The Complete Poems of Sir Thomas Moore Part 134

TO LADY JERSEY.

ON BEING ASKED TO WRITE SOMETHING IN HER ALb.u.m.

Written at Middleton.

Oh alb.u.ms, alb.u.ms, how I dread Your everlasting sc.r.a.p and scrawl!

How often wish that from the dead Old Omar would pop forth his head, And make a bonfire of you all!

So might I 'scape the spinster band, The blushless blues, who, day and night, Like duns in doorways, take their stand, To waylay bards, with book in hand, Crying for ever, "Write, sir, write!"

So might I shun the shame and pain, That o'er me at this instant come, When Beauty, seeking Wit in vain, Knocks at the portal of my brain, And gets, for answer, "Not at home!"

_November, 1828_.

TO THE SAME.

ON LOOKING THROUGH HER ALb.u.m.

No wonder bards, both high and low, From Byron down to ***** and me, Should seek the fame which all bestow On him whose task is praising thee.

Let but the theme be Jersey's eyes, At once all errors are forgiven; As even old Sternhold still we prize, Because, tho' dull, he sings of heaven.

AT NIGHT.[1]

At night, when all is still around.

How sweet to hear the distant sound Of footstep, coming soft and light!

What pleasure in the anxious beat, With which the bosom flies to meet That foot that comes so soft at night!

And then, at night, how sweet to say "'Tis late, my love!" and chide delay, Tho' still the western clouds are bright; Oh! happy, too, the silent press, The eloquence of mute caress.

With those we love exchanged at night!

[1] These lines allude to a curious lamp, which has for its device a Cupid, with the words "at night" written over him.

TO LADY HOLLAND.

ON NAPOLEON'S LEGACY OP A SNUFF-BOX.

Gift of the Hero, on his dying day, To her, whose pity watched, for ever nigh; Oh! could he see the proud, the happy ray, This relic lights up on her generous eye, Sighing, he'd feel how easy 'tis to pay A friends.h.i.+p all his kingdoms could not buy.

_Paris, July_, 1821

EPILOGUE.

WRITTEN FOR LADY DACRE'S TRAGEDY OF INA.

Last night, as lonely o'er my fire I sat, Thinking of cues, starts, exits, and--all that, And wondering much what little knavish sprite Had put it first in women's heads to write:-- Sudden I saw--as in some witching dream-- A bright-blue glory round my book-case beam, From whose quick-opening folds of azure light Out flew a tiny form, as small and bright As Puck the Fairy, when he pops his head, Some sunny morning from a violet bed.

"Bless me!" I starting cried "what imp are you?"-- "A small he-devil, Ma'am--my name BAS BLEU-- "A bookish sprite, much given to routs and reading; "'Tis I who teach your spinsters of good breeding, "The reigning taste in chemistry and caps, "The last new bounds of tuckers and of maps, "And when the waltz has twirled her giddy brain "With metaphysics twirl it back again!"

I viewed him, as he spoke--his hose were blue, His wings--the covers of the last Review-- Cerulean, bordered with a jaundice hue, And tinselled gayly o'er, for evening wear, Till the next quarter brings a new-fledged pair.

"Inspired by me--(pursued this waggish Fairy)-- "That best of wives and Sapphos, Lady Mary, "Votary alike of Crispin and the Muse, "Makes her own splay-foot epigrams and shoes.

"For me the eyes of young Camilla s.h.i.+ne, "And mingle Love's blue brilliances with mine; "For me she sits apart, from c.o.xcombs shrinking, "Looks wise--the pretty soul!--and _thinks_ she's thinking.

"By my advice Miss Indigo attends "Lectures on Memory, and a.s.sures her friends, "''Pon honor!--(_mimics_)--nothing can surpa.s.s the plan "'Of that professor--(_trying to recollect_)--psha! that memory-man-- "'That--what's his name?--him I attended lately-- "''Pon honor, he improved _my_ memory greatly.'"

Here curtsying low, I asked the blue-legged sprite, What share he had in this our play to-night.

'Nay, there--(he cried)--there I am guiltless quite-- "What! choose a heroine from that Gothic time "When no one waltzed and none but monks could rhyme; "When lovely woman, all unschooled and wild, "Blushed without art, and without culture smiled-- "Simple as flowers, while yet uncla.s.sed they shone, "Ere Science called their brilliant world her own, "Ranged the wild, rosy things in learned orders, "And filled with Greek the garden's blus.h.i.+ng borders!-- "No, no--your gentle Inas will not do-- "To-morrow evening, when the lights burn blue, "I'll come--(_pointing downwards_)--you understand--till then adieu!"

And _has_ the sprite been here! No--jests apart-- Howe'er man rules in science and in art, The sphere of woman's glories is the heart.

And, if our Muse have sketched with pencil true The wife--the mother--firm, yet gentle too-- Whose soul, wrapt up in ties itself hath spun, Trembles, if touched in the remotest one; Who loves--yet dares even Love himself disown, When Honor's broken shaft supports his throne: If such our Ina, she may scorn the evils, Dire as they are, of Critics and--Blue Devils.

THE DAY-DREAM.[1]

They both were husht, the voice, the chords,-- I heard but once that witching lay; And few the notes, and few the words.

My spell-bound memory brought away;

Traces, remembered here and there, Like echoes of some broken strain;-- Links of a sweetness lost in air, That nothing now could join again.