The Complete Poems of Sir Thomas Moore Part 49

"And her fire-fly lamp I soon shall see, "And her paddle I soon shall hear; "Long and loving our life shall be, "And I'll hide the maid in a cypress tree, "When the footstep of death is near."

Away to the Dismal Swamp he speeds-- His path was rugged and sore, Through tangled juniper, beds of reeds, Through many a fen, where the serpent feeds, And man never trod before.

And, when on the earth he sunk to sleep If slumber his eyelids knew, He lay, where the deadly vine doth weep Its venomous tear and nightly steep The flesh with blistering dew!

And near him the she-wolf stirred the brake, And the copper-snake breathed in his ear, Till he starting cried, from his dream awake, "Oh! when shall I see the dusky Lake, "And the white canoe of my dear?"

He saw the Lake, and a meteor bright Quick over its surface played-- "Welcome," he said, "my dear one's light!"

And the dim sh.o.r.e echoed, for many a night, The name of the death-cold maid.

Till he hollowed a boat of the birchen bark, Which carried him off from sh.o.r.e; Far, far he followed the meteor spark, The wind was high and the clouds were dark, And the boat returned no more.

But oft, from the Indian hunter's camp This lover and maid so true Are seen at the hour of midnight damp To cross the Lake by a fire-fly lamp, And paddle their white canoe!

[1] The Great Dismal Swamp is ten or twelve miles distant from Norfolk, and the Lake in the middle of it (about seven miles long) is called Drummond's Pond.

TO THE MARCHIONESS DOWAGER OF DONEGALL.

FROM BERMUDA, JANUARY, 1804.

Lady! where'er you roam, whatever land Woos the bright touches of that artist hand; Whether you sketch the valley's golden meads, Where mazy Linth his lingering current leads;[1]

Enamored catch the mellow hues that sleep, At eve, on Meillerie's immortal steep; Or musing o'er the Lake, at day's decline, Mark the last shadow on that holy shrine,[2]

Where, many a night, the shade of Tell complains Of Gallia's triumph and Helvetia's chains; Oh! lay the pencil for a moment by, Turn from the canvas that creative eye, And let its splendor, like the morning ray Upon a shepherd's harp, illume my lay.

Yet, Lady, no--for song so rude as mine, Chase not the wonders of your art divine; Still, radiant eye, upon the canvas dwell; Still, magic finger, weave your potent spell; And, while I sing the animated smiles Of fairy nature in these sun-born isles, Oh, might the song awake some bright design, Inspire a touch, or prompt one happy line, Proud were my soul, to see its humble thought On painting's mirror so divinely caught; While wondering Genius, as he leaned to trace The faint conception kindling into grace, Might love my numbers for the spark they threw, And bless the lay that lent a charm to you.

Say, have you ne'er, in nightly vision, strayed To those pure isles of ever-blooming shade, Which bards of old, with kindly fancy, placed For happy spirits in the Atlantic waste?

There listening, while, from earth, each breeze that came Brought echoes of their own undying fame, In eloquence of eye, and dreams of song, They charmed their lapse of nightless hours along:-- Nor yet in song, that mortal ear might suit, For every spirit was itself a lute, Where Virtue wakened, with elysian breeze, Pure tones of thought and mental harmonies.

Believe me, Lady, when the zephyrs bland Floated our bark to this enchanted land,-- These leafy isles upon the ocean thrown, Like studs of emerald o'er a silver zone,-- Not all the charm, that ethnic fancy gave To blessed arbors o'er the western wave, Could wake a dream, more soothing or sublime, Of bowers ethereal, and the Spirit's clime.

Bright rose the morning, every wave was still, When the first perfume of a cedar hill Sweetly awaked us, and, with smiling charms, The fairy harbor woo'd us to its arms.[3]

Gently we stole, before the whispering wind, Through plaintain shades, that round, like awnings, twined And kist on either side the wanton sails, Breathing our welcome to these vernal vales; While, far reflected o'er the wave serene, Each wooded island shed so soft a green That the enamored keel, with whispering play, Through liquid herbage seemed to steal its way.

Never did weary bark more gladly glide, Or rest its anchor in a lovelier tide!

Along the margin, many a s.h.i.+ning dome, White as the palace of a Lapland gnome, Brightened the wave;--in every myrtle grove Secluded bashful, like a shrine of love, Some elfin mansion sparkled through the shade; And, while the foliage interposing played, Lending the scene an ever-changing grace, Fancy would love, in glimpses vague, to trace The flowery capital, the shaft, the porch,[4]

And dream of temples, till her kindling torch Lighted me back to all the glorious days Of Attic genius; and I seemed to gaze On marble, from the rich Pentelio mount, Gracing the umbrage of some Naiad's fount.

Then thought I, too, of thee, most sweet of all The spirit race that come at poet's call, Delicate Ariel! who, in brighter hours, Lived on the perfume of these honied bowers, In velvet buds, at evening, loved to lie, And win with music every rose's sigh.

Though weak the magic of my humble strain To charm your spirit from its...o...b..again, Yet, oh, for her, beneath whose smile I sing, For her (whose pencil, if your rainbow wing Were dimmed or ruffled by a wintry sky.

Could smooth its feather and relume its dye.) Descend a moment from your starry sphere, And, if the lime-tree grove that once was dear, The sunny wave, the bower, the breezy hill, The sparkling grotto can delight you still, Oh cull their choicest tints, their softest light, Weave all these spells into one dream of night, And, while the lovely artist slumbering lies, Shed the warm picture o'er her mental eyes; Take for the task her own creative spells, And brightly show what song but faintly tells.

[1] Lady Donegall, I had reason to suppose, was at this time still in Switzerland, where the well-known powers of her pencil must have been frequently awakened.

[2] The chapel of William Tell on the Lake of Lucerne.

[3] Nothing can be more romantic than the little harbor of St. George's.

The number of beautiful islets, the singular clearness of the water, and the animated play of the graceful little boats, gliding for ever between the islands, and seeming to sail from one cedar-grove into another, formed altogether as lovely a miniature of nature's beauties as can be imagined.

[4] This is an illusion which, to the few who are fanciful enough to indulge in it, renders the scenery of Bermuda particularly interesting. In the short but beautiful twilight of their spring evenings, the white cottages, scattered over the islands, and but partially seen through the trees that surround them, a.s.sume often the appearance of little Grecian temples; and a vivid fancy may embellish the poor fisherman's hut with columns such as the pencil of a Claude might imitate. I had one favorite object of this kind in my walks, which the hospitality of its owner robbed me of, by asking me to visit him. He was a plain good man, and received me well and warmly, but I could never turn his house into a Grecian temple again.

TO GEORGE MORGAN, ESQ. OF NORFOLK, VIRGINIA.

FROM BERMUDA, JANUARY, 1804.

Oh, what a sea of storm we've past!-- High mountain waves and foamy showers, And battling winds whose savage blast But ill agrees with one whose hours Have past in old Anacreon's bowers, Yet think not poesy's bright charm Forsook me in this rude alarm;[1]-- When close they reefed the timid sail, When, every plank complaining loud, We labored in the midnight gale; And even our haughty mainmast bowed, Even then, in that unlovely hour, The Muse still brought her soothing power, And, midst the war of waves and wind, In song's Elysium lapt my mind.

Nay, when no numbers of my own Responded to her wakening tone, She opened, with her golden key, The casket where my memory lays Those gems of cla.s.sic poesy, Which time has saved from ancient days.

Take one of these, to Lais sung,-- I wrote it while my hammock swung, As one might write a dissertation Upon "Suspended Animation!"

Sweet is your kiss, my Lais dear, But, with that kiss I feel a tear Gush from your eyelids, such as start When those who've dearly loved must part.

Sadly you lean your head to mine, And mute those arms around me twine, Your hair adown my bosom spread, All glittering with the tears you shed.

In vain I've kist those lids of snow, For still, like ceaseless founts they flow, Bathing our cheeks, whene'er they meet.

Why is it thus? Do, tell me, sweet!

Ah, Lais! are my bodings right?

Am I to lose you? Is to-night Our last--go, false to heaven and me!

Your very tears are treachery.

Such, while in air I floating hung, Such was the strain, Morgante mio!

The muse and I together sung, With Boreas to make out the trio.

But, bless the little fairy isle!

How sweetly after all our ills.

We saw the sunny morning smile Serenely o'er its fragrant hills; And felt the pure, delicious flow Of airs that round this Eden blow Freshly as even the gales that come O'er our own healthy hills at home.

Could you but view the scenery fair, That now beneath my window lies, You'd think, that nature lavished there Her purest wave, her softest skies, To make a heaven for love to sigh in, For bards to live and saints to die in.

Close to my wooded bank below, In gra.s.sy calm the waters sleep, And to the sunbeam proudly show The coral rocks they love to steep.[2]

The fainting breeze of morning fails; The drowsy boat moves slowly past, And I can almost touch its sails As loose they flap around the mast.

The noontide sun a splendor pours That lights up all these leafy sh.o.r.es; While his own heaven, its clouds and beams, So pictured in the waters lie, That each small bark, in pa.s.sing, seems To float along a burning sky.

Oh for the pinnace lent to thee,[3]

Blest dreamer, who in vision bright, Didst sail o'er heaven's solar sea And touch at all its isles of light.

Sweet Venus, what a clime he found Within thy orb's ambrosial round-- There spring the breezes, rich and warm, That sigh around thy vesper car; And angels dwell, so pure of form That each appears a living star.

These are the sprites, celestial queen!

Thou sendest nightly to the bed Of her I love, with touch unseen Thy planet's brightening tints to shed; To lend that eye a light still clearer, To give that cheek one rose-blush more.

And bid that blus.h.i.+ng lip be dearer, Which had been all too dear before.