
Now fades like a funeral lay.
And though not here, alas, they come,
Rejoice for those, to whom that strain
Brings sons and lovers home.
WAKE UP, SWEET MELODY.
Now is the hour
When young and loving hearts
Feel most thy power.
One note of music, by moonlight's soft ray—
Oh, 'tis worth thousands heard coldly by day.
Then wake up, sweet melody!
Now is the hour
When young and loving hearts
Feel most thy power.
When his sweet flower
Loves most to hear his song,
In her green bower?
Oh, he will tell thee, through summer-nights long,
Fondest she lends her whole soul to his song.
Now is the hour
When young and loving hearts
Feel most thy power.
CALM BE THY SLEEP.
Pure as angel thoughts thy dreams!
May every joy this bright world numbers
Shed o'er thee their mingled beams!
Or if, where Pleasure's wing hath glided,
There ever must some pang remain,
Still be thy lot with me divided,—
Thine all the bliss, and mine the pain!
Round thy steps where'er they stray;
As, ev'n when clouds his idol cover,
Fondly the Persian tracks its ray.
If this be wrong, if Heav'n offended
By worship to its creature be,
Then let my vows to both be blended,
Half breathed to Heav'n and half to thee.
THE EXILE.
Saddens with light the glimm'ring sea,
Whose waves shall soon to realms afar
Waft me from hope, from love, and thee.
Coldly the beam from yonder sky
Looks o'er the waves that onward stray;
But colder still the stranger's eye
To him whose home is far away.
Let thoughts of me come o'er thy breast;
But of the lost one think and speak,
When summer suns sink calm to rest.
So, as I wander, Fancy's dream
Shall bring me o'er the sunset seas,
Thy look, in every melting beam,
Thy whisper, in each dying breeze.
THE FANCY FAIR.
All wond'rous things of earth and air;
Whatever wild romancers tell,
Or poets sing, or lovers swear,
You'll find at this our Fancy Fair.
And kept, for years, in such repair,
That ev'n when turn'd of thirty-nine,
They'll hardly look the worse for wear,
If bought at this our Fancy Fair.
And hearts that such ill usage bear,
That, though they're broken ev'ry hour,
They'll still in rhyme fresh breaking bear,
If purchased at our Fancy Fair.
We've goods to suit each season's air,
Eternal friendships for the spring,
And endless loves for summer wear,—
All sold at this our Fancy Fair.
That long will last, if used with care,
Nay, safe through all life's journey go,
If pack'd and mark'd as “brittle ware,”—
Just purchased at the Fancy Fair.
IF THOU WOULD'ST HAVE ME SING AND PLAY.
As once I play'd and sung,
First take this time-worn lute away,
And bring one freshly strung.
Call back the time when pleasure's sigh
First breathed among the strings;
And Time himself, in flitting by,
Made music with his wings.
And shining fresh the chords,
Beneath this hand they slumber mute,
Or speak but dreamy words.
In vain I seek the soul that dwelt
Within that once sweet shell,
Which told so warmly what it felt,
And felt what nought could tell.
From lyre so coldly strung;
With this I ne'er can sing or play,
As once I play'd and sung.
No, bring that long-loved lute again,—
Though chill'd by years it be,
If thou wilt call the slumb'ring strain,
'Twill wake again for thee.
Of thoughts that gush'd along,
One look from thee, like summer's beam,
Will thaw them into song.
Then give, oh give, that wakening ray,
And once more blithe and young,
Thy bard again will sing and play,
As once he play'd and sung.
STILL WHEN DAYLIGHT.
Bright and soft its farewell gave,
I used to hear, while light was falling,
O'er the wave a sweet voice calling,
Mournfully at distance calling.
To meet her sea-boy hast'ning home;
And through the night those sounds repeating,
Hail his bark with joyous greeting,
Joyously his light bark greeting.
Nor earth, nor heaven, could hear her cry,
She saw his boat come tossing over
Midnight's wave,—but not her lover!
No, never more her lover.
She comes with wand'ring mind at eve,
And oft we hear, when night is falling,
Faint her voice through twilight calling,
Mournfully at twilight calling.
THE SUMMER WEBS.
The summer dews that fall,
Tho' light they be, this heart of mine
Is lighter still than all.
It tells me every cloud is past
Which lately seem'd to lour;
That Hope hath wed young Joy at last,
And now's their nuptial hour!
With nought to wake one sigh,
Except the wish, that all we love
Were at this moment nigh,—
It seems as if life's brilliant sun
Had stopp'd in full career,
To make this hour its brightest one,
And rest in radiance here.
MIND NOT THOUGH DAYLIGHT.
Who'd think now of sleeping when morn's but just waking?
Sound the merry viol, and daylight or not,
Be all for one hour in the gay dance forgot.
Tho' fresh from her pillow, ev'n she too is dancing:
While thus all creation, earth, heaven, and sea,
Are dancing around us, oh, why should not we?
Such sweet drops of time only flow to be tasted;
While hearts are high beating, and harps full in tune,
The fault is all morning's for coming so soon.
THEY MET BUT ONCE.
And never since that day
Hath absence, time, or grief had pow'r
To chase that dream away.
They've seen the suns of other skies,
On other shores have sought delight;
But never more, to bless their eyes,
Can come a dream so bright!
They met but once,—a day was all
Of Love's young hopes they knew;
And still their hearts that day recall,
As fresh as then it flew.
Let either meet the brow
They left so smooth and smiling then,
Or see what it is now.
For, Youth, the spell was only thine;
From thee alone th' enchantment flows,
With light thyself bestows.
They met but once,—oh, ne'er again
Let either meet the brow
They left so smooth and smiling then,
Or see what it is now.
WITH MOONLIGHT BEAMING.
Thus o'er the deep,
Who'd linger dreaming
In idle sleep?
Leave joyless souls to live by day,—
Our life begins with yonder ray;
And while thus brightly
The moments flee,
Our barks skim lightly
The shining sea.
Let great ones hie;
Through light more tender
Our pathways lie.
While round, from banks of brook or lake,
Our company blithe echoes make;
Sweet word or strain,
Still back they send 'em,
More sweet, again.
CHILD'S SONG. FROM A MASQUE.
Shining with flowers of every hue;
I loved it dearly while alone,
But I shall love it more with you:
And there the golden bees shall come,
In summer-time at break of morn,
And wake us with their busy hum
Around the Siha's fragrant thorn.
On leafy buds and berries nurst;
And you shall feed him from your hand,
Though he may start with fear at first.
And I will lead you where he lies
For shelter in the noon-tide heat;
And you may touch his sleeping eyes,
And feel his little silv'ry feet.
THE HALCYON HANGS O'ER OCEAN.
The sea-lark skims the brine;
This bright world's all in motion,
No heart seems sad but mine.
With heart all cold the while;
To look in smiling faces,
When we no more can smile;
Around thee shine with bliss,
To thee no light is given,—
Oh, what a doom is this!
THE WORLD WAS HUSH'D.
Sail'd through ether slowly,
When, near the casement of my love,
Thus I whisper'd lowly,—
“Awake, awake, how canst thou sleep?
“The field I seek to-morrow
“Is one where man hath fame to reap,
“And woman gleans but sorrow.”
Thus spoke a voice replying,
“Think not thy love, while thou'rt away,
“Will here sit idly sighing.
“No—woman's soul, if not for fame,
“For love can brave all danger!”
Then forth from out the casement came
A plumed and armed stranger.
Herself before me beaming,
With casque array'd, and falchion blade
Beneath her girdle gleaming!
Close side by side, in freedom's fight,
That blessed morning found us;
In Vict'ry's light we stood ere night,
And Love, the morrow, crown'd us!
THE TWO LOVES.
Both born of Beauty at a birth:
The one, akin to heaven, hath wings,
The other, earthly, walks on earth.
With this through bowers below we play,
With that through clouds above we soar;
With both, perchance, may lose our way:—
Then, tell me which,
Tell me which shall we adore?
At Pleasure's fount to lave his lip,
Nor lingers long, nor oft will dare
His wing within the wave to dip.
While, plunging deep and long beneath,
The other bathes him o'er and o'er
In that sweet current, ev'n to death:—
Then, tell me which,
Tell me which shall we adore?
In Beauty's lap, recalls his home;
And when most happy, inly sighs
For something happier still to come.
While he of earth, too fully blest
With this bright world to dream of more,
Sees all his heav'n on Beauty's breast:—
Then, tell me which,
Tell me which shall we adore?
These twin-desires of earth and sky,
And saw, while one inspired his string,
The other glisten'd in his eye,—
To name the earthlier boy ashamed,
To choose the other fondly loath,
At length, all blushing, she exclaim'd,—
“Ask not which,
“Oh, ask not which—we'll worship both.
“With hearts and souls between them given,
“When weary of this earth with one,
“We'll with the other wing to heaven.”
And while one Love wrote down the oath,
The other seal'd it with a kiss;
And Heav'n look'd on,
Heav'n look'd on, and hallow'd both.
THE LEGEND OF PUCK THE FAIRY.
Are play'd by me, the merry little Sprite,
Who wing through air from the camp to the court,
From king to clown, and of all make sport;
Singing, I am the Sprite
Of the merry midnight,
Who laugh at weak mortals, and love the moonlight.
And dreamt of his cash, I slily crept;
Chink, chink o'er his pillow like money I rang,
And he waked to catch—but away I sprang,
Singing, I am the Sprite, &c.
She was waiting her love at that starlight hour:
“Hist—hist!” quoth I, with an amorous sigh,
And she flew to the door, but away flew I,
Singing, I am the Sprite, &c.
Like a pair of blue meteors I stared from above,
And he swoon'd—for he thought 'twas the ghost, poor man!
Of his lady's eyes, while away I ran,
Singing, I am the Sprite, &c.
BEAUTY AND SONG.
Where the rill flows,
Thus said a Nightingale
To his loved Rose:—
“Though rich the pleasures
“Of song's sweet measures,
“Vain were its melody,
“Rose, without thee.”
Of her night-bow'r,
Beaming with bashfulness,
Spoke the bright flow'r:—
“Though morn should lend her
“Its sunniest splendour,
“What would the Rose be,
“Unsung by thee?”
Woman's bright way;
Thus still let woman lend
Light to the lay.
Like stars, through heaven's sea,
Floating in harmony,
Beauty should glide along,
Circled by Song.
WHEN THOU ART NIGH.
A new creation round;
The sun hath fairer beams,
The lute a softer sound.
Though thee alone I see,
And hear alone thy sigh,
'Tis light, 'tis song to me,
'Tis all—when thou art nigh.
Of grief comes o'er my heart;
I only think—could aught
But joy be where thou art?
Life seems a waste of breath,
When far from thee I sigh;
And death—ay, even death
Were sweet, if thou wert nigh.
SONG OF A HYPERBOREAN.
Where golden gardens grow;
Where the winds of the north, becalm'd in sleep,
Their conch-shells never blow.
Haste to that holy Isle with me,
Haste—haste!
That oft, on night's pale beams,
The distant sounds of their harmony
Come to our ear, like dreams.
Then, haste to that holy Isle with me, &c. &c.
That when the night-seer looks
To that shadowless orb, in a vernal sky,
He can number its hills and brooks.
Then, haste, &c. &c.
By day, by night, belong;
And the breath we draw from his living fires,
We give him back in song.
Then, haste, &c. &c.
To Delos gifts divine;
And our wild bees lend their rainbow wings
To glitter on Delphi's shrine.
Then, haste to that holy Isle with me,
Haste—haste!
On the Tower of the Winds, at Athens, there is a conch-shell placed in the hands of Boreas.—See Stuart's Antiquities. “The north wind,” says Herodotus, in speaking of the Hyperboreans, “never blows with them.”
Hecatæus tells us, that this Hyperborean island was dedicated to Apollo; and most of the inhabitants were either priests or songsters.
THOU BIDST ME SING.
In other days, ere joy had left this brow;
But think, though still unchanged the notes may be,
How diff'rent feels the heart that breathes them now!
The rose thou wear'st to-night is still the same
We saw this morning on its stem so gay;
But, ah! that dew of dawn, that breath which came
Like life o'er all its leaves, hath pass'd away.
How many a joy and pain o'er both have past,—
The joy, a light too precious long to shine,
The pain, a cloud whose shadows always last.
And though that lay would like the voice of home
Breathe o'er our ear, 'twould waken now a sigh—
Ah! not, as then, for fancied woes to come,
But, sadder far, for real bliss gone by.
CUPID ARMED.
In thy hand take the spear;—
Thou art arm'd, Cupid, now,
And thy battle-hour is near.
March on! march on! thy shaft and bow
Were weak against such charms;
March on! march on! so proud a foe
Scorns all but martial arms.
Tipt with scorn, how they shine!
Ev'ry shaft, as it flies,
Mocking proudly at thine.
March on! march on! thy feather'd darts
Soft bosoms soon might move;
But ruder arms to ruder hearts
Must teach what 'tis to love.
In thy hand take the spear,—
Thou art arm'd, Cupid, now,
And thy battle-hour is near.
ROUND THE WORLD GOES.
While with it also round go we;
And in the flight of one day's light
An image of all life's course we see.
Round, round, while thus we go round,
The best thing a man can do,
Is to make it, at least, a merry-go-round,
By—sending the wine round too.
Youth, in its dawn, salutes the eye—
Season of bliss! Oh, who wouldn't then
Wish to cry, “Stop!” to earth and sky?
But, round, round, both boy and girl
Are whisk'd through that sky of blue;
And much would their hearts enjoy the whirl,
If—their heads didn't whirl round too.
Thinking all life a life of light;
But shadows come on, 'tis evening soon,
And, ere we can say, “How short!”—'tis night.
Round, round, still all goes round,
Ev'n while I'm thus singing to you;
And the best way to make it a merry-go-round,
Is to—chorus my song round too.
OH, DO NOT LOOK SO BRIGHT AND BLEST.
For still there comes a fear,
When brow like thine looks happiest,
That grief is then most near.
There lurks a dread in all delight,
A shadow near each ray,
That warns us then to fear their flight,
When most we wish their stay.
Then look not thou so bright and blest,
For ah! there comes a fear,
When brow like thine looks happiest,
That grief is then most near.
The soonest fleet and die?—
That when most light is on their wings,
They're then but spread to fly!
And, sadder still, the pain will stay—
The bliss no more appears;
And leave us but the tears!
Then look not thou so bright and blest,
For ah! there comes a fear,
When brow like thine looks happiest,
That grief is then most near.
THE MUSICAL BOX.
“Within this box, by magic hid,
“A tuneful Sprite imprison'd lies,
“Who sings to me whene'er he's bid.
“Though roving once his voice and wing,
“He'll now lie still the whole day long;
“Till thus I touch the magic spring—
“Then hark, how sweet and blithe his song!”
“Must ne'er ev'n Beauty's slave become;
“Through earth and air his song may stray,
“If all the while his heart's at home.
“And though in freedom's air he dwell,
“Nor bond nor chain his spirit knows,
“Touch but the spring thou know'st so well,
“And—hark, how sweet the love-song flows!”
But when young Beauty takes the field,
And wise men seek defence in flight,
The doom of poets is to yield.
No more my heart th' enchantress braves,
I'm now in Beauty's prison hid;
The Sprite and I are fellow-slaves,
And I, too, sing whene'er I'm bid.
WHEN TO SAD MUSIC SILENT YOU LISTEN.
And tears on those eyelids tremble like dew,
Oh, then there dwells in those eyes as they glisten
A sweet holy charm that mirth never knew.
But when some lively strain resounding
Lights up the sunshine of joy on that brow,
Then the young rein-deer o'er the hills bounding
Was ne'er in its mirth so graceful as thou.
A lustre so pure thy features then wear,
That, when to some star that bright eye thou raisest,
We feel 'tis thy home thou'rt looking for there.
But, when the word for the gay dance is given,
So buoyant thy spirit, so heartfelt thy mirth,
Oh then we exclaim, “Ne'er leave earth for heaven,
“But linger still here, to make heaven of earth.”
THE LANGUAGE OF FLOWERS.
To her who now lies waking,
To hear thy silver bell
The midnight silence breaking.
And, when thou com'st, with gladsome feet,
Beneath her lattice springing,
Ah, well she'll know how sweet
The words of love thou'rt bringing.
But half can tell love's feeling;
Sweet flowers alone can say
What passion fears revealing.
A once bright rose's wither'd leaf,
A tow'ring lily broken,—
Oh these may paint a grief
No words could e'er have spoken.
The wreath thou speedest over
Yon moonlight dale, to tell
My lady how I love her.
And, what to her will sweeter be
Than gems the richest, rarest,—
From Truth's immortal tree
One fadeless leaf thou bearest.
THE DAWN IS BREAKING O'ER US.
See, heaven hath caught its hue!
We've day's long light before us,
What sport shall we pursue?
The hunt o'er hill and lea?
The sail o'er summer sea?
Oh let not hour so sweet
Unwing'd by pleasure fleet.
The dawn is breaking o'er us,
See, heaven hath caught its hue!
We've day's long light before us,
What sport shall we pursue?
What morning sport to play,
The dial's hand is gliding,
And morn hath pass'd away!
Would o'er us steal so soon,—
That morn's sweet hour of prime
Would last so short a time?
But come, we've day before us,
Still heaven looks bright and blue;
Quick, quick, ere eve comes o'er us,
What sport shall we pursue?
We're now at evening's hour;
Its farewell beam is playing
O'er hill and wave and bower.
That light we thought would last,
Behold, ev'n now, 'tis past;
And all our morning dreams
Have vanish'd with its beams!
But come! 'twere vain to borrow
Sad lessons from this lay,
For man will be to-morrow—
Just what he's been to-day.
The Poetical Works of Thomas Moore | ||