The Complete Poems of Sir Thomas Moore Part 109

Here, take my heart--'twill be safe in thy keeping, While I go wandering o'er land and o'er sea; Smiling or sorrowing, waking or sleeping, What need I care, so my heart is with thee?

If in the race we are destined to run, love, 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.

It matters not where I may now be a rover, 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.

And there let it lie, growing fonder and, fonder-- 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 interest With thee!

OH, CALL IT BY SOME BETTER NAME.

Oh, call it by some better name, For Friends.h.i.+p sounds too cold, While Love is now a worldly flame, Whose shrine must be of gold: And Pa.s.sion, 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.

Imagine something purer far, More free from stain of clay Than Friends.h.i.+p, Love, or Pa.s.sion 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

Poor wounded heart, farewell!

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.

There--broken heart, farewell!

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 sh.o.r.e thus lying, Thou sleepst in peace at last-- Poor broken heart, farewell!

THE EAST INDIAN.

Come, May, with all thy flowers, Thy sweetly-scented thorn, Thy cooling evening showers, The fragrant breath at morn: When, May-flies haunt the willow, When May-buds tempt the bee, Then o'er the s.h.i.+ning billow My love will come to me.

From Eastern Isles she's winging Thro' watery 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.

The fields where she was straying Are blest with endless light, With zephyrs always playing Thro' 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 sh.o.r.e.

POOR BROKEN FLOWER.

Poor broken flower! what art can now recover thee?

Torn from the stem that fed thy rosy breath-- In vain the sunbeams seek To warm that faded cheek; The dews of heaven, that once like balm fell over thee; Now are but tears, to weep thy early death.

So droops the maid whose lover hath forsaken her,-- Thrown from his arms, as lone and lost as thou; In vain the smiles of all Like sunbeams round her fall: The only smile that could from death awaken her, That smile, alas! is gone to others now.

THE PRETTY ROSE-TREE.

Being weary of love, I flew to the grove, And chose me a tree of the fairest; Saying, "Pretty Rose-tree, "Thou my mistress shall be, "And I'll wors.h.i.+p each bud thou bearest.

"For the hearts of this world are hollow, "And fickle the smiles we follow; "And 'tis sweet, when all "Their witcheries 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."

When the beautiful hue Of thy cheek thro' the dew Of morning is bashfully peeping, "Sweet tears," I shall say (As I brush them away), "At least there's no art in this weeping"

Altho 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 never again sigh to another.

s.h.i.+NE OUT, STARS!

s.h.i.+ne out, Stars! let Heaven a.s.semble Round us every festal ray, Lights that move not, lights that tremble, All to grace this Eve of May.

Let the flower-beds all lie waking, And the odors shut up there, From their downy prisons breaking, Fly abroad thro sea and air.

And Would Love, too, bring his sweetness, With our other joys to weave, Oh what glory, what completeness, Then would crown this bright May Eve!

s.h.i.+ne out, Stars! let night a.s.semble Round us every festal ray, Lights that move not, lights that tremble, To adorn this Eve of May.