The Complete Poems of Sir Thomas Moore Part 133

"How many a couple, like the wind, "Which nothing in its course controls, Left time and chaperons far behind, "And gave a loose to legs and souls;

How matrimony throve--ere stopt "By this cold, silent, foot-coquetting-- "How charmingly one's partner propt "The important question in _poussetteing_.

"While now, alas--no sly advances-- "No marriage hints--all goes on badly-- "'Twixt Parson Malthus and French Dances, "We, girls, are at a discount sadly.

"Sir William Scott (now Baron Stowell) "Declares not half so much is made "By Licences--and he must know well-- "Since vile Quadrilling spoiled the trade."

She ceased--tears fell from every Miss-- She now had touched the true pathetic:-- One such authentic fact as this, Is worth whole volumes theoretic.

Instant the cry was "Country Dance!"

And the maid saw with brightening face, The Steward of the night advance, And lead her to her birthright place.

The fiddles, which awhile had ceased, Now tuned again their summons sweet, And, for one happy night, at least, Old England's triumph was complete.

[1] An old English country dance.

GAZEL.

Haste, Maami, the spring is nigh; Already, in the unopened flowers That sleep around us, Fancy's eye Can see the blush of future bowers; And joy it brings to thee and me, My own beloved Maami!

The streamlet frozen on its way, To feed the marble Founts of Kings, Now, loosened by the vernal ray, Upon its path exulting springs-- As doth this bounding heart to thee, My ever blissful Maami!

Such bright hours were not made to stay; Enough if they awhile remain, Like Irem's bowers, that fade away.

From time to time, and come again.

And life shall all one Irem be For us, my gentle Maami.

O haste, for this impatient heart, Is like the rose in Yemen's vale, That rends its inmost leaves apart With pa.s.sion for the nightingale; So languishes this soul for thee, My bright and blus.h.i.+ng Maami!

LINES ON THE DEATH OF JOSEPH ATKINSON, ESQ., OF DUBLIN.

If ever life was prosperously cast, If ever life was like the lengthened flow Of some sweet music, sweetness to the last, 'Twas his who, mourned by many, sleeps below.

The sunny temper, bright where all is strife.

The simple heart above all worldly wiles; Light wit that plays along the calm of life, And stirs its languid surface into smiles;

Pure charity that comes not in a shower, Sudden and loud, oppressing what it feeds, But, like the dew, with gradual silent power, Felt in the bloom it leaves along the meads;

The happy grateful spirit, that improves And brightens every gift by fortune given; That, wander where it will with those it loves, Makes every place a home, and home a heaven:

All these were his.--Oh, thou who read'st this stone, When for thyself, thy children, to the sky Thou humbly prayest, ask this boon alone, That ye like him may live, like him may die!

GENIUS AND CRITICISM.

_scripsit quidem fata, sed sequitur_.

SENECA.

Of old, the Sultan Genius reigned, As Nature meant, supreme alone; With mind unchekt, and hands unchained, His views, his conquests were his own.

But power like his, that digs its grave With its own sceptre, could not last; So Genius' self became the slave Of laws that Genius' self had past.

As Jove, who forged the chain of Fate, Was, ever after, doomed to wear it: His nods, his struggles all too late-- "_Qui semel jussit, semper paret_."

To check young Genius' proud career, The slaves who now his throne invaded, Made Criticism his prime Vizir, And from that hour his glories faded.

Tied down in Legislation's school, Afraid of even his own ambition, His very victories were by rule, And he was great but by permission.

His most heroic deeds--the same, That dazzled, when spontaneous actions-- Now, done by law, seemed cold and tame, And shorn of all their first attractions.

If he but stirred to take the air, Instant, the Vizir's Council sat-- "Good Lord, your Highness can't go there-- "Bless me, your Highness can't do that."

If, loving pomp, he chose to buy Rich jewels for his diadem, "The taste was bad, the price was high-- "A flower were simpler than a gem."

To please them if he took to flowers-- "What trifling, what unmeaning things!

"Fit for a woman's toilet hours, "But not at all the style for Kings."

If, fond of his domestic sphere, He played no more the rambling comet-- "A dull, good sort of man, 'twas clear, "But, as for great or brave, far from it."

Did he then look o'er distant oceans, For realms more worthy to enthrone him?-- "Saint Aristotle, what wild notions!

"Serve a '_ne exeat regno_' on him."

At length, their last and worst to do, They round him placed a guard of watchmen, Reviewers, knaves in brown, or blue Turned up with yellow--chiefly Scotchmen;

To dog his footsteps all about Like those in Longwood's prison grounds, Who at Napoleon's heels rode out, For fear the Conqueror should break bounds.

Oh for some Champion of his power, Some _Ultra_ spirit, to set free, As erst in Shakespeare's sovereign hour, The thunders of his Royalty!--

To vindicate his ancient line, The first, the true, the only one, Of Right eternal and divine, That rules beneath the blessed sun.