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 | ||
MISCELLANEOUS POEMS.
OCCASIONAL EPILOGUE,
SPOKEN BY MR. CORRY, IN THE CHARACTER OF VAPID, AFTER THE PLAY OF THE DRAMATIST, AT THE KILKENNY THEATRE.
(Entering as if to announce the Play.)For the ninth time—oh accents of delight
To the poor author's ear, when three times three
With a full bumper crowns his Comedy!
When, long by money, and the muse, forsaken,
He finds at length his jokes and boxes taken,
And sees his play-bill circulate—alas,
The only bill on which his name will pass!
Thus, Vapid, thus shall Thespian scrolls of fame
Through box and gallery waft your well-known name,
And learned ladies spell your Dram. Person.
To help my night, and he, you know, has friends.
Friends, did I say? for fixing friends, or parts,
Engaging actors, or engaging hearts,
There's nothing like him! wits, at his request,
Are turn'd to fools, and dull dogs learn to jest;
Soldiers, for him, good “trembling cowards” make,
And beaus, turn'd clowns, look ugly for his sake;
For him ev'n lawyers talk without a fee,
For him (oh friendship!) I act tragedy!
In short, like Orpheus, his persuasive tricks
Make boars amusing, and put life in sticks.
Tho' London sent us all her loud O. P.'s ,
Let them come on, like snakes, all hiss and rattle,
Arm'd with a thousand fans, we'd give them battle;
Soon should we teach the saucy O. P.'s manners:
And show that, here—howe'er John Bull may doubt—
In all our plays, the Riot-Act's cut out;
And, while we skim the cream of many a jest,
Your well-timed thunder never sours its zest.
At Shakspeare's altar , shall we breathe our last;
And, ere this long-lov'd dome to ruin nods,
Die all, die nobly, die like demigods!
The brief appellation by which those persons were distinguished who, at the opening of the new theatre of Covent Garden, clamoured for the continuance of the old prices of admission.
EXTRACT FROM A PROLOGUE WRITTEN AND SPOKEN BY THE AUTHOR, AT THE OPENING OF THE KILKENNY THEATRE, OCTOBER, 1809.
[OMITTED]There shine some genuine smiles, beyond her power;
And there are tears, too—tears that Memory sheds
Ev'n o'er the feast that mimic fancy spreads,
When her heart misses one lamented guest ,
Whose eye so long threw light o'er all the rest!
There, there, indeed, the Muse forgets her task,
And drooping weeps behind Thalia's mask.
Too sad to welcome pleasure's smiling train.
But, meeting thus, our hearts will part the lighter,
As mist at dawn but makes the setting brighter;
As glow-worms keep their splendour for their tails.
More fleet than usual since we parted last.
It seems but like a dream of yester-night,
Whose charm still hangs, with fond, delaying light;
And, ere the memory lose one glowing hue
Of former joy, we come to kindle new.
Thus ever may the flying moments haste
With trackless foot along life's vulgar waste,
But deeply print and lingeringly move,
When thus they reach the sunny spots we love.
Oh yes, whatever be our gay career,
Let this be still the solstice of the year,
Where Pleasure's sun shall at its height remain,
And slowly sink to level life again.
The late Mr. John Lyster, one of the oldest members and best actors of the Kilkenny Theatrical Society.
THE SYLPH'S BALL.
Her figure through the fields of air,
By an old swathy Gnome was couted,
And, strange to say, he won the fair.
A pair so sorted could not show,
But how refuse?—the Gnome was rich,
The Rothschild of the world below;
Are told, betimes, they must consider
Love as an auctioneer of features,
Who knocks them down to the best bidder.
A Palace, paved with diamonds all—
And, proud as Lady Gnome to shine,
Sent out her tickets for a Ball.
And all the best; but of the upper
The sprinkling was but shy and rare,—
A few old Sylphids, who lov'd supper.
Of Davy, that renown'd Aladdin,
And the Gnome's Halls exhal'd a damp,
Which accidents from fire were bad in;
By many strange but safe devices;
Large fire-flies, such as shine at night
Among the Orient's flowers and spices;—
By elfin hands—that, flashing round,
Like certain fire-eyed minstrel maids,
Gave out, at once, both light and sound.
And water from that Indian sea,
Whose waves at night like wild-fire run—
Cork'd up in crystal carefully.
Like little light-houses, were set up;
And pretty phosphorescent fishes,
That by their own gay light were eat up.
That wicked Sylph, whom Love we call—
My Lady knew him but by name,
My Lord, her husband not at all.
That he was coming, and, no doubt,
Alarm'd about his torch, advis'd
He should, by all means, be kept out.
And, by his flame though somewhat frighted,
Thought Love too much a gentleman,
In such a dangerous place to light it.
With the fair Sylph, light as a feather;
They look'd like two fresh sunbeams, glancing,
At daybreak, down to earth together.
But for that plaguy torch, whose light,
Though not yet kindled—who could tell
How soon, how devilishly, it might?
And fireless halls was quite amazing;
Did we not know how small a spark
Can set the torch of Love a-blazing.
In the gay waltz) from her bright eyes,
Or from the lucciole, that spangled
Her locks of jet—is all surmise;
Did drop a spark, at some odd turning,
Which, by the waltz's windy whirl
Was fann'd up into actual burning.
That curtain of protecting wire,
Which Davy delicately draws
Around illicit, dangerous fire!—
(Like that, which barr'd young Thisbe's bliss,)
Through whose small holes this dangerous pair
May see each other, but not kiss.
A sign, they say, that no good boded—
Then quick the gas became unruly,
And, crack! the ball-room all exploded.
With all their aunts, sons, cousins, nieces,
Like butterflies in stormy weather,
Were blown—legs, wings, and tails—to pieces!
The Sylph, alas, too, bore her part—
Found lying, with a livid scorch
As if from lightning, o'er her heart!
Escaping from this gaseous strife—
“'Tis not the first time Love has made
“A blow-up in connubial life!”
REMONSTRANCE.
After a Conversation with Lord John Russell, in which he had intimated some Idea of giving up all political Pursuits.
Thou, born of a Russell—whose instinct to run
The accustom'd career of thy sires, is the same
As the eaglet's, to soar with his eyes on the sun!
Far, far more ennobling than monarch e'er set;
With the blood of thy race, offer'd up for the weal
Of a nation, that swears by that martyrdom yet!
From the mighty arena, where all that is grand,
And devoted, and pure, and adorning in life,
'Tis for high-thoughted spirits like thine to command?
Between tyrants and traitors, and timid men bow,
Never think, for an instant, thy country can spare
Such a light from her darkening horizon as thou.
Who in life's sunny valley lie shelter'd and warm;
Yet bold and heroic as ever yet rose
To the top cliffs of Fortune, and breasted her storm;
It first kindles the bard and gives life to his lyre;
Yet mellow'd, ev'n now, by that mildness of truth,
Which tempers, but chills not, the patriot fire;
Which sparkle, and foam, and in vapour are o'er;
But a current, that works out its way into light
Through the filtering recesses of thought and of lore.
If the stirrings of Genius, the music of fame,
And the charms of thy cause have not power to persuade,
Yet think how to Freedom thou'rt pledg'd by thy Name.
Set apart for the Fane and its service divine,
So the branches, that spring from the old Russell tree,
Are by Liberty claim'd for the use of her Shrine.
MY BIRTH-DAY.
That word had in my youthful ears!
And how, each time the day comes round,
Less and less white its mark appears!
It seems like pastime to grow old;
And, as Youth counts the shining links,
That Time around him binds so fast,
Pleased with the task, he little thinks
How hard that chain will press at last.
Vain was the man, and false as vain,
Who said —“were he ordain'd to run
“His long career of life again,
“He would do all that he had done.”—
Ah, 'tis not thus the voice, that dwells
In sober birth-days, speaks to me;
Lavish'd unwisely, carelessly;
Of counsel mock'd; of talents, made
Haply for high and pure designs,
But oft, like Israel's incense, laid
Upon unholy, earthly shrines;
Of nursing many a wrong desire;
Of wandering after Love too far,
And taking every meteor fire,
That cross'd my pathway, for his star.—
All this it tells, and, could I trace
The' imperfect picture o'er again,
With pow'r to add, retouch, efface
The lights and shades, the joy and pain,
How little of the past would stay!
How quickly all should melt away—
All—but that Freedom of the Mind,
Which hath been more than wealth to me;
Those friendships, in my boyhood twin'd,
And kept till now unchangingly;
And that dear home, that saving ark,
Where Love's true light at last I've found,
Cheering within, when all grows dark,
And comfortless, and stormy round!
FANCY.
The more I've view'd this world, the more I've found,That, fill'd as 'tis with scenes and creatures rare,
Fancy commands, within her own bright round,
A world of scenes and creatures far more fair.
Nor is it that her power can call up there
A single charm, that's not from Nature won,—
No more than rainbows, in their pride, can wear
A single tint unborrow'd from the sun;
But 'tis the mental medium it shines through,
That lends to Beauty all its charm and hue;
As the same light, that o'er the level lake
One dull monotony of lustre flings,
Will, entering in the rounded rain-drop, make
Colours as gay as those on angels' wings!
FANNY, DEAREST!
SONG.
Fanny dearest, for thee I'd sigh;
And every smile on my cheek should turn
To tears when thou art nigh.
But, between love, and wine, and sleep,
So busy a life I live,
That even the time it would take to weep
Is more than my heart can give.
Then wish me not to despair and pine,
Fanny, dearest of all the dears!
The Love that's order'd to bathe in wine,
Would be sure to take cold in tears.
Fanny dearest, thy image lies;
But, ah! the mirror would cease to shine,
If dimm'd too often with sighs.
Who view it through sorrow's tear;
And 'tis but to see thee truly bright
That I keep my eye-beams clear.
Then wait no longer till tears shall flow—
Fanny, dearest! the hope is vain;
If sunshine cannot dissolve thy snow,
I shall never attempt it with rain.
TRANSLATIONS FROM CATULLUS.
Carm. 70.
TO LESBIA.
That I had all that heart of thine;
That, ev'n to share the couch of Jove,
Thou would'st not, Lesbia, part from mine.
Not with the vague and vulgar fires
Which Beauty wakes in soulless men,—
But lov'd, as children by their sires.
I know thee now—and though these eyes
Doat on thee wildly as before,
Yet, even in doating, I despise.
With all thy craft, such spells adorn thee,
That passion even outlives esteem,
And I, at once, adore—and scorn thee.
Carm. 11.
[OMITTED]
The fates have will'd through life I've rov'd,
Now speed ye home, and with you bear
These bitter words to her I've lov'd.
Where'er her vain caprice may call;
Of all her dupes not loving one,
But ruining and maddening all.
Our once dear love, whose ruin lies
Like a fair flower, the meadow's last,
Which feels the ploughshare's edge, and dies!
Carm. 29.
Ocelle.
Of all peninsulas and isles,
That in our lakes of silver lie,
Or sleep, enwreath'd by Neptune's smiles—
Still doubting, asking—can it be
That I have left Bithynia's sky,
And gaze in safety upon thee?
Our hearts at ease, our perils past;
When, anxious long, the lighten'd mind
Lays down its load of care at last:
Again we tread the welcome floor
On the long-wish'd-for bed once more.
The ills of all life's former track.—
Shine out, my beautiful, my own
Sweet Sirmio, greet thy master back.
The light of heav'n like Lydia's sea,
Rejoice, rejoice—let all that laughs
Abroad, at home, laugh out for me!
TIBULLUS TO SULPICIA.
“To win me from those gentle charms!”—
Thus swore I, in that happy hour,
When Love first gave thee to my arms.
Still, though our city proudly shine
With forms and faces, fair and bright,
I see none fair or bright but thine.
And could'st no heart but mine allure!—
To all men else unpleasing be,
So shall I feel my prize secure.
Of others' envy, others' praise;
But, in its silence safely blest,
Broods o'er a bliss it ne'er betrays.
All cares are hush'd, all ills subdued—
My light, in even the darkest hour,
My crowd, in deepest solitude!
Some maid, of more than heavenly charms,
With bliss undreamt thy bard to crown,
Would he for her forsake those arms!
IMITATION FROM THE FRENCH.
With women and apples both Paris and AdamMade mischief enough in their day:—
God be prais'd that the fate of mankind, my dear Madam,
Depends not on us, the same way.
For, weak as I am with temptation to grapple,
The world would have doubly to rue thee;
Like Adam, I'd gladly take from thee the apple,
Like Paris, at once give it to thee.
INVITATION TO DINNER,
ADDRESSED TO LORD LANSDOWNE.
That poets live among the stars so,
Their very dinners are ideal,—
(And, heaven knows, too oft they are so,)—
For instance, that we have, instead
Of vulgar chops, and stews, and hashes,
First course—a Phœnix, at the head,
Done in its own celestial ashes;
At foot, a cygnet, which kept singing
All the time its neck was wringing.
Side dishes, thus—Minerva's owl,
Or any such like learned fowl:
Doves, such as heav'n's poulterer gets,
When Cupid shoots his mother's pets.
Larks, stew'd in Morning's roseate breath,
Or roasted by a sunbeam's splendour;
Like young pigs whipp'd to make them tender.
To banquet at Duke Humphrey's table;
But as for me, who've long been taught
To eat and drink like other people;
And can put up with mutton, bought
Where Bromham rears its ancient steeple—
If Lansdowne will consent to share
My humble feast, though rude the fare,
Yet, season'd by that salt he brings
From Attica's salinest springs,
'Twill turn to dainties;—while the cup,
Beneath his influence brightening up,
Like that of Baucis, touch'd by Jove,
Will sparkle fit for gods above!
A picturesque village in sight of my cottage, and from which it is separated but by a small verdant valley.
VERSES TO THE POET CRABBE'S INKSTAND.
WRITTEN MAY, 1832.
So lately at that mind's command,
Carelessly lying, as if then
Just fallen from his gifted hand.
A little hour, seems to have past,
Since Life and Inspiration's power
Around that relic breath'd their last.
Found in some vanish'd wizard's halls,
Whose mighty charm with him began,
Whose charm with him extinguish'd falls.
Around that pen's exploring track,
Be now, with its great master, gone,
Nor living hand can call them back;
Rest on the enchanter's broken wand,
Each earth-born spell it work'd arise
Before him in succession grand?—
The unshrinking Truth, that lets her light
Through Life's low, dark, interior fall,
Opening the whole, severely bright:
O'er scenes which angels weep to see—
Where Truth herself half veils the Wrong,
In pity of the Misery.
Of true-born poets ever are,
When, stooping from their starry place,
They're children, near, though gods, afar.
'Mong the few days I've known with thee,
One that, most buoyantly of all,
Floats in the wake of memory ;
In life, as in his perfect strain,
With that pure, mellowing power of Taste,
Without which Fancy shines in vain;
Pregnant with genius though it be,
But half the treasures of a mind,
Where Sense o'er all holds mastery:—
Through many a bright and dark event;
In doubts, my judge—in taste, my guide—
In all, my stay and ornament!
And all were guests of one, whose hand
Hath shed a new and deathless ray
Around the lyre of this great land;
Where Ocean's voice of majesty
Seems still to sound—immortal dwells
Old Albion's Spirit of the Sea.
Slight clouds have ris'n twixt him and me,
Who would not grasp such hand again,
Stretch'd forth again in amity?
To let such mists a moment stay,
When thus one frank, atoning word,
Like sunshine, melts them all away?
Unworthy brother there had place;
As 'mong the horses of the Sun,
One was, they say, of earthly race.
Of feeling where true Genius lies;
And there was light around that hour
Such as, in memory, never dies;
Thou Relic of the Dead, on thee,
Like all such dreams of vanish'd days,
Brightly, indeed—but mournfully!
Soon after Mr. Crabbe's death, the sons of that gentleman did me the honour of presenting to me the inkstand, pencil, &c. which their distinguished father had long been in the habit of using.
The lines that follow allude to a day passed in company with Mr. Crabbe, many years since, when a party, consisting only of Mr. Rogers, Mr. Crabbe, and the author of these verses, had the pleasure of dining with Mr. Thomas Campbell, at his house at Sydenham.
TO CAROLINE, VISCOUNTESS VALLETORT.
WRITTEN AT LACOCK ABBEY, JANUARY, 1832.
Such various forms, and all so bright,
I've seen thee, from thy childhood, wear,
I know not which to call most fair,
Nor 'mong the countless charms that spring
For ever round thee, which to sing.
Then all thou wert comes o'er my heart—
The graceful child, in beauty's dawn,
Within the nursery's shade withdrawn,
Or peeping out—like a young moon
Upon a world 'twill brighten soon.
Then next, in girlhood's blushing hour,
As from thy own lov'd Abbey-tower
I've seen thee look, all radiant, down,
With smiles that to the hoary frown
Chasing even Age's gloom away;—
Or, in the world's resplendent throng,
As I have mark'd thee glide along,
Among the crowds of fair and great
A spirit, pure and separate,
To which even Admiration's eye
Was fearful to approach too nigh;—
A creature, circled by a spell
Within which nothing wrong could dwell;
And fresh and clear as from the source,
Holding through life her limpid course,
Like Arethusa through the sea,
Stealing in fountain purity.
As noble bride, still meekly bright,
Thou bring'st thy Lord a dower above
All earthly price, pure woman's love;
And show'st what lustre Rank receives,
When with his proud Corinthian leaves
Her rose thus high-bred Beauty weaves.
To choose were more than bard can dare;
Wonder not if, while every scene
I've watch'd thee through so bright hath been,
The' enamour'd Muse should, in her quest
Of beauty, know not where to rest,
But, dazzled, at thy feet thus fall,
Hailing thee beautiful in all!
A SPECULATION.
Of all speculations the market holds forth,The best that I know for a lover of pelf,
Is to buy Marcus up, at the price he is worth,
And then sell him at that which he sets on himself.
TO MY MOTHER.
WRITTEN IN A POCKET BOOK, 1822.
Which, howsoe'er the sun and sky
May tempt its boughs to wander free,
And shoot, and blossom, wide and high,
Far better loves to bend its arms
Downward again to that dear earth,
From which the life, that fills and warms
Its grateful being, first had birth.
And fed with fame (if fame it be)
This heart, my own dear mother, bends,
With love's true instinct, back to thee!
LOVE AND HYMEN.
His little eyes till day was breaking;
And wild and strange enough, Heav'n knows,
The things he rav'd about while waking.
One, to whom all the world's a debtor—
So Doctor Hymen was call'd in,
And Love that night slept rather better.
Though still some ugly fever latent;—
“Dose, as before”—a gentle opiate,
For which old Hymen has a patent.
So fast the dose went on restoring,
That Love, who first ne'er slept at all,
Now took, the rogue! to downright snoring.
LINES ON THE ENTRY OF THE AUSTRIANS INTO NAPLES, 1821.
From this hour, let the blood in their dastardly veins,
That shrunk at the first touch of Liberty's war,
Be wasted for tyrants, or stagnate in chains.
Ye locusts of tyranny, blasting them o'er—
Fill, fill up their wide sunny waters, ye sails
From each slave-mart of Europe, and shadow their shore!
Laugh out, with a scorn that shall ring to the poles,
Shall be forg'd into fetters to enter their souls.
Base slaves! let the whet of their agony be,
To think—as the Doom'd often think of that heav'n
They had once within reach—that they might have been free.
Ever rose 'bove the zero of C---h's heart,
That did not, like echo, your war-hymn repeat,
And send all its prayers with your Liberty's start;
The fresh air of the olden time, whisper'd about;
And the swords of all Italy, half-way unsheath'd,
But waited one conquering cry, to flash out!
Filicajas and Petrarchs, seemed bursting to view,
Over Freedom's apostles, fell kindling on you!
Worth the hist'ry of ages, when, had you but hurl'd
One bolt at your tyrant invader, that strife
Between freemen and tyrants had spread through the world—
You should falter, should cling to your pitiful breath;
Cow'r down into beasts, when you might have stood men,
And prefer the slave's life of prostration to death.
Through your dungeons and palaces, “Freedom is o'er;”—
If there lingers one spark of her light, tread it out,
And return to your empire of darkness once more.
Come, Despot of Russia, thy feet let me kiss;
Far nobler to live the brute bondman of thee,
Than to sully ev'n chains by a struggle like this!
The Poetical Works of Thomas Moore | ||