The Poetical Works of Thomas Moore Collected by Himself. In Ten Volumes |
 | I, II. |
| III, IV. |
| V. |
| VI, VII. |
| VIII, IX. |
 | X. |
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| I. |
| II. |
| III. |
| IV. |
 | The Poetical Works of Thomas Moore |  |
301
EXTRACT VII.
Venice.
Lord Byron's Memoirs, written by himself.—Reflections, when about to read them.
Let me, a moment,—ere with fear and hope
Of gloomy, glorious things, these leaves I ope—
As one, in fairy tale, to whom the key
Of some enchanter's secret halls is given,
Doubts, while he enters, slowly, tremblingly,
If he shall meet with shapes from hell or heaven—
Let me, a moment, think what thousands live
O'er the wide earth this instant, who would give,
Gladly, whole sleepless nights to bend the brow
Over these precious leaves, as I do now.
How all who know—and where is he unknown?
To what far region have his songs not flown,
Like Psaphon's birds , speaking their master's name,
In ev'ry language, syllabled by Fame?—
How all, who've felt the various spells combin'd
Within the circle of that master-mind,—
Like spells, deriv'd from many a star, and met
Together in some wond'rous amulet,—
Would burn to know when first the Light awoke
In his young soul,—and if the gleams that broke
From that Aurora of his genius, rais'd
Most pain or bliss in those on whom they blaz'd;
Would love to trace th' unfolding of that power,
Which hath grown ampler, grander, every hour;
And feel, in watching o'er his first advance,
As did th' Egyptian traveller , when he stood
By the young Nile, and fathom'd with his lance
The first small fountains of that mighty flood.
Of gloomy, glorious things, these leaves I ope—
As one, in fairy tale, to whom the key
Of some enchanter's secret halls is given,
Doubts, while he enters, slowly, tremblingly,
If he shall meet with shapes from hell or heaven—
Let me, a moment, think what thousands live
O'er the wide earth this instant, who would give,
Gladly, whole sleepless nights to bend the brow
Over these precious leaves, as I do now.
How all who know—and where is he unknown?
To what far region have his songs not flown,
Like Psaphon's birds , speaking their master's name,
In ev'ry language, syllabled by Fame?—
302
Within the circle of that master-mind,—
Like spells, deriv'd from many a star, and met
Together in some wond'rous amulet,—
Would burn to know when first the Light awoke
In his young soul,—and if the gleams that broke
From that Aurora of his genius, rais'd
Most pain or bliss in those on whom they blaz'd;
Would love to trace th' unfolding of that power,
Which hath grown ampler, grander, every hour;
And feel, in watching o'er his first advance,
As did th' Egyptian traveller , when he stood
By the young Nile, and fathom'd with his lance
The first small fountains of that mighty flood.
They, too, who, mid the scornful thoughts that dwell
In his rich fancy, tinging all its streams,—
As if the Star of Bitterness, which fell
On earth of old , had touch'd them with its beams,—
Can track a spirit, which, though driven to hate,
From Nature's hands came kind, affectionate;
And which, ev'n now, struck as it is with blight,
Comes out, at times, in love's own native light;—
How gladly all, who've watch'd these struggling rays
Of a bright, ruin'd spirit through his lays,
Would here inquire, as from his own frank lips,
What desolating grief, what wrongs had driven
That noble nature into cold eclipse;
Like some fair orb that, once a sun in heaven,
And born, not only to surprise, but cheer
With warmth and lustre all within its sphere,
Is now so quench'd, that of its grandeur lasts
Nought, but the wide, cold shadow which it casts!
In his rich fancy, tinging all its streams,—
As if the Star of Bitterness, which fell
On earth of old , had touch'd them with its beams,—
Can track a spirit, which, though driven to hate,
From Nature's hands came kind, affectionate;
303
Comes out, at times, in love's own native light;—
How gladly all, who've watch'd these struggling rays
Of a bright, ruin'd spirit through his lays,
Would here inquire, as from his own frank lips,
What desolating grief, what wrongs had driven
That noble nature into cold eclipse;
Like some fair orb that, once a sun in heaven,
And born, not only to surprise, but cheer
With warmth and lustre all within its sphere,
Is now so quench'd, that of its grandeur lasts
Nought, but the wide, cold shadow which it casts!
Eventful volume! whatsoe'er the change
Of scene and clime—th' adventures, bold and strange—
The griefs—the frailties, but too frankly told—
The loves, the feuds thy pages may unfold,
If Truth with half so prompt a hand unlocks
His virtues as his failings, we shall find
The record there of friendships, held like rocks,
And enmities, like sun-touch'd snow, resign'd;
Of fealty, cherish'd without change or chill,
In those who serv'd him, young, and serve him still;
Of generous aid, giv'n with that noiseless art
Which wakes not pride, to many a wounded heart;
Of acts—but, no—not from himself must aught
Of the bright features of his life be sought.
While they, who court the world, like Milton's cloud ,
“Turn forth their silver lining” on the crowd,
This gifted Being wraps himself in night;
And, keeping all that softens, and adorns,
And gilds his social nature hid from sight,
Turns but its darkness on a world he scorns.
Of scene and clime—th' adventures, bold and strange—
The griefs—the frailties, but too frankly told—
The loves, the feuds thy pages may unfold,
If Truth with half so prompt a hand unlocks
His virtues as his failings, we shall find
The record there of friendships, held like rocks,
And enmities, like sun-touch'd snow, resign'd;
Of fealty, cherish'd without change or chill,
In those who serv'd him, young, and serve him still;
304
Which wakes not pride, to many a wounded heart;
Of acts—but, no—not from himself must aught
Of the bright features of his life be sought.
While they, who court the world, like Milton's cloud ,
“Turn forth their silver lining” on the crowd,
This gifted Being wraps himself in night;
And, keeping all that softens, and adorns,
And gilds his social nature hid from sight,
Turns but its darkness on a world he scorns.
Psaphon, in order to attract the attention of the world, taught multitudes of birds to speak his name, and then let them fly away in various directions: whence the proverb, “Psaphonis aves.”
| The Poetical Works of Thomas Moore | |