The Complete Poems of Sir Thomas Moore Part 140

SONG.

Who'll buy?--'tis Folly's shop, who'll buy?-- We've toys to suit all ranks and ages; Besides our usual fools' supply, We've lots of playthings, too, for sages.

For reasoners here's a juggler's cup That fullest seems when nothing's in it; And nine-pins set, like systems, up, To be knocked down the following minute.

Who'll buy?--'tis Folly's shop, who'll buy?

Gay caps we here of foolscap make.

For bards to wear in dog-day weather; Or bards the bells alone may take, And leave to wits the cap and feather, Tetotums we've for patriots got, Who court the mob with antics humble; Like theirs the patriot's dizzy lot, A glorious spin, and then--a tumble, Who'll buy, etc.

Here, wealthy misers to inter, We've shrouds of neat post-obit paper; While, for their heirs, we've _quick_silver, That, fast as they can wish, will caper.

For aldermen we've dials true, That tell no hour but that of dinner; For courtly parsons sermons new, That suit alike both saint and sinner.

Who'll buy, etc.

No time we've now to name our terms, But, whatsoe'er the whims that seize you, This oldest of all mortal firms, Folly and Co., will try to please you.

Or, should you wish a darker hue Of goods than _we_ can recommend you, Why then (as we with lawyers do) To Knavery's shop next door we'll send you.

Who'll buy, etc.

While thus the blissful moments rolled, Moments of rare and fleeting light, That show themselves, like grains of gold In the mine's refuse, few and bright; Behold where, opening far away, The long Conservatory's range, Stript of the flowers it wore all day, But gaining lovelier in exchange, Presents, on Dresden's costliest ware, A supper such as G.o.ds might share.

Ah much-loved Supper!--blithe repast Of other times, now dwindling fast, Since Dinner far into the night Advanced the march of appet.i.te; Deployed his never-ending forces Of various vintage and three courses, And, like those Goths who played the d.i.c.kens With Rome and all her sacred chickens, Put Supper and her fowls so white, Legs, wings, and drumsticks, all to flight.

Now waked once more by wine--whose tide Is the true Hippocrene, where glide The Muse's swans with happiest wing, Dipping their bills before they sing-- The minstrels of the table greet The listening ear with descant sweet:--

SONG AND TRIO.

THE LEVeE AND COUCHeE.

Call the Loves around, Let the whispering sound Of their wings be heard alone.

Till soft to rest My Lady blest At this bright hour hath gone, Let Fancy's beams Play o'er her dreams, Till, touched with light all through.

Her spirit be Like a summer sea, s.h.i.+ning and slumbering too.

And, while thus husht she lies, Let the whispered chorus rise-- "Good evening, good evening, to our Lady's bright eyes."

But the day-beam breaks, See, our Lady wakes!

Call the Loves around once more, Like stars that wait At Morning's gate, Her first steps to adore.

Let the veil of night From her dawning sight All gently pa.s.s away, Like mists that flee From a summer sea, Leaving it full of day.

And, while her last dream flies, Let the whispered chorus rise-- "Good morning, good morning, to our Lady's bright eyes."

SONG.

If to see thee be to love thee, If to love thee be to prize Naught of earth or heaven above thee, Nor to live but for those eyes: If such love to mortal given, Be wrong to earth, be wrong to heaven, 'Tis not for thee the fault to blame, For from those eyes the madness came.

Forgive but thou the crime of loving In this heart more pride 'twill raise To be thus wrong with thee approving, Than right with all a world to praise!

But say, while light these songs resound, What means that buzz of whispering round, From lip to lip--as if the Power Of Mystery, in this gay hour, Had thrown some secret (as we fling Nuts among children) to that ring Of rosy, restless lips, to be Thus scrambled for so wantonly?

And, mark ye, still as each reveals The mystic news, her hearer steals A look towards yon enchanted chair, Where, like the Lady of the Masque, A nymph, as exquisitely fair As Love himself for bride could ask, Sits blus.h.i.+ng deep, as if aware Of the winged secret circling there.

Who is this nymph? and what, oh Muse, What, in the name of all odd things That woman's restless brain pursues, What mean these mystic whisperings?

Thus runs the tale:--yon blus.h.i.+ng maid, Who sits in beauty's light arrayed, While o'er her leans a tall young Dervise, (Who from her eyes, as all observe, is Learning by heart the Marriage Service,) Is the bright heroine of our song,-- The Love-wed Psyche, whom so long We've missed among this mortal train, We thought her winged to heaven again.

But no--earth still demands her smile; Her friends, the G.o.ds, must wait awhile.

And if, for maid of heavenly birth, A young Duke's proffered heart and hand Be things worth waiting for on earth, Both are, this hour, at her command.

To-night, in yonder half-lit shade, For love concerns expressly meant, The fond proposal first was made, And love and silence blusht consent Parents and friends (all here, as Jews, Enchanters, house-maids, Turks, Hindoos,) Have heard, approved, and blest the tie; And now, hadst thou a poet's eye, Thou might'st behold, in the air, above That brilliant brow, triumphant Love, Holding, as if to drop it down Gently upon her curls, a crown Of Ducal shape--but, oh, such gems!

Pilfered from Peri diadems, And set in gold like that which s.h.i.+nes To deck the Fairy of the Mines: In short, a crown all glorious--such as Love orders when he makes a d.u.c.h.ess.

But see, 'tis morn in heaven; the Sun Up in the bright orient hath begun To canter his immortal beam; And, tho' not yet arrived in sight, His leaders' nostrils send a steam Of radiance forth, so rosy bright As makes their onward path all light.

What's to be done? if Sol will be So deuced early, so must we: And when the day thus s.h.i.+nes outright, Even dearest friends must bid good night.

So, farewell, scene of mirth and masking, Now almost a by-gone tale; Beauties, late in lamp-light basking, Now, by daylight, dim and pale; Harpers, yawning o'er your harps, Scarcely knowing flats from sharps; Mothers who, while bored you keep Time by nodding, nod to sleep; Heads of hair, that stood last night _Crepe_, crispy, and upright, But have now, alas, one sees, a Leaning like the tower of Pisa; Fare ye will--thus sinks away All that's mighty, all that's bright: Tyre and Sidon had their day, And even a Ball--has but its night!

[1] Archimedes.

[2] The name given to those large sleeves that hang loosely.

[3] In England the part.i.tion of this opera of Rossini was transferred to the story of Peter the Hermit; by which means the indecorum of giving such names as "Moyse," "Pharaon," etc., to the dancers selected from it (as was done in Paris), has been avoided.

[4] The celebrated portrait by Leonardo da Vinci, which he is said to have occupied four years in painting,--_Vasari_, vol. vii.

EVENINGS IN GREECE

In thus connecting together a series of Songs by a thread of poetical narrative, my chief object has been to combine Recitation with Music, so as to enable a greater number of persons to join in the performance, by enlisting as readers those who may not feel willing or competent to take a part as singers.

The Island of Zea where the scene is laid was called by the ancients Ceos, and was the birthplace of Simonides, Bacchylides, and other eminent persons. An account of its present state may be found in the Travels of Dr. Clarke, who says, that "it appeared to him to be the best cultivated of any of the Grecian Isles."--Vol. vi. p. 174.

T.M.

EVENINGS IN GREECE.