The Complete Poems of Sir Thomas Moore Part 67

The goose-plumage of Folly can turn it aside.

But pledge me the cup--if existence would cloy, With hearts ever happy, and heads ever wise, Be ours the light Sorrow, half-sister to Joy, And the light, brilliant Folly that flashes and dies.

When Hylas was sent with his urn to the fount, Thro' fields full of light, and with heart full of play, Light rambled the boy, over meadow and mount, And neglected his task for the flowers on the way.

Thus many, like me, who in youth should have tasted The fountain that runs by Philosophy's shrine, Their time with the flowers on the margin have wasted, And left their light urns all as empty as mine.

But pledge me the goblet;--while Idleness weaves These flowerets together, should Wisdom but see One bright drop or two that has fallen on the leaves From her fountain divine, 'tis sufficient for me.

OH THE SHAMROCK.

Thro' Erin's Isle, To sport awhile, As Love and Valor wandered, With Wit, the sprite, Whose quiver bright A thousand arrows squandered.

Where'er they pa.s.s, A triple gra.s.s[1]

Shoots up, with dew-drops streaming.

As softly green As emeralds seen Thro' purest crystal gleaming.

Oh the Shamrock, the green, immortal Shamrock!

Chosen leaf.

Of Bard and Chief, Old Erin's native Shamrock!

Says Valor, "See, "They spring for me, "Those leafy gems of morning!"-- Says Love, "No, no, "For _me_ they grow, "My fragrant path adorning."

But Wit perceives The triple leaves, And cries, "Oh! do not sever "A type, that blends "Three G.o.dlike friends, "Love, Valor, Wit, for ever!"

Oh the Shamrock, the green, immortal Shamrock!

Chosen leaf Of Bard and Chief, Old Erin's native Shamrock!

So firmly fond May last the bond, They wove that morn together, And ne'er may fall One drop of gall On Wit's celestial feather.

May Love, as twine His flowers divine.

Of th.o.r.n.y falsehood weed 'em; May Valor ne'er His standard rear Against the cause of Freedom!

Oh the Shamrock, the green, immortal Shamrock!

Chosen leaf Of Bard and Chief, Old Erin's native Shamrock!

[1] It is said that St. Patrick, when preaching the Trinity to the Pagan Irish, used to ill.u.s.trate his subject by reference to that species of trefoil called in Ireland by the name of the Shamrock; and hence, perhaps, the Island of Saints adopted this plant as her national emblem. Hope, among the ancients, was sometimes represented as a beautiful child, standing upon tiptoes, and a trefoil or three-colored gra.s.s in her hand.

AT THE MID HOUR OF NIGHT

At the mid hour of night, when stars are weeping, I fly To the lone vale we loved, when life shone warm in thine eye; And I think oft, if spirits can steal from the regions of air, To revisit past scenes of delight, thou wilt come to me there, And tell me our love is remembered, even in the sky.

Then I sing the wild song 'twas once such pleasure to hear When our voices commingling breathed, like one, on the ear; And, as Echo far off thro' the vale my sad orison rolls, I think, oh my love! 'tis thy voice from the Kingdom of Souls,[1]

Faintly answering still the notes that once were so dear.

[1] "There are countries." says Montaigne, "where they believe the souls of the happy live in all manner of liberty, in delightful fields; and there it is those souls, repeating the words we utter, which we call Echo."

ONE b.u.mPER AT PARTING.

One b.u.mper at parting!--tho' many Have circled the board since we met, The fullest, the saddest of any Remains to be crowned by us yet.

The sweetness that pleasure hath in it, Is always so slow to come forth, That seldom, alas, till the minute It dies, do we know half its worth.

But come,--may our life's happy measure Be all of such moments made up; They're born on the bosom of Pleasure, They die midst the tears of the cup.

'Tis onward we journey, how pleasant To pause and inhabit awhile Those few sunny spots, like the present, That mid the dull wilderness smile!

But Time, like a pitiless master, Cries "Onward!" and spurs the gay hours-- Ah, never doth Time travel faster, Than when his way lies among flowers.

But come--may our life's happy measure Be all of such moments made up; They're born on the bosom of Pleasure, They die midst the tears of the cup.

We saw how the sun looked in sinking, The waters beneath him how bright; And now, let our farewell of drinking Resemble that farewell of light.

You saw how he finished, by darting His beam o'er a deep billow's brim-- So, fill up, let's s.h.i.+ne at our parting, In full liquid glory, like him.

And oh! may our life's happy measure Of moments like this be made up, 'Twas born on the bosom of Pleasure, It dies mid the tears of the cup.

'TIS THE LAST ROSE OF SUMMER.

'Tis the last rose of summer Left blooming alone; All her lovely companions Are faded and gone; No flower of her kindred, No rose-bud is nigh, To reflect back her blushes, Or give sigh for sigh.

I'll not leave thee, thou lone one!

To pine on the stem; Since the lovely are sleeping.

Go, sleep thou with them.

Thus kindly I scatter Thy leaves o'er the bed, Where thy mates of the garden Lie scentless and dead.

So soon may _I_ follow, When friends.h.i.+ps decay, And from Love's s.h.i.+ning circle The gems drop away.

When true hearts lie withered, And fond ones are flown, Oh! who would inhabit This bleak world alone?

THE YOUNG MAY MOON.

The young May moon is beaming, love, The glow-worm's lamp is gleaming, love, How sweet to rove Through Morna's grove, When the drowsy world is dreaming, love!

Then awake!--the heavens look bright, my dear, 'Tis never too late for delight, my dear, And the best of all ways To lengthen our days, Is to steal a few hours from the night, my dear!