The Complete Poems of Sir Thomas Moore Part 125

She came one morning.

Ere Love had warning, And raised the latch, where the young G.o.d lay; "Oh ho!" said Love--"is it you? good-by;"

So he oped the window and flew away!

Spirit of Joy, thy altar lies In youthful hearts that hope like mine; And 'tis the light of laughing eyes That leads us to thy fairy shrine.

There if we find the sigh, the tear, They are not those to sorrow known; But breathe so soft, and drop so clear, That bliss may claim them for her own.

Then give me, give me, while I weep, The sanguine hope that brightens woe, And teaches even our tears to keep The tinge of pleasure as they flow.

The child who sees the dew of night Upon the spangled hedge at morn, Attempts to catch the drops of light, But wounds his finger with the thorn.

Thus oft the brightest joys we seek, Are lost when touched, and turned to pain; The flush they kindle leaves the cheek, The tears they waken long remain.

But give me, give me, etc.

To sigh, yet feel no pain.

To weep, yet scarce know why; To sport an hour with Beauty's chain, Then throw it idly by; To kneel at many a shrine, Yet lay the heart on none; To think all other charms divine, But those we just have won; This is love, careless love, Such as kindleth hearts that rove.

To keep one sacred flame, Thro' life unchilled, unmoved, To love in wintry age the same As first in youth we loved; To feel that we adore To such refined excess.

That tho' the heart would break with _more_, We could not live with _less_; This is love, faithful love, Such as saints might feel above.

Dear aunt, in the olden time of love, When women like slaves were spurned, A maid gave her heart, as she would her glove, To be teased by a fop, and returned!

But women grow wiser as men improve.

And, tho' beaux, like monkeys, amuse us, Oh! think not we'd give such a delicate gem As the heart to be played with or sullied by them; No, dearest aunt, excuse us.

We may know by the head on Cupid's seal What impression the heart will take; If shallow the head, oh! soon we feel What a poor impression 'twill make!

Tho' plagued, Heaven knows! by the foolish zeal Of the fondling fop who pursues me, Oh, think not I'd follow their desperate rule, Who get rid of the folly by wedding the fool; No, dearest aunt! excuse me.

When Charles was deceived by the maid he loved, We saw no cloud his brow o'er-casting, But proudly he smiled as if gay and unmoved, Tho' the wound in his heart was deep and lasting.

And oft at night when the tempest rolled He sung as he paced the dark deck over-- "Blow, wind, blow! thou art not so cold As the heart of a maid that deceives her lover."

Yet he lived with the happy and seemed to be gay, Tho' the wound but sunk more deep for concealing; And Fortune threw many a thorn in his way, Which, true to one anguish, he trod without feeling!

And still by the frowning of Fate unsubdued He sung as if sorrow had placed him above her-- "Frown, Fate, frown! thou art not so rude As the heart of a maid that deceives her lover."

At length his career found a close in death, The close he long wished to his cheerless roving, For Victory shone on his latest breath, And he died in a cause of his heart's approving.

But still he remembered his sorrow,--and still He sung till the vision of life was over-- "Come, death, come! thou art not so chill As the heart of a maid that deceives her lover."

When life looks lone and dreary, What light can dispel the gloom?

When Time's swift wing grows weary, What charm can refresh his plume?

'Tis woman whose sweetness beameth O'er all that we feel or see; And if man of heaven e'er dreameth, 'Tis when he thinks purely of thee, O woman!

Let conquerors fight for glory, Too dearly the meed they gain; Let patriots live in story-- Too often they die in vain; Give kingdoms to those who choose 'em, This world can offer to me No throne like Beauty's bosom, No freedom like serving thee, O woman!

CUPID'S LOTTERY.

A lottery, a Lottery, In Cupid's court there used to be; Two roguish eyes The highest prize In Cupid's scheming Lottery; And kisses, too, As good as new, Which weren't very hard to win, For he who won The eyes of fun Was sure to have the kisses in A Lottery, a Lottery, etc.

This Lottery, this Lottery, In Cupid's court went merrily, And Cupid played A Jewish trade In this his scheming Lottery; For hearts, we're told, In _shares_ he sold To many a fond believing drone, And cut the hearts In sixteen parts So well, each thought the whole his own.

_Chor_.--A Lottery, a Lottery, etc.

Tho' sacred the tie that our country entwineth, And dear to the heart her remembrance remains, Yet dark are the ties where no liberty s.h.i.+neth, And sad the remembrance that slavery stains.

O thou who wert born in the cot of the peasant, But diest in languor in luxury's dome, Our vision when absent--our glory, when present-- Where thou art, O Liberty! there is my home.

Farewell to the land where in childhood I've wandered!

In vain is she mighty, in vain, is she brave!

Unblest is the blood that for tyrants is squandered, And fame has no wreaths for the brow of the slave.

But hail to thee, Albion! who meet'st the commotion.

Of Europe as calm as thy cliffs meet the foam!

With no bonds but the law, and no slave but the ocean, Hail, Temple of Liberty! thou art my home.

Oh think, when a hero is sighing, What danger in such an adorer!

What woman can dream' of denying The hand that lays laurels before her?

No heart is so guarded around, But the smile of the victor will take it; No bosom can slumber so sound, But the trumpet of glory will wake it.

Love sometimes is given to sleeping, And woe to the heart that allows him; For oh, neither smiling nor weeping Has power at those moments to rouse him.

But tho' he was sleeping so fast, That the life almost seemed to forsake him, Believe me, one soul-thrilling blast From the trumpet of glory would wake him.

Mr. Orator Puff had two tones in his voice, The one squeaking thus, and the other down so!

In each sentence he uttered he gave you your choice, For one was B alt, and the rest G below.

Oh! oh, Orator Puff!

One voice for one orator's surely enough.

But he still talked away spite of coughs and of frowns, So distracting all ears with his ups and his downs, That a wag once on hearing the orator say, "My voice is for war," asked him, "Which of them, pray?"

Oh! oh! etc.

Reeling homewards one evening, top-heavy with gin, And rehearsing his speech on the weight of the crown, He tript near a sawpit, and tumbled right in, "Sinking Fund," the last words as his noddle came down.

Oh! oh, etc.

"Help! help!" he exclaimed, in his he and she tones, "Help me out! help me out--I have broken my bones!"

"Help you out?" said a Paddy who pa.s.sed, "what a bother!