The Complete Poems of Sir Thomas Moore Part 129

Oh, love like mine ne'er wants the zest Of others' envy, others' praise; But, in its silence safely blest, Broods o'er a bliss it ne'er betrays.

Charm of my life! by whose sweet power All cares are husht, all ills subdued-- My light in even the darkest hour, My crowd in deepest solitude!

No, not tho' heaven itself sent down Some maid of more than heavenly charms, With bliss undreamt thy bard to crown, Would he for her forsake those arms!

IMITATION.

FROM THE FRENCH.

With women and apples both Paris and Adam Made mischief enough in their day:-- G.o.d be praised that the fate of mankind, my dear Madam, Depends not on _us_, the same way.

For, weak as I am with temptation to grapple, The world would have doubly to rue thee:

Like Adam, I'd gladly take _from_ thee the apple, Like Paris, at once give it _to_ thee.

INVITATION TO DINNER.

ADDRESSED TO LORD LANSDOWNE.

September, 1818.

Some think we bards have nothing real; That poets live among the stars so, Their very dinners are ideal,-- (And, heaven knows, too oft they _are_ so,)-- For instance, that we have, instead Of vulgar chops and stews and hashes, First course--a Phoenix, at the head.

Done in its own celestial ashes; At foot, a cygnet which kept singing All the time its neck was wringing.

Side dishes, thus--Minerva's owl, Or any such like learned fowl: Doves, such as heaven's poulterer gets, When Cupid shoots his mother's pets.

Larks stewed in Morning's roseate breath, Or roasted by a sunbeam's splendor; And nightingales, berhymed to death-- Like young pigs whipt to make them tender.

Such fare may suit those bards, who are able To banquet at Duke Humphrey's table; But as for me, who've long been taught To eat and drink like other people; And can put up with mutton, bought Where Bromham[1] rears its ancient steeple-- If Lansdowne will consent to share My humble feast, tho' rude the fare, Yet, seasoned by that salt he brings From Attica's salinest springs, 'Twill turn to dainties;--while the cup, Beneath his influence brightening up, Like that of Baucis, touched by Jove, Will sparkle fit for G.o.ds above!

[1] A picturesque village in sight of my cottage, and from which it is separated out by a small verdant valley.

VERSES TO THE POET CRABBE'S INKSTAND.[1]

(WRITTEN MAY, 1832.)

All, as he left it!--even the pen, So lately at that mind's command, Carelessly lying, as if then Just fallen from his gifted hand.

Have we then lost him? scarce an hour, A little hour, seems to have past, Since Life and Inspiration's power Around that relic breathed their last.

Ah, powerless now--like talisman Found in some vanished wizard's halls, Whose mighty charm with him began, Whose charm with him extinguisht falls.

Yet, tho', alas! the gifts that shone Around that pen's exploring track, Be now, with its great master, gone, Nor living hand can call them back;

Who does not feel, while thus his eyes Rest on the enchanter's broken wand, Each earth-born spell it worked arise Before him in succession grand?

Grand, from the Truth that reigns o'er all; The unshrinking truth that lets her light Thro' Life's low, dark, interior fall, Opening the whole, severely bright:

Yet softening, as she frowns along, O'er scenes which angels weep to see-- Where Truth herself half veils the Wrong, In pity of the Misery.

True bard!--and simple, as the race Of true-born poets ever are, When, stooping from their starry place, They're children near, tho' G.o.ds afar.

How freshly doth my mind recall, 'Mong the few days I've known with thee, One that, most buoyantly of all, Floats in the wake of memory;[2]

When he, the poet, doubly graced, In life, as in his perfect strain, With that pure, mellowing power of Taste, Without which Fancy s.h.i.+nes in vain;

Who in his page will leave behind, Pregnant with genius tho' it be, But half the treasures of a mind, Where Sense o'er all holds mastery:--

Friend of long years! of friends.h.i.+p tried Thro' many a bright and dark event; In doubts, my judge--in taste, my guide-- In all, my stay and ornament!

He, too, was of our feast that day, And all were guests of one whose hand Hath shed a new and deathless ray Around the lyre of this great land;

In whose sea-odes--as in those sh.e.l.ls Where Ocean's voice of majesty Seems still to sound--immortal dwells Old Albion's Spirit of the Sea.

Such was our host; and tho', since then, Slight clouds have risen 'twixt him and me, Who would not grasp such hand again, Stretched forth again in amity?

Who can, in this short life, afford To let such mists a moment stay, When thus one frank, atoning word, Like suns.h.i.+ne, melts them all away?

Bright was our board that day--tho' _one_ Unworthy brother there had place; As 'mong the horses of the Sun, One was, they say, of earthly race.

Yet, _next_ to Genius is the power Of feeling where true Genius lies; And there was light around that hour Such as, in memory, never dies;

Light which comes o'er me as I gaze, Thou Relic of the Dead, on thee, Like all such dreams of vanisht days, Brightly, indeed--but mournfully!

[1] Soon after Mr. Crabbe's death, the sons of that gentleman did me the honor of presenting to me the inkstand, pencil, etc., which their distinguished father had long been in the habit of using.

[2] The lines that follow allude to a day pa.s.sed in company with Mr.

Crabbe, many years since, when a party, consisting only of Mr. Rogers, Mr.

Crabbe, and the author of these verses, had the pleasure of dining with Mr. Thomas Campbell, at his house at Sydenham.