The Complete Poems of Sir Thomas Moore Part 101

THERE IS A BLEAK DESERT.

(AIR.--CRESCENTINI.)

There is a bleak Desert, where daylight grows weary Of wasting its smile on a region so dreary-- What may that Desert be?

'Tis Life, cheerless Life, where the few joys that come Are lost, like that daylight, for 'tis not their home.

There is a lone Pilgrim, before whose faint eyes The water he pants for but sparkles and flies-- Who may that Pilgrim be?

'Tis Man, hapless Man, thro' this life tempted on By fair s.h.i.+ning hopes, that in s.h.i.+ning are gone.

There is a bright Fountain, thro' that Desert stealing To pure lips alone its refreshment revealing-- What may that Fountain be?

'Tis Truth, holy Truth, that, like springs under ground, By the gifted of Heaven alone can be found.

There is a fair Spirit whose wand hath the spell To point where those waters in secrecy dwell-- Who may that Spirit be?

'Tis Faith, humble Faith, who hath learned that where'er Her wand bends to wors.h.i.+p the Truth must be there!

SINCE FIRST THY WORD.

(AIR.--NICHOLAS FREEMAN.)

Since first Thy Word awaked my heart, Like new life dawning o'er me, Where'er I turn mine eyes, Thou art, All light and love before me.

Naught else I feel, or hear or see-- All bonds of earth I sever-- Thee, O G.o.d, and only Thee I live for, now and ever.

Like him whose fetters dropt away When light shone o'er his prison,[1]

My spirit, touched by Mercy's ray, Hath from her chains arisen.

And shall a soul Thou bidst be free, Return to bondage?--never!

Thee, O G.o.d, and only Thee I live for, now and ever.

[1] "And, behold, the angel of the Lord came upon him, and a light s.h.i.+ned in the prison...and his chains fell off from his hands."--_Acts_, xii. 7.

HARK! 'TIS THE BREEZE.

(AIR.--ROUSSEAU.)

Hark! 'tis the breeze of twilight calling; Earth's weary children to repose; While, round the couch of Nature falling, Gently the night's soft curtains close.

Soon o'er a world, in sleep reclining, Numberless stars, thro' yonder dark, Shall look, like eyes of Cherubs s.h.i.+ning From out the veils that hid the Ark.

Guard us, oh Thou, who never sleepest, Thou who in silence throned above, Throughout all time, unwearied, keepest Thy watch of Glory, Power, and Love.

Grant that, beneath thine eye, securely, Our souls awhile from life withdrawn May in their darkness stilly, purely, Like "sealed fountains," rest till dawn.

WHERE IS YOUR DWELLING, YE SAINTED?

(AIR.--Ha.s.sE.)

Where is your dwelling, ye Sainted?

Thro' what Elysium more bright Than fancy or hope ever painted, Walk ye in glory and light?

Who the same kingdom inherits?

Breathes there a soul that may dare Look to that world of Spirits, Or hope to dwell with you there?

Sages! who even in exploring Nature thro' all her bright ways, Went like the Seraphs adoring, And veiled your eyes in the blaze-- Martyrs! who left for our reaping Truths you had sown in your blood-- Sinners! whom, long years of weeping Chastened from evil to good--

Maidens! who like the young Crescent, Turning away your pale brows From earth and the light of the Present, Looked to your Heavenly Spouse-- Say, thro' what region enchanted Walk ye in Heaven's sweet air?

Say, to what spirits 'tis granted, Bright, souls, to dwell with you there?

HOW LIGHTLY MOUNTS THE MUSE'S WING.

(AIR--ANONYMOUS.)

How lightly mounts the Muse's wing, Whose theme is in the skies-- Like morning larks that sweeter sing The nearer Heaven they rise,

Tho' love his magic lyre may tune, Yet ah, the flowers he round it wreathes, Were plucked beneath pale Pa.s.sion's moon, Whose madness in their ode breathes.

How purer far the sacred lute, Round which Devotion ties Sweet flowers that turn to heavenly fruit, And palm that never dies.

Tho' War's high-sounding harp may be., Most welcome to the hero's ears, Alas, his chords of victory Are wet, all o'er, with human tears.

How far more sweet their numbers run, Who hymn like Saints above, No victor but the Eternal One, No trophies but of Love!