The Complete Poems of Sir Thomas Moore Part 23

When Time was entwining the garland of years, Which to crown my beloved was given, Though some of the leaves might be sullied with tears, Yet the flowers were all gathered in heaven.

And long may this garland be sweet to the eye, May its verdure forever be new; Young Love shall enrich it with many a sigh, And Sympathy nurse it with dew.

A REFLECTION AT SEA.

See how, beneath the moonbeam's smile, Yon little billow heaves its breast, And foams and sparkles for awhile,-- Then murmuring subsides to rest.

Thus man, the sport of bliss and care, Rises on time's eventful sea: And, having swelled a moment there, Thus melts into eternity!

CLORIS AND f.a.n.n.y.

Cloris! if I were Persia's king, I'd make my graceful queen of thee; While f.a.n.n.y, wild and artless thing, Should but thy humble handmaid be.

There is but _one_ objection in it-- That, verily, I'm much afraid I should, in some unlucky minute, Forsake the mistress for the maid.

THE s.h.i.+ELD.

Say, did you not hear a voice of death!

And did you not mark the paly form Which rode on the silvery mist of the heath, And sung a ghostly dirge in the storm?

Was it the wailing bird of the gloom, That shrieks on the house of woe all night?

Or a s.h.i.+vering fiend that flew to a tomb, To howl and to feed till the glance of light?

'Twas _not_ the death-bird's cry from the wood, Nor s.h.i.+vering fiend that hung on the blast; 'Twas the shade of Helderic--man of blood-- It screams for the guilt of days that are past.

See, how the red, red lightning strays, And scares the gliding ghosts of the heath!

Now on the leafless yew it plays, Where hangs the s.h.i.+eld of this son of death.

That s.h.i.+eld is blus.h.i.+ng with murderous stains; Long has it hung from the cold yew's spray; It is blown by storms and washed by rains, But neither can take the blood away!

Oft by that yew, on the blasted field, Demons dance to the red moon's light; While the damp boughs creak, and the swinging s.h.i.+eld Sings to the raving spirit of night!

TO JULIA WEEPING.

Oh! if your tears are given to care, If real woe disturbs your peace, Come to my bosom, weeping fair!

And I will bid your weeping cease.

But if with Fancy's visioned fears, With dreams of woe your bosom thrill; You look so lovely in your tears, That I must bid you drop them still.

DREAMS.

TO ... ....

In slumber, I prithee how is it That souls are oft taking the air, And paying each other a visit, While bodies are heaven knows where?

Last night, 'tis in vain to deny it, Your soul took a fancy to roam, For I heard her, on tiptoe so quiet, Come ask, whether _mine_ was at home.

And mine let her in with delight, And they talked and they laughed the time through; For, when souls come together at night, There is no saying what they mayn't do!

And _your_ little Soul, heaven bless her!

Had much to complain and to say, Of how sadly you wrong and oppress her By keeping her prisoned all day.

"If I happen," said she, "but to steal "For a peep now and then to her eye, "Or, to quiet the fever I feel, "Just venture abroad on a sigh;

"In an instant she frightens me in "With some phantom of prudence or terror, "For fear I should stray into sin, "Or, what is still worse, into error!

"So, instead of displaying my graces, "By daylight, in language and mien, "I am shut up in corners and places, "Where truly I blush to be seen!"

Upon hearing this piteous confession, _My_ Soul, looking tenderly at her, Declared, as for grace and discretion, He did not know much of the matter;

"But, to-morrow, sweet Spirit!" he said, "Be at home, after midnight, and then "I will come when your lady's in bed, "And we'll talk o'er the subject again."

So she whispered a word in his ear, I suppose to her door to direct him, And, just after midnight, my dear, Your polite little Soul may expect him.