The Complete Poems of Sir Thomas Moore Part 78

But vain her wish, her weeping vain,-- As Time too well hath taught her-- Each year the Fiend returns again, And dives into that water; And brings, triumphant, from beneath His shafts of desolation, And sends them, winged with worse than death, Through all her maddening nation.

Alas for her who sits and mourns, Even now, beside that river-- Unwearied still the Fiend returns, And stored is still his quiver.

"When will this end, ye Powers of Good?"

She weeping asks for ever; But only hears, from out that flood, The Demon answer, "Never!"

DESMOND'S SONG.[1]

By the Feal's wave benighted, No star in the skies, To thy door by Love lighted, I first saw those eyes.

Some voice whispered o'er me, As the threshold I crost, There was ruin before me, If I loved, I was lost.

Love came, and brought sorrow Too soon in his train; Yet so sweet, that to-morrow 'Twere welcome again.

Though misery's full measure My portion should be, I would drain it with pleasure, If poured out by thee.

You, who call it dishonor To bow to this flame, If you've eyes, look but on her, And blush while you blame.

Hath the pearl less whiteness Because of its birth?

Hath the violet less brightness For growing near earth?

No--Man for his glory To ancestry flies; But Woman's bright story Is told in her eyes.

While the Monarch but traces Thro' mortals his line, Beauty, born of the Graces, Banks next to Divine!

[1] "Thomas, the heir of the Desmond family, had accidentally been so engaged in the chase, that he was benighted near Tralee, and obliged to take shelter at the Abbey of Feal, in the house of one of his dependents, called Mac Cormac. Catherine, a beautiful daughter of his host, instantly inspired the Earl with a violent pa.s.sion, which he could not subdue. He married her, and by this inferior alliance alienated his followers, whose brutal pride regarded this indulgence of his love as an unpardonable degradation of his family."--_Leland_, vol. ii.

THEY KNOW NOT MY HEART.

They know not my heart, who believe there can be One stain of this earth in its feelings for thee; Who think, while I see thee in beauty's young hour, As pure as the morning's first dew on the flower, I could harm what I love,--as the sun's wanton ray But smiles on the dew-drop to waste it away.

No--beaming with light as those young features are, There's a light round thy heart which is lovelier far: It is not that cheek--'tis the soul dawning clear Thro' its innocent blush makes thy beauty so dear: As the sky we look up to, tho' glorious and fair, Is looked up to the more, because Heaven lies there!

I WISH I WAS BY THAT DIM LAKE.

I wish I was by that dim Lake,[1]

Where sinful souls their farewell take Of this vain world, and half-way lie In death's cold shadow, ere they die.

There, there, far from thee, Deceitful world, my home should be; Where, come what might of gloom and pain, False hope should ne'er deceive again.

The lifeless sky, the mournful sound Of unseen waters falling round; The dry leaves, quivering o'er my head, Like man, unquiet even when dead!

These, ay, these shall wean My soul from life's deluding scene, And turn each thought, o'ercharged with gloom, Like willows, downward towards the tomb.

As they, who to their couch at night Would win repose, first quench the light, So must the hopes, that keep this breast Awake, be quenched, ere it can rest.

Cold, cold, this heart must grow, Unmoved by either joy or woe, Like freezing founts, where all that's thrown Within their current turns to stone.

[1] These verses are meant to allude to that ancient haunt of superst.i.tion, called Patrick's Purgatory. "In the midst of these gloomy regions of Donegall (says Dr. Campbell) lay a lake, which was to become the mystic theatre of this fabled and intermediate state. In the lake were several islands; but one of them was dignified with that called the Mouth of Purgatory, which, during the dark ages, attracted the notice of all Christendom, and was the resort of penitents and pilgrims from almost every country in Europe."

SHE SUNG OF LOVE.

She sung of Love, while o'er her lyre The rosy rays of evening fell, As if to feed with their soft fire The soul within that trembling sh.e.l.l.

The same rich light hung o'er her cheek, And played around those lips that sung And spoke, as flowers would sing and speak, If Love could lend their leaves a tongue.

But soon the West no longer burned, Each rosy ray from heaven withdrew; And, when to gaze again I turned, The minstrel's form seemed fading too.

As if _her_ light and heaven's were one, The glory all had left that frame; And from her glimmering lips the tone, As from a parting spirit, came.

Who ever loved, but had the thought That he and all he loved must part?

Filled with this fear, I flew and caught The fading image to my heart-- And cried, "Oh Love! is this thy doom?

"Oh light of youth's resplendent day!

"Must ye then lose your golden bloom, "And thus, like suns.h.i.+ne, die away?"

SING--SING--MUSIC WAS GIVEN.

Sing--sing--Music was given, To brighten the gay, and kindle the loving; Souls here, like planets in Heaven, By harmony's laws alone are kept moving.

Beauty may boast of her eyes and her cheeks, But Love from the lips his true archery wings; And she, who but feathers the dart when she speaks, At once sends it home to the heart when she sings.

Then sing--sing--Music was given, To brighten the gay, and kindle the loving; Souls here, like planets in Heaven, By harmony's laws alone are kept moving.

When Love, rocked by his mother, Lay sleeping as calm as slumber could make him, "Hush, hush," said Venus, "no other "Sweet voice but his own is worthy to wake him."

Dreaming of music he slumbered the while Till faint from his lip a soft melody broke, And Venus, enchanted, looked on with a smile, While Love to his own sweet singing awoke.

Then sing--sing--Music was given, To brighten the gay, and kindle the loving; Souls here, like planets in Heaven, By harmony's laws alone are kept moving.