The Complete Poems of Sir Thomas Moore Part 40

So mingled with its tuneful soul Were all the tender murmurs grown, That other sighs unanswered stole, Nor words it breathed but theirs alone.

Unhappy nymph! thy name was sung To every breeze that wandered by; The secrets of thy gentle tongue Were breathed in song to earth and sky.

The fatal Lyre, by Envy's hand Hung high amid the whispering groves, To every gale by which 'twas fanned, Proclaimed the mystery of your loves.

Nor long thus rudely was thy name To earth's derisive echoes given; Some pitying spirit downward came.

And took the Lyre and thee to heaven.

There, freed from earth's unholy wrongs, Both happy in Love's home shall be; Thou, uttering naught but seraph songs, And that sweet Lyre still echoing thee!

PEACE AND GLORY.

WRITTEN ON THE APPROACH OF WAR.

Where is now the smile, that lightened Every hero's couch of rest?

Where is now the hope, that brightened Honor's eye and Pity's breast?

Have we lost the wreath we braided For our weary warrior men?

Is the faithless olive faded?

Must the bay be plucked again?

Pa.s.sing hour of sunny weather, Lovely, in your light awhile, Peace and Glory, wed together, Wandered through our blessed isle.

And the eyes of Peace would glisten, Dewy as a morning sun, When the timid maid would listen To the deeds her chief had done.

Is their hour of dalliance over?

Must the maiden's trembling feet Waft her from her warlike lover To the desert's still retreat?

Fare you well! with sighs we banish Nymph so fair and guests so bright; Yet the smile, with which you vanish, Leaves behind a soothing light;--

Soothing light, that long shall sparkle O'er your warrior's sanguined way, Through the field where horrors darkle, Shedding hope's consoling ray.

Long the smile his heart will cherish, To its absent idol true; While around him myriads perish, Glory still will sigh for you!

SONG.

Take back the sigh, thy lips of art In pa.s.sion's moment breathed to me; Yet, no--it must not, will not part, 'Tis now the life-breath of my heart, And has become too pure for thee.

Take back the kiss, that faithless sigh With all the warmth of truth imprest; Yet, no--the fatal kiss may lie, Upon _thy_ lip its sweets would die, Or bloom to make a rival blest.

Take back the vows that, night and day, My heart received, I thought, from thine; Yet, no--allow them still to stay, They might some other heart betray, As sweetly as they've ruined mine.

LOVE AND REASON.

_Quand l'homme commence a raissonner, il cesse de sentir_.--J. J. ROUSSEAU.

'Twas in the summer time so sweet, When hearts and flowers are both in season, That--who, of all the world, should meet, One early dawn, but Love and Reason!

Love told his dream of yesternight, While Reason talked about the weather; The morn, in sooth, was fair and bright, And on they took their way together.

The boy in many a gambol flew, While Reason, like a Juno, stalked, And from her portly figure threw A lengthened shadow, as she walked.

No wonder Love, as on they past, Should find that sunny morning chill, For still the shadow Reason cast Fell o'er the boy, and cooled him still.

In vain he tried his wings to warm.

Or find a pathway not so dim For still the maid's gigantic form Would stalk between the sun and him.

"This must not be," said little Love-- "The sun was made for more than you."

So, turning through a myrtle grove, He bid the portly nymph adieu.

Now gayly roves the laughing boy O'er many a mead, by many a stream; In every breeze inhaling joy, And drinking bliss in every beam.

From all the gardens, all the bowers, He culled the many sweets they shaded, And ate the fruits and smelled the flowers, Till taste was gone and odor faded.

But now the sun, in pomp of noon, Looked blazing o'er the sultry plains; Alas! the boy grew languid soon, And fever thrilled through all his veins.

The dew forsook his baby brow, No more with healthy bloom he smiled-- Oh! where was tranquil Reason now, To cast her shadow o'er the child?

Beneath a green and aged palm, His foot at length for shelter turning, He saw the nymph reclining calm, With brow as cool as his was burning.

"Oh! take me to that bosom cold,"

In murmurs at her feet he said; And Reason oped her garment's fold, And flung it round his fevered head.

He felt her bosom's icy touch, And soon it lulled his pulse to rest; For, ah! the chill was quite too much, And Love expired on Reason's breast!

Nay, do not weep, my f.a.n.n.y dear; While in these arms you lie.

This world hath not a wish, a fear, That ought to cost that eye a tear.

That heart, one single sigh.

The world!--ah, f.a.n.n.y, Love must shun The paths where many rove; One bosom to recline upon, One heart to be his only--one, Are quite enough for Love.

What can we wish, that is not here Between your arms and mine?