University of Virginia Library

no previous section Underglimpses (1857)
no next section
137

MISCELLANEOUS POEMS.

138

MOORE.

AN ELEGIAC ODE.

“He lives, he wakes—'tis Death is dead, not he.” —Adonais.

1.

Ah! vainly, vainly to my heart is calling
The poet's playmate of the year—the Spring.
Vainly it comes—a bright-eyed, glad-faced boy,
With pulses throbbing joy;
With eyes that twinkle, and with feet that bound
Along the grassy ground,
As if each flying foot were sandalled with a wing;
Vainly it comes to tempt me forth to play,
And spend the poet's holiday—
The vernal season of sweet recreation,
The heart's too brief vacation
139

Amid the task-works of the toiling year;—
For now the daisy's pearly disks appear
To light the early meadow's emerald sky;
Each a little silver sun is seen
Amid its circling heaven of green;
While round about in due gradation,
Through mystic gravitation,
The minor fragrant orbs concentric lie.

2.

Ah! vainly, vainly on my ear is falling
The old, but ever new, sweet melodies
Sung by the feathered syrens of the trees,
That lured my steps so oft,
On spring-tide silvery morning soft,
From the broad highway, or the glaring green,
To where a flickering sheen
Of dark and bright mosaic lights the lea
Beneath the fresh-green copse—
What time, in tiny flakes, soft eddying, drops
The fragrant snow-shower from the hawthorn tree.
140

Vainly the glad birds twitter now
Upon each conscious bough—
Upon each conscious bough that shares their glee,
And with exulting ecstacy
Trembles through every fibrous vein,
And seems to feel the magic of the strain,
And sinks and soars, and soars and sinks again!

3.

Not that my heart is dead or cold
To the most common sight, the most familiar sound
Of natural beauty or impulsive joy.
Ah! no, thank Heaven! not so;
At heart the poet ever is a boy,
Howe'er the years go round:
For though his pallid brow may grow
Furrowed and worn, and with thin silver hair,
As with a fading cirrus cloud, be hung,
His heart is ever young—
141

Perpetual youth is there.
It is not that the earth has grown less fair,
This last of all the Springs it yet hath known,
That I behold it not with my accustomed gladness;—
Ah! no, not over it, but o'er my heart is thrown
A funeral pall of sadness—
A filmy veil of sorrow is outspread
Before my eyes, as by a mourner's hand,
For the poet of my people, for the minstrel of my land,
Who is dead!

4.

Dead! ah, no—he has returned to life.
In living death for three blank years he lay,
And now comes forth from the protracted strife,
A conqueror to-day.
To him the common foe no terror brought,
Nor the heart's tremor, nor the gasping breath;
142

For, like his own Mokanna's veil,
A trebly-folded woof of blank unthought
Concealed the horrid front of Death—
The ghastly visage pale!
Thrice had the fair magician of the year,
Her potent wand applying,
Saved the wintry world from dying;
And in the wondrous renovation,
Recalled the freshness and the jubilation
Of the world's primal day:
So that the stars of heaven again prepared to sing
Their songs of gratulation.
He heeded not, or turned away:
Unmarked the budding wonders of the Spring—
The floral magic of the May;
And when the happy birds in every grove
Sang hymns to Love,
From the green temple of each stately tree—
To Love, whose highest poet-priest was he;
Alas! 'twas all in vain;
He heeded not the fond adoring strain—
143

Its music was unheard.
Its magic and its meaning both had flown
Its shrill, sweet echoing chirrup which the grove prolongs.
Ah! me, what wonder, when his own sweet songs,
The sweetest ever sang by bard or bird,
Were to himself unknown!

5.

But let us linger not, my soul, beside
The poet's bier or his neglected grave;
Nor burn to think of those to whom he gave
A portion of his own immortal fame,
Who when the last sad moment came—
The hour that claimed the funeral rite august,
For the poor portion of him that had died—
Sullenly shunned the poet's sacred dust,
Heedless of what was due to generous lays,
And all the friendly fire of former days.
The hour may come when on his mother's breast
The darling child of song may take his rest;
144

Then shall the tribute of unnumbered eyes,
Then shall the throbbing of unnumbered hearts,
And all the tender cares that love imparts—
Fond flattering praises, passion-breathing sighs,
Grateful regrets, and hopeful prayers arise—
Then shall the harp which he had woke so oft
To breathe the varied lay—
Mirthful, melodious, melancholy, gay,
Softly severe, and masculine, though soft—
Firm, and yet fond, through every phase of form—
And sunny satire, wounding but to warm—
And fine-edged wit, keen-cutting but to cure—
Then shall the harp's elegiac music float,
As if it kept its sad prevailing note
Prolonged through ages for the keen of Moore!
1852.
 

Properly Caoine, the funeral wail for the dead.

145

ODE ON THE DEATH OF FREDERICK RICHARD, EARL OF BELFAST.

BORN 25TH NOVEMBER, 1827; DIED AT NAPLES, FEB. 11, 1853, IN HIS 26TH YEAR.

146

TO THE MARCHIONESS OF DONEGAL.

Lady, the heart-won glory of thy son
Turns his sad loss to such atoning gain,
Making swift Death's malicious stroke as vain
As the spent bullet when the victory's won,
That I would wish this lyric feat undone,—
These lines unwrit, or in a prouder strain,
Such as befit a glorious young man slain
In a career that heroes only run:
Yet deign to take them—be their faults forgiven,
O Lady, for the sake of him they mourn.
They should be joyful for the great boon given
To thee, to us, and to this land forlorn—
To thee to have thy angel youth in heaven—
To us, to boast his patriot pride unworn.
147

TO THE MARQUIS OF DONEGAL.

Easy it is to say, Be thou resigned,
O father, to the mightier Father's will,
To bear the blow that at one stroke doth kill
Thy Son, thy Friend, thy Brother, all combined
In one dear centre: Easy to the blind
It is to bear from the quick-shaded rill
The absent sun that sets behind the hill,—
That sun which late its morning beams entwined
With those warm waves that now must darkened roll
To the great deep: But yet take this to heart,
The sun that leaves thee dark, from pole to pole,
Flashes its light and heat: If sad thou art,
The world is gladder by one glorious soul
By Death and Love made consecrate to Art.
148

ODE.

Swifter far than summer's flight,
Swifter far than youth's delight,
Swifter far than happy night,
Art thou come and gone.
Shelley.

PROEM.

Maidens of Italy,
Napoli's daughters,
Send the sad requiem
Over the waters;—
Over the waters,
Solemnly, slowly,
Sing the sad requiem,
Mournfully, lowly;—
Sing the sad requiem,
Chant the low ditty,
Maids of the golden-shored
Heaven-cinctured city,
149

Ye who beheld him last,
Fair with life's youthfulness,
Heart-warm with nobleness,
Soul-proud with truthfulness,
Stricken down instantly,
Wrapped in death's gloominess—
While 'neath his window rose
Living and luminous
Azure-hued golden waves
Parthenopean,
Up to the Lord of Life
Singing their pean.
Borrow their musical
Murmur, ye maidens,
Weak words of elegy
Borrow their cadence.
Wail him beside the blue
Lazulite waters,
Maidens of Italy,
Napoli's daughters.
150

SONG OF ITALIAN MAIDENS.

1

Sisters, kneel beside this bier,
Breathe the prayer, and shed the tear—
Young Marcellus sleepeth here.

2

Young Marcellus sleeping lies,
With his slumber-sealéd eyes
Waiting God's great sun to rise—

3

Waiting to re-ope once more
On a sweeter summer shore
By the eternal water's roar.

4

Scatter round about his bed
Violets, ere their scent has fled,—
Winter roses white and red.
151

5

Lay upon his gentle breast
All the flowers that he loved best—
Pansies be the mournfullest.

6

Though this bed has grown a bier,
Scatter snowdrops, scatter here
All the promise of the year:—

7

Being born to bloom and die
They perchance may typify
Him who here doth sleeping lie:

8

Since we love those flowers the best
That are plucked the earliest—
As it were for God's own breast:

9

Love them better far than those
The maturer months disclose—
Flaunting tulip, gaudy rose:
152

10

Love them for the proof they give
That the world's great heart doth live,—
They the while so fugitive.

11

Such was he who lieth here,
With his leaves all drooping sere
In the spring-time of his year.

12

Here he came a wanderer,
From the Northern Isles that are
Watchéd by the western star.

13

Here he came, to feast his eyes
On an earthly heaven, with skies
Borrowed still from Paradise:

14

Came with rapture to behold
Purple isles and seas of gold,
And the dread Volcano old:
153

15

Came with wonder to survey
All the magic of the Bay,
And the towns restored to-day—

16

Or to pluck the flowers that bloom
By the Mantuan Poet's tomb
O'er the grotto's arch of gloom;—

17

Or along Sorrento's shore,
Tasso's birth-place, to think o'er
All his tears for Leonore;—

18

Or to see the sun decline
To his Ischian bath of wine
'Mid the hush'd sea hyaline;—

19

Or, perchance, still more to hear
Music—to his soul so dear,
Singing in her native sphere:
154

20

Music that appears to be
But the air of Italy,
Voicéd by her sky and sea.

21

All these projects, howsoe'er
Hopeful, healthful, wise or fair,
Swallowed in this blank despair.

22

He, the gentle, wise, and good,
Manhood's loftiest aims pursued
With a heart of maidenhood.

23

Of a proud ancestral name,
Still it was his boast to claim
The sweet bard's reflected fame:

24

The sweet bard, whose magic lays
Could upon his shield emblaze
Its most precious heraldries

“If there is one heir-loom I prize more than another,” said Lord Belfast, “it is the dedication of the ‘Irish Melodies’ to an ancestress of mine, and the beautiful letter on music which Moore addressed to the same Lady Donegal.”—Lectures on the Poets and Poetry of the Nineteenth Century. By the Earl of Belfast. London: Longmans. 1852.

:
155

25

Showing nobly thus how yet
Genius can its diamond set
In the proudest coronet.

26

Oh! his heart was pure as snow,
Firm when winter winds might blow,
Melting in affection's glow:

27

Firm and fond with filial love
To one gentle heart, above
All the world; though manhood strove

28

With its feverish energy
To supplant it, still did he
Love that fair maternity:

29

Love her with the same sweet zest
Here, where he lay down to rest
As of old upon her breast:
156

30

Leaving her in days to come
A sweet memory to illume
Her half-orphan'd twilight gloom.

31

Not in pleasure's fairy bowers,
Dallying with the deadly flowers,
Passed with him the flying hours;—

32

No, he raised his voice to call
Mightiest minds around the wall
Of the workman's wonder-hall;—

33

Raised his voice, and plied his pen,
To enlarge the mental ken
Of “his humbler fellow-men”

The latter words are quoted from the Earl of Belfast's Dedication of his Lectures to the Earl of Carlisle.

:

34

Or a soothing charm would find
In his generous praise refined
For some shy, secluded mind.
157

35

His the homage of the heart
Dearer to a child of art
Far than fame's more prizéd part.

36

But the bright career is o'er,
Ah! that heart can beat no more—
Wail him, Erin, on thy shore.

37

Wail him, thou, his native land,
On thy lone lamenting strand,
Bow the head, and wring the hand.

38

Wail him, thou, that to thy cost,
Many a hopeful son hast lost,
Soonest those who loved thee most.

39

Wail the taste, the toil severe,
The rich harvest of each year,—
All extinguished on this bier.
158

40

Ah! not all,—dear shade forgive
Such despair! they yet shall live
In the example that they give;—

41

Live amid the glow they wake
In new hearts, for her dear sake,
Her, whose own sad heart might break,

42

If, like his, some generous soul
Forced by love beyond control,
Did not with her griefs condole,—

43

Proud to be her child, although
Still she totters to and fro
'Neath her lightened load of woe—

44

Proud to wear upon his breast,
Proud to blazon on his crest
The poor Shamrock of the West.
159

45

If the night has passed away,
As we're told, and rosy day
Paints the East with prophet-ray—

46

Let the beam that puts to flight
The long dark, bring forth to light
Those who watched her through the night:

47

Those whose heart she could engage
In some studious hermitage,
As upon a busier stage.

48

And among the best and last
Let its lingering light be cast
Round thy dearest name—Belfast

The rare virtues and accomplishments of this lamented young nobleman; his active exertions in promoting and encouraging a taste for literature and art, particularly in the town from which he derived his title; and his early death in a foreign land, awakened so many feelings of sorrow and respect for his memory, and of sympathy with those who in a nearer and dearer relation had lost him, that it was found impossible to avoid giving them expression in some conspicuous and lasting form. A public statue was determined on, and the work was intrusted to Mr. Macdowall, than whom, as well from his distinguished position as an artist, as from his connexion with Belfast, no more appropriate selection could have been made. The statue, which fully sustained Mr. Macdowall's high reputation, was publicly inaugurated at Belfast on November 1, 1855, by His Excellency the Lord Lieutenant of Ireland, the Earl of Carlisle. Some weeks previous to this ceremony, the Author had the honour of receiving from the Marchioness of Donegal a request that he (as an Irish writer for whose poetical efforts her Ladyship was kind enough to say her dear son had an especial liking) would write some lines appropriate to the

210

occasion. The Author, who had long wished for some opportunity of paying his tribute of regret and gratitude to the memory of one whose premature death he had reason to consider not only a public loss, but (to him) a private calamity, at once acquiesced, and these lines were written with a rapidity which at least proved the genuine nature of the feelings which originated them. The Author having resided at Naples a short time previous to the Earl of Belfast's arrival and death there, will account for the Italian colouring which pervades the earlier portion of the Poem.

The Sonnets printed at the commencement of the Ode were written subsequent to the public delivery of the Ode itself in Belfast.

A few months before the lamented death of the Earl of Belfast, the author had the gratification of receiving from him the following letter, which is now published for the first time. Whatever difference of opinion there may be as to the literary judgment evinced by his Lordship in this particular instance, there can be none of the generosity and good-heartedness which dictated so kind and encouraging a communication:—

“29, St. James's-street, London, “September 17, 1852.

“Sir,—In order to obtain permission to publish some words of yours in connexion with some music which I have adapted to them, I believe it were sufficient to apply to the publisher of your volume of Poems; but I cannot let pass an opportunity so apt of expressing to you the deep sense of admiration with which it has inspired me. It is not only yourself that I would congratulate upon the possession of so truly poetical a genius—it is rather our country that deserves gratulations upon her good fortune, in having given birth to one who seems likely and able to reawaken that strain of poesy (so purely her own) which has slept since the silence of Moore.

211

“One who can combine, as you have done, the stirring energy which characterizes your Ballads with that sweet plaintiveness that lends such a charm to such poems as ‘Summer Longings,’ ‘A Lament,’ ‘Devotion,’ &c., &c., cannot but play a part, if he will, in his country's destiny.

“The first of these is the one which has inspired me with a few bars of simple music. I am well aware that it possesses ‘a music of its own—a music far beyond all minstrels' playing.’ Yet should I feel gratified at seeing my name coupled, in however humble a capacity, on the title with that of one of my most gifted countrymen.

“I am, Sir, yours “Obediently and admiringly, “Belfast. “D. F. Mac Carthy, Esq.”
.
1855.
162

ECLIPSE!

The moon has fallen from out my sky,
Fallen at the full, and all is dark,
The stars are away, and the light of day
Glimmers afar, like a feeble spark!—
O God! will it ever break?
Will its gladsome glory beam?
And my trembling heart awake
From this terrible night-mare dream?
1852.
163

TRUTH IN SONG.

1

I cannot sing, I cannot write
To show that I can write and sing—
I cannot for a cause so slight
Command my Ariel's dainty wing:—
Not for the dreams of cultured youth,
Nor praises of the lettered throng,
Ah! no, I string the pearls of song
But only on the chords of truth:—
164

2

And when the precious pearls are strung,
What are their value, but to deck
Some kindred forehead, or be hung
Around the whiteness of some neck?—
Some neck? some forehead?—ah! but one
Would win or haply wear the chain,
And now the fragments of the strain
Lie broken round me—She is gone!

3

Gone from my home some weary hours,
But never, never from my heart—
Gone—like the memory of the showers
To flowers long-drooping, Love, thou art:—
O truest friend—O best of wives—
Come soon! my world, my queen, my crown,
Then shall the pearls run ringing down
The love-twined chords of both our lives.
1852.
170

JANUARY.

A FRAGMENT.

1.

In the Palace of the Sun,
Far away, far away,
In the golden-paven city
Of the Day, bright Day,
Whose dazzling turrets rise
O'er the blue walls of the skies
Like the peaks
Of the icy Himalay
When the ray
Of the rosy sunrise breaks
From the East.
194

2.

To a feast
In the Palace of the Sun
In the city of the Day
On this morn,
Twelve Pilgrims who were born
Each the brother of the other,
Of one father and one mother,
Take their way:—
But once in all the year
They are here,
In the palace of their sire,
In the banquet-hall of fire,
Round the board,
Like the twelve around the Lord
They appear:—

3.

The first is stern and old,
His hands are numb and cold,
195

The snowy beard is frozen on his chin,
And within
The blue channels of his veins
On his forehead and his face
You can trace,
You can feel
The dark and livid stains
Of the stagnant blood confined
And entwined,
Like wires of azure steel
Through an alabaster vase.

4.

On his breast lies frozen snow,
But below
You may know
The quick blood runs red and warm
Through his form.
For there the old man wears
The sweet symbol that appears
In the desolatest hour
196

That the winter-world doth know,
When a bud is seen to blow
In its lightness and its whiteness,
Its purity and brightness,
As if four flakes of snow
Were united in one flower.
1851.
197

TO MARY, FOURTEEN MONTHS OLD.

I.

Little darling daughter mine,
Wilt thou be my Valentine?
Wilt thou give to me a part
Of thy little fluttering heart?
Give thy laughter without words,
Musical as song of birds—
Give thy twinkling fingers' play
And thine every sportive way,
198

Give thy look of glad surprise,
And the witchery of thine eyes,
Give the bounding of thy feet,
And thy liberal kisses sweet—
Give thy nods and mute commands,
And the clapping of thy hands—
Give thy rapture and good-will,
When upon the window-sill
For the expected feast of crumbs
Every morn the redbreast comes—
Canst thou these to me resign?—
Wilt thou be my Valentine?—
199

II.

Darling, thy mother sends to thee
Blessings and love from her and me,
And as to years thy brief months glide,
Be, as thou art, our joy and pride;
Cheer the kind hearts that late were sad,
And with thy gladness make them glad;
Fill them with hope for many a year,
And wake the smile, and chase the tear;
As thou art now, be ever thus,
A boon from God, to them and us.
February 14, 1851.
200

SONNET.

[Two golden links are added to the chain]

Two golden links are added to the chain,
Dear Love, that binds our separate lives in one,
Two short-lived radiant children of the Sun,
Two years, brief years of mingled light and rain,
Have passed away, since thou and I begun
Our married life: and smiling Time, again,
Life's ductile ore with cheerful hand hath ta'en
To add one wonder more to what he hath done.
The Past, the Present,—Memories of the brain,
And the heart's living joys their bright course run;—
They have their links: and has the future none
Whereby to cling to 'mid its vast inane?
Fear not, dear Love, the fear were worse than vain,
Have we not two-a Daughter and a Son?
January, 1851.
201

SONNET, WRITTEN IN THE BEAUTIFULLY ILLUSTRATED VOLUME, “CHRISTMAS WITH THE POETS.”

[Happy 'twill be upon some future day]

Happy 'twill be upon some future day,
Some welcome winter day of frost and snow.
When with the cold the Sun'sround face shall glow
Cheerful and ruddy as a boy's at play:—
If in some window-seat that o'er the Bay
Peeps calmly out, and o'er the rocks below—
Some modest oriel round whose casements grow
The pyracantha's crimson berries gay,—
If we behold our children's eyes display
Delighted wonder, and their glad looks show
How they would love with rapid feet to go
O'er each white field and pictured snow-fill'd way,
That in this book make Winter smile like May,
And Christmas gleam like Christmas long ago.
February, 1851.
202

DUTY.

As the hardy oat is growing,
Howsoe'er the wind may blow;
As the untiréd stream is flowing,
Whether shines the sun or no:—
Thus, though storm-winds rage about it,
Should the strong plant, Duty, grow—
Thus, with beauty or without it,
Should the stream of Being flow.
203

ORDER.

A word went forth upon Creation's day,
At which the void infinitude was filled
With life and light. Where horrid Chaos reigned
In dark confusion, orbéd Order rose,
And with the silent majesty of strength
Took up the sceptre of a thousand worlds,
And ruled by right divine the radiant realms.
Where all was blank vacuity, or worse,
Monstrous Disorder—fair material Form
Rose wondering from the vacant wastes of Space;
And as each world beheld its sister world,
So calm, so beautiful, so full of light,
Walking in gladness through the halls of heaven,
Like a fair daughter in her father's house,—
204

Its heart yearned towards her, and its trembling feet
Turned in pursuit; and its great eager eyes
Followed her ever down the eternal day.
Round golden suns the silver planets roll'd,
Round silver planets circled moons of pearl,
Round pearly moons, the roses of the sky,
(Eve-crimsoned clouds) stood wondering, till their cheeks
Grew pale with passion, and then dark with pain;
As sank the moons behind the unheeding hills!
1855.
no previous section Underglimpses (1857)
no next section