The Complete Poems of Sir Thomas Moore Part 124

DREAMING FOR EVER.

Dreaming for ever, vainly dreaming, Life to the last, pursues its flight; Day hath its visions fairly beaming, But false as those of night.

The one illusion, the other real, But both the same brief dreams at last; And when we grasp the bliss ideal, Soon as it s.h.i.+nes, 'tis past.

Here, then, by this dim lake reposing, Calmly I'll watch, while light and gloom Flit o'er its face till night is closing-- Emblem of life's short doom!

But tho', by turns, thus dark and s.h.i.+ning, 'Tis still unlike man's changeful day, Whose light returns not, once declining, Whose cloud, once come, will stay.

THO' LIGHTLY SOUNDS THE SONG I SING.

A SONG OF THE ALPS.

Tho' lightly sounds the song I sing to thee, Tho' like the lark's its soaring music be, Thou'lt find even here some mournful note that tells How near such April joy to weeping dwells.

'Tis 'mong the gayest scenes that oftenest steal Those saddening thoughts we fear, yet love to feel; And music never half so sweet appears, As when her mirth forgets itself in tears.

Then say not thou this Alpine song is gay-- It comes from hearts that, like their mountain-lay, Mix joy with pain, and oft when pleasure's breath Most warms the surface feel most sad beneath.

The very beam in which the snow-wreath wears Its gayest smile is that which wins its tears,-- And pa.s.sion's power can never lend the glow Which wakens bliss, without some touch of woe.

THE RUSSIAN LOVER.

Fleetly o'er the moonlight snows Speed we to my lady's bower; Swift our sledge as lightning goes, Nor shall stop till morning's hour.

Bright, my steed, the northern star Lights us from yon jewelled skies; But to greet us, brighter far, Morn shall bring my lady's eyes.

Lovers, lulled in sunny bowers, Sleeping out their dream of time, Know not half the bliss that's ours, In this snowy, icy clime.

Like yon star that livelier gleams From the frosty heavens around, Love himself the keener beams When with snows of coyness crowned.

Fleet then on, my merry steed, Bound, my sledge, o'er hill and dale;-- What can match a lover's speed?

See, 'tis daylight, breaking pale!

Brightly hath the northern star Lit us from yon radiant Skies; But, behold, how brighter far Yonder s.h.i.+ne my lady's eyes!

A SELECTION FROM THE SONGS IN

M. P.; OR, THE BLUE-STOCKING:

A COMIC OPERA IN THREE ACTS.

1811.

BOAT GLEE.

The song that lightens the languid way, When brows are glowing, And faint with rowing, Is like the spell of Hope's airy lay, To whose sound thro' life we stray; The beams that flash on the oar awhile, As we row along thro' the waves so clear, Illume its spray, like the fleeting smile That s.h.i.+nes o'er sorrow's tear.

Nothing is lost on him who sees With an eye that feeling gave;-- For him there's a story in every breeze, And a picture in every wave.

Then sing to lighten the languid way; When brows are glowing, And faint with rowing, 'Tis like the spell of Hope's airy lay, To whose sound thro' life we stray.

'Tis sweet to behold when the billows are sleeping, Some gay-colored bark moving gracefully by; No damp on her deck but the eventide's weeping, No breath in her sails but the summer wind's sigh.

Yet who would not turn with a fonder emotion, To gaze on the life-boat, tho' rugged and worn.

Which often hath wafted o'er hills of the ocean The lost light of hope to the seaman forlorn!

Oh! grant that of those who in life's sunny slumber Around us like summer-barks idly have played, When storms are abroad we may find in the number One friend, like the life-boat, to fly to our aid.

When Lelia touched the lute, Not _then_ alone 'twas felt, But when the sounds were mute, In memory still they dwelt.

Sweet lute! in nightly slumbers Still we heard thy morning numbers.

Ah, how could she who stole Such breath from simple wire, Be led, in pride of soul, To string with gold her lyre?

Sweet lute! thy chords she breaketh; Golden now the strings she waketh!

But where are all the tales Her lute so sweetly told?

In lofty themes she fails, And soft ones suit not gold.

Rich lute! we see thee glisten, But, alas! no more we listen!

Young Love lived once in a humble shed, Where roses breathing And woodbines wreathing Around the lattice their tendrils spread, As wild and sweet as the life he led.

His garden flourisht, For young Hope nourisht.

The infant buds with beams and showers; But lips, tho' blooming, must still be fed, And not even Love can live on flowers.

Alas! that Poverty's evil eye Should e'er come hither, Such sweets to wither!

The flowers laid down their heads to die, And Hope fell sick as the witch drew nigh.