The Complete Poems of Sir Thomas Moore Part 96

ST. JEROME'S LOVE.

(AIR.--BEETHOVEN.)

Who is the Maid my spirit seeks, Thro' cold reproof and slander's blight?

Has _she_ Love's roses on her cheeks?

Is _hers_ an eye of this world's light?

No--wan and sunk with midnight prayer Are the pale looks of her I love; Or if at times a light be there, Its beam is kindled from above.

I chose not her, my heart's elect, From those who seek their Maker's shrine In gems and garlands proudly decked, As if themselves were things divine.

No--Heaven but faintly warms the breast That beats beneath a broidered veil; And she who comes in glittering vest To mourn her frailty, still is frail.

Not so the faded form I prize And love, because its bloom is gone; The glory in those sainted eyes Is all the grace _her_ brow puts on.

And ne'er was Beauty's dawn so bright, So touching as that form's decay, Which, like the altar's trembling light, In holy l.u.s.tre wastes away.

THIS WORLD IS ALL A FLEETING SHOW.

(AIR.--STEVENSON.)

This world is all a fleeting show, For man's illusion given; The smiles of joy, the tears of woe, Deceitful s.h.i.+ne, deceitful flow-- There's nothing true but Heaven!

And false the light on glory's plume, As fading hues of even; And love and hope, and beauty's bloom, Are blossoms gathered for the tomb-- There's nothing bright but Heaven!

Poor wanderers of a stormy day, From wave to wave we're driven, And fancy's flash and reason's ray Serve but to light the troubled way-- There's nothing calm but Heaven!

OH THOU WHO DRY'ST THE MOURNER'S TEAR.

(AIR.--HAYDN.)

"He healeth the broken in heart and bindeth up their wounds,"

--_Psalm_. cxlvii. 3.

Oh Thou who dry'st the mourner's tear, How dark this world would be, If, when deceived and wounded here, We could not fly to Thee.

The friends who in our suns.h.i.+ne live, When winter comes, are flown; And he who has but tears to give, Must weep those tears alone.

But Thou wilt heal that broken heart, Which, like the plants that throw Their fragrance from the wounded part, Breathes sweetness out of woe.

When joy no longer soothes or cheers, And even the hope that threw A moment's sparkle o'er our tears Is dimmed and vanished too, Oh, who would bear life's stormy doom, Did not thy Wing of Love Come, brightly wafting thro' the gloom Our Peace-branch from above?

Then sorrow, touched by Thee, grows bright With more than rapture's ray; As darkness shows us worlds of light We never saw by day!

WEEP NOT FOR THOSE.

(AIR.--AVISON.)

Weep not for those whom the veil of the tomb, In life's happy morning, hath hid from our eyes, Ere sin threw a blight o'er the spirit's young bloom, Or earth had profaned what was born for the skies.

Death chilled the fair fountain, ere sorrow had stained it; 'Twas frozen in all the pure light of its course, And but sleeps till the suns.h.i.+ne of Heaven has unchained it, To water that Eden where first was its source.

Weep not for those whom the veil of the tomb, In life's happy morning, hath hid from our eyes, Ere sin threw a blight o'er the spirit's young bloom, Or earth had profaned what was born for the skies.

Mourn not for her, the young Bride of the Vale,[1]

Our gayest and loveliest, lost to us now, Ere life's early l.u.s.tre had time to grow pale, And the garland of Love was yet fresh on her brow.

Oh, then was her moment, dear spirit, for flying From this gloomy world, while its gloom was unknown-- And the wild hymns she warbled so sweetly, in dying, Were echoed in Heaven by lips like her own.

Weep not for her--in her springtime she flew To that land where the wings of the soul are unfurled; And now, like a star beyond evening's cold dew, Looks radiantly down on the tears of this world.

[1] This second verse, which I wrote long after the first, alludes to the fate of a very lovely and amiable girl, the daughter of the late Colonel Bainbrigge, who was married in Ashbourne church, October 81, 1815, and died of a fever in a few weeks after. The sound of her marriage-bells seemed scarcely out of our ears when we heard of her death. During her last delirium she sung several hymns, in a voice even clearer and sweeter than usual, and among them were some from the present collection, (particularly, "There's nothing bright but Heaven,") which this very interesting girl had often heard me sing during the summer.

THE TURF SHALL BE MY FRAGRANT SHRINE.

(AIR.--STEVENSON.)

The turf shall be my fragrant shrine; My temple, LORD! that Arch of thine; My censer's breath the mountain airs, And silent thoughts my only prayers.

My choir shall be the moonlight waves, When murmuring homeward to their caves, Or when the stillness of the sea, Even more than music dreams of Thee!

I'll seek, by day, some glade unknown, All light and silence, like thy Throne; And the pale stars shall be, at night, The only eyes that watch my rite.

Thy Heaven, on which 'tis bliss to look, Shall be my pure and s.h.i.+ning book, Where I shall read, in words of flame, The glories of thy wondrous name.

I'll read thy anger in the rack That clouds awhile the day-beam's track; Thy mercy in the azure hue Of sunny brightness, breaking thro'.

There's nothing bright, above, below, From flowers that bloom to stars that glow, But in its light my soul can see Some feature of thy Deity:

There's nothing dark, below, above, But in its gloom I trace thy Love, And meekly wait that moment, when Thy touch shall turn all bright again!