 | The poetical works of Thomas Moore (1910) |  |
332
SONGS FROM THE GREEK ANTHOLOGY
HERE AT THY TOMB
BY MELEAGER
Here, at thy tomb, these tears I shed,
Tears, which though vainly now they roll,
Are all love hath to give the dead,
And wept o'er thee with all love's soul;—
Tears, which though vainly now they roll,
Are all love hath to give the dead,
And wept o'er thee with all love's soul;—
Wept in remembrance of that light,
Which nought on earth, without thee, gives,
Hope of my heart! now quench'd in night,
But dearer, dead, than aught that lives.
Which nought on earth, without thee, gives,
Hope of my heart! now quench'd in night,
But dearer, dead, than aught that lives.
Where is she? where the blooming bough
That once my life's sole lustre made?
Torn off by death, 'tis with'ring now,
And all its flow'rs in dust are laid.
That once my life's sole lustre made?
Torn off by death, 'tis with'ring now,
And all its flow'rs in dust are laid.
Oh earth! that to thy matron breast
Hast taken all those angel charms,
Gently, I pray thee, let her rest,—
Gently, as in a mother's arms.
Hast taken all those angel charms,
Gently, I pray thee, let her rest,—
Gently, as in a mother's arms.
SALE OF CUPID
BY MELEAGER
Who'll buy a little boy? Look, yonder is he,
Fast asleep, sly rogue, on his mother's knee;
So bold a young imp 'tisn't safe to keep,
So I'll part with him now, while he's sound asleep.
See his arch little nose, how sharp 'tis curl'd,
His wings, too, ev'n in sleep unfurl'd;
And those fingers, which still ever ready are found
For mirth or for mischief, to tickle, or wound.
Fast asleep, sly rogue, on his mother's knee;
So bold a young imp 'tisn't safe to keep,
So I'll part with him now, while he's sound asleep.
See his arch little nose, how sharp 'tis curl'd,
His wings, too, ev'n in sleep unfurl'd;
And those fingers, which still ever ready are found
For mirth or for mischief, to tickle, or wound.
He'll try with his tears your heart to beguile,
But never you mind—he's laughing all the while;
For little he cares, so he has his own whim,
And weeping or laughing are all one to him.
His eye is as keen as the lightning's flash,
His tongue like the red bolt quick and rash;
And so savage is he, that his own dear mother
Is scarce more safe in his hands than another.
But never you mind—he's laughing all the while;
For little he cares, so he has his own whim,
And weeping or laughing are all one to him.
His eye is as keen as the lightning's flash,
His tongue like the red bolt quick and rash;
And so savage is he, that his own dear mother
Is scarce more safe in his hands than another.
In short, to sum up this darling's praise,
He's a downright pest in all sorts of ways;
And if any one wants such an imp to employ,
He shall have a dead bargain of this little boy.
But see, the boy wakes—his bright tears flow—
His eyes seem to ask could I sell him? oh no,
Sweet child, no, no—though so naughty you be,
You shall live evermore with my Lesbia and me.
He's a downright pest in all sorts of ways;
And if any one wants such an imp to employ,
He shall have a dead bargain of this little boy.
But see, the boy wakes—his bright tears flow—
His eyes seem to ask could I sell him? oh no,
Sweet child, no, no—though so naughty you be,
You shall live evermore with my Lesbia and me.
333
TO WEAVE A GARLAND FOR THE ROSE
BY PAUL, THE SILENTIARY
To weave a garland for the rose,
And think thus crown'd 'twould lovelier be,
Were far less vain than to suppose
That silks and gems add grace to thee.
Where is the pearl whose orient lustre
Would not, beside thee, look less bright?
What gold could match the glossy cluster
Of those young ringlets full of light?
And think thus crown'd 'twould lovelier be,
Were far less vain than to suppose
That silks and gems add grace to thee.
Where is the pearl whose orient lustre
Would not, beside thee, look less bright?
What gold could match the glossy cluster
Of those young ringlets full of light?
Bring from the land, where fresh it gleams,
The bright blue gem of India's mine.
And see how soon, though bright its beams,
'Twill pale before one glance of thine:
Those lips, too, when their sounds have blest us
With some divine, mellifluous air,
Who would not say that Beauty's cestus
Had let loose all its witch'ries there?
The bright blue gem of India's mine.
And see how soon, though bright its beams,
'Twill pale before one glance of thine:
Those lips, too, when their sounds have blest us
With some divine, mellifluous air,
Who would not say that Beauty's cestus
Had let loose all its witch'ries there?
Here, to this conqu'ring host of charms
I now give up my spell-bound heart,
Nor blush to yield ev'n Reason's arms,
When thou her bright-ey'd conqu'ror art.
Thus to the wind all fears are given;
Henceforth those eyes alone I see,
Where Hope, as in her own blue heaven,
Sits beck'ning me to bliss and thee!
I now give up my spell-bound heart,
Nor blush to yield ev'n Reason's arms,
When thou her bright-ey'd conqu'ror art.
Thus to the wind all fears are given;
Henceforth those eyes alone I see,
Where Hope, as in her own blue heaven,
Sits beck'ning me to bliss and thee!
WHY DOES SHE SO LONG DELAY?
BY PAUL, THE SILENTIARY.
Why does she so long delay?
Night is waning fast away;
Thrice have I my lamp renew'd,
Watching here in solitude.
Where can she so long delay?
Where, so long delay?
Night is waning fast away;
Thrice have I my lamp renew'd,
Watching here in solitude.
Where can she so long delay?
Where, so long delay?
Vainly now have two lamps shone;
See the third is nearly gone:
Oh that Love would, like the ray
Of that weary lamp, decay!
But no, alas, it burns still on,
Still, still, burns on.
See the third is nearly gone:
Oh that Love would, like the ray
Of that weary lamp, decay!
But no, alas, it burns still on,
Still, still, burns on.
Gods, how oft the traitress dear
Swore, by Venus, she'd be here!
But to one so false as she
What is man or deity?
Neither doth this proud one fear,—
No, neither doth she fear.
Swore, by Venus, she'd be here!
But to one so false as she
What is man or deity?
Neither doth this proud one fear,—
No, neither doth she fear.
TWIN'ST THOU WITH LOFTY WREATH THY BROW?
BY PAUL, THE SILENTIARY
Twin'st thou with lofty wreath thy brow?
Such glory then thy beauty sheds,
I almost think, while aw'd I bow,
'Tis Rhea's self before me treads.
Be what thou wilt,—this heart
Adores whate'er thou art!
Such glory then thy beauty sheds,
I almost think, while aw'd I bow,
'Tis Rhea's self before me treads.
Be what thou wilt,—this heart
Adores whate'er thou art!
Dost thou thy loosen'd ringlets leave,
Like sunny waves to wander free?
Then, such a chain of charms they weave,
As draws my inmost soul from me.
Do what thou wilt,—I must
Be charm'd by all thou dost!
Like sunny waves to wander free?
Then, such a chain of charms they weave,
As draws my inmost soul from me.
Do what thou wilt,—I must
Be charm'd by all thou dost!
Ev'n when, enwrapp'd in silv'ry veils,
Those sunny locks elude the sight,—
Oh, not ev'n then their glory fails
To haunt me with its unseen light.
Change as thy beauty may,
It charms in every way.
Those sunny locks elude the sight,—
Oh, not ev'n then their glory fails
To haunt me with its unseen light.
Change as thy beauty may,
It charms in every way.
For, thee the Graces still attend,
Presiding o'er each new attire,
And lending ev'ry dart they send
Some new, peculiar touch of fire.
Be what thou wilt,—this heart
Adores whate'er thou art!
Presiding o'er each new attire,
And lending ev'ry dart they send
Some new, peculiar touch of fire.
Be what thou wilt,—this heart
Adores whate'er thou art!
334
WHEN THE SAD WORD
BY PAUL, THE SILENTIARY
When the sad word, ‘Adieu,’ from my lip is nigh falling,
And with it, Hope passes away,
Ere the tongue hath half breathed it, my fond heart recalling
That fatal farewell, bids me stay.
For oh! 'tis a penance so weary
One hour from thy presence to be,
That death to this soul were less dreary,
Less dark than long absence from thee
And with it, Hope passes away,
Ere the tongue hath half breathed it, my fond heart recalling
That fatal farewell, bids me stay.
For oh! 'tis a penance so weary
One hour from thy presence to be,
That death to this soul were less dreary,
Less dark than long absence from thee
Thy beauty, like Day, o'er the dull world breaking,
Brings life to the heart it shines o'er,
And, in mine, a new feeling of happiness waking
Made light what was darkness before.
But mute is the Day's sunny glory,
While thine hath a voice, on whose breath,
More sweet than the Syren's sweet story,
My hopes hang, through life and through death!
Brings life to the heart it shines o'er,
And, in mine, a new feeling of happiness waking
Made light what was darkness before.
But mute is the Day's sunny glory,
While thine hath a voice, on whose breath,
More sweet than the Syren's sweet story,
My hopes hang, through life and through death!
MY MOPSA IS LITTLE
BY PHILODEMUS
My Mopsa is little, my Mopsa is brown,
But her cheek is as smooth as the peach's soft down,
And, for blushing, no rose can come near her;
In short, she has woven such nets round my heart,
That I ne'er from my dear little Mopsa can part,—
Unless I can find one that's dearer.
But her cheek is as smooth as the peach's soft down,
And, for blushing, no rose can come near her;
In short, she has woven such nets round my heart,
That I ne'er from my dear little Mopsa can part,—
Unless I can find one that's dearer.
Her voice hath a music that dwells on the ear,
And her eye from its orb gives a daylight so clear,
That I'm dazzled whenever I meet her;
Her ringlets, so curly, are Cupid's own net,
And her lips, oh their sweetness I ne'er shall forget—
Till I light upon lips that are sweeter.
And her eye from its orb gives a daylight so clear,
That I'm dazzled whenever I meet her;
Her ringlets, so curly, are Cupid's own net,
And her lips, oh their sweetness I ne'er shall forget—
Till I light upon lips that are sweeter.
But 'tis not her beauty that charms me alone,
'Tis her mind, 'tis that language whose eloquent tone
From the depths of the grave could revive one:
In short, here I swear, that if death were her doom,
I would instantly join my dead love in the tomb—
Unless I could meet with a live one.
'Tis her mind, 'tis that language whose eloquent tone
From the depths of the grave could revive one:
In short, here I swear, that if death were her doom,
I would instantly join my dead love in the tomb—
Unless I could meet with a live one.
STILL, LIKE DEW IN SILENCE FALLING
BY MELEAGER
Still, like dew in silence falling,
Drops for thee the nightly tear;
Still that voice the past recalling,
Dwells, like echo, on my ear,
Still, still!
Drops for thee the nightly tear;
Still that voice the past recalling,
Dwells, like echo, on my ear,
Still, still!
Day and night the spell hangs o'er me,
Here for ever fix'd thou art;
As thy form first shone before me,
So 'tis graven on this heart,
Deep, deep!
Here for ever fix'd thou art;
As thy form first shone before me,
So 'tis graven on this heart,
Deep, deep!
Love, oh Love, whose bitter sweetness,
Dooms me to this lasting pain,
Thou who cam'st with so much fleetness,
Why so slow to go again?
Why? why?
Dooms me to this lasting pain,
Thou who cam'st with so much fleetness,
Why so slow to go again?
Why? why?
335
UP, SAILOR BOY, 'TIS DAY
Up, sailor boy, 'tis day!
The west wind blowing,
The spring tide flowing,
Summon thee hence away.
Didst thou not hear yon soaring swallow sing?
Chirp, chirp,—in every note he seem'd to say
'Tis Spring, 'tis Spring.
Up, boy, away,—
Who'd stay on land to-day?
The very flowers
Would from their bowers
Delight to wing away!
The west wind blowing,
The spring tide flowing,
Summon thee hence away.
Didst thou not hear yon soaring swallow sing?
Chirp, chirp,—in every note he seem'd to say
'Tis Spring, 'tis Spring.
Up, boy, away,—
Who'd stay on land to-day?
The very flowers
Would from their bowers
Delight to wing away!
Leave languid youths to pine
On silken pillows
But be the billows
Of the great deep thine.
Hark, to the sail the breeze sings,
‘Let us fly;’
While soft the sail, replying to the breeze,
Says, with a yielding sigh,
‘Yes, where you please.’
Up, boy! the wind, the ray,
The blue sky o'er thee,
The deep before thee,
All cry aloud, ‘Away!’
On silken pillows
But be the billows
Of the great deep thine.
Hark, to the sail the breeze sings,
‘Let us fly;’
While soft the sail, replying to the breeze,
Says, with a yielding sigh,
‘Yes, where you please.’
Up, boy! the wind, the ray,
The blue sky o'er thee,
The deep before thee,
All cry aloud, ‘Away!’
IN MYRTLE WREATHS
BY ALCAEUS
In myrtle wreaths my votive sword I'll cover,
Like them of old whose one immortal blow
Struck off the galling fetters that hung over
Their own bright land, and laid her tyrant low.
Yes, lov'd Harmodius, thou'rt undying;
Still midst the brave and free,
In isles, o'er ocean lying,
Thy home shall ever be.
Like them of old whose one immortal blow
Struck off the galling fetters that hung over
Their own bright land, and laid her tyrant low.
Yes, lov'd Harmodius, thou'rt undying;
Still midst the brave and free,
In isles, o'er ocean lying,
Thy home shall ever be.
In myrtle leaves my sword shall hide its lightning,
Like his, the youth, whose ever-glorious blade
Leap'd forth like flame, the midnight banquet bright'ning,
And in the dust a despot victim laid.
Blest youths, how bright in Freedom's story
Your wedded names shall be;
A tyrant's death your glory,
Your meed, a nation free!
Like his, the youth, whose ever-glorious blade
Leap'd forth like flame, the midnight banquet bright'ning,
And in the dust a despot victim laid.
Blest youths, how bright in Freedom's story
Your wedded names shall be;
A tyrant's death your glory,
Your meed, a nation free!
| The poetical works of Thomas Moore (1910) | |