The Complete Poems of Sir Thomas Moore Part 63

While gazing on the moon's light, A moment from her smile I turned, To look at orbs, that, more bright, In lone and distant glory burned.

But _too_ far Each proud star, For me to feel its warming flame; Much more dear That mild sphere.

Which near our planet smiling came; Thus, Mary, be but thou my own; While brighter eyes unheeded play, I'll love those moonlight looks alone, That bless my home and guide my way.

The day had sunk in dim showers, But midnight now, with l.u.s.tre meet.

Illumined all the pale flowers, Like hope upon a mourner's cheek.

I said (while The moon's smile Played o'er a stream, in dimpling bliss,) "The moon looks "On many brooks, "The brook can see no moon but this;"[1]

And thus, I thought, our fortunes run, For many a lover looks to thee, While oh! I feel there is but _one_, _One_ Mary in the world for me.

[1] This image was suggested by the following thought, which occurs somewhere In Sir William Jones's works: "The moon looks upon many night- flowers, the night flower sees but one moon."

ILL OMENS.

When daylight was yet sleeping under the billow, And stars in the heavens still lingering shone.

Young Kitty, all blus.h.i.+ng, rose up from her pillow, The last time she e'er was to press it alone.

For the youth! whom she treasured her heart and her soul in, Had promised to link the last tie before noon; And when once the young heart of a maiden is stolen The maiden herself will steal after it soon.

As she looked in the gla.s.s, which a woman ne'er misses.

Nor ever wants time for a sly glance or two, A b.u.t.terfly,[1] fresh from the night-flower's kisses.

Flew over the mirror, and shaded her view.

Enraged with the insect for hiding her graces, She brushed him--he fell, alas; never to rise: "Ah! such," said the girl, "is the pride of our faces, "For which the soul's innocence too often dies."

While she stole thro' the garden, where heart's-ease was growing, She culled some, and kist off its night-fallen dew; And a rose, further on, looked so tempting and glowing, That, spite of her haste, she must gather it too: But while o'er the roses too carelessly leaning, Her zone flew in two, and the heart's-ease was lost: "Ah! this means," said the girl (and she sighed at its meaning), "That love is scarce worth the repose it will cost!"

[1] An emblem of the soul.

BEFORE THE BATTLE.

By the hope within us springing, Herald of to-morrow's strife; By that sun, whose light is bringing Chains or freedom, death or life-- Oh! remember life can be No charm for him, who lives not free!

Like the day-star in the wave, Sinks a hero in his grave, Midst the dew-fall of a nation's tears.

Happy is he o'er whose decline The smiles of home may soothing s.h.i.+ne And light him down the steep of years:-- But oh, how blest they sink to rest, Who close their eyes on victory's breast!

O'er his watch-fire's fading embers Now the foeman's cheek turns white, When his heart that field remembers, Where we tamed his tyrant might.

Never let him bind again A chain; like that we broke from then.

Hark! the horn of combat calls-- Ere the golden evening falls, May we pledge that horn in triumph round![1]

Many a heart that now beats high, In slumber cold at night shall lie, Nor waken even at victory's sound-- But oh, how blest that hero's sleep, O'er whom a wondering world shall weep!

[1] "The Irish Corna was not entirely devoted to martial purposes. In the heroic ages, our ancestors quaffed Meadh out of them, as the Danish hunters do their beverage at this day."--_Walker_.

AFTER THE BATTLE.

Night closed around the conqueror's way, And lightnings showed the distant hill, Where those who lost that dreadful day, Stood few and faint, but fearless still.

The soldier's hope, the patriot's zeal, For ever dimmed, for ever crost-- Oh! who shall say what heroes feel, When all but life and honor's lost?

The last sad hour of freedom's dream, And valor's task, moved slowly by, While mute they watcht, till morning's beam Should rise and give them light to die.

There's yet a world, where souls are free, Where tyrants taint not nature's bliss;-- If death that world's bright opening be, Oh! who would live a slave in this?

'TIS SWEET TO THINK.

'Tis sweet to think, that, where'er we rove, We are sure to find something blissful and dear.

And that, when we're far from the lips we love, We've but to make love to the lips, we are near.

The heart, like a tendril, accustomed to cling, Let it grow where it will, can not flourish alone, But will lean to the nearest and loveliest thing It can twine with itself and make closely its own.

Then oh! what pleasure, where'er we rove, To be sure to find something still that is dear, And to know, when far from the lips we love, We've but to make love to the lips we are near.

'Twere a shame, when flowers around us rise.

To make light of the rest, if the rose isn't there; And the world's so rich in resplendent eyes, 'Twere a pity to limit one's love to a pair.

Love's wing and the peac.o.c.k's are nearly alike, They are both of them bright, but they're changeable too, And, wherever a new beam of beauty can strike, It will tincture Love's plume with a different hue.

Then oh! what pleasure, where'er we rove, To be sure to find something still that is dear, And to know, when far from the lips we love, We've but to make love to the lips we are near.

THE IRISH PEASANT TO HIS MISTRESS.[1]

Thro' grief and thro' danger thy smile hath cheered my way, Till hope seemed to bud from each thorn that round me lay; The darker our fortune, the brighter our pure love burned, Till shame into glory, till fear into zeal was turned; Yes, slave as I was, in thy arms my spirit felt free, And blest even the sorrows that made me more dear to thee.