The Complete Poems of Sir Thomas Moore Part 131

Ere Psyche drank the cup that shed Immortal Life into her soul, Some evil spirit poured, 'tis said, One drop of Doubt into the bowl--

Which, mingling darkly with the stream, To Psyche's lips--she knew not why-- Made even that blessed nectar seem As tho' its sweetness soon would die.

Oft, in the very arms of Love, A chill came o'er her heart--a fear That Death might, even yet, remove Her spirit from that happy sphere.

"Those sunny ringlets," she exclaimed.

Twining them round her snowy fingers; "That forehead, where a light unnamed, "Unknown on earth, for ever lingers;

"Those lips, thro' which I feel the breath "Of Heaven itself, whene'er they sever-- "Say, are they mine, beyond all death, "My own, hereafter, and for ever?

"Smile not--I know that starry brow, "Those ringlets, and bright lips of thine, "Will always s.h.i.+ne, as they do now-- "But shall _I_ live to see them s.h.i.+ne?"

In vain did Love say, "Turn thine eyes "On all that sparkles round thee here-- "Thou'rt now in heaven where nothing dies, "And in these arms--what _canst_ thou fear?"

In vain--the fatal drop, that stole Into that cup's immortal treasure, Had lodged its bitter near her soul.

And gave a tinge to every pleasure.

And, tho' there ne'er was transport given Like Psyche's with that radiant boy, Here is the only face in heaven, That wears a cloud amid its joy.

A JOKE VERSIFIED.

"Come, come," said Tom's father, "at your time of life, "There's no longer excuse for thus playing the rake-- "It is time you should think, boy, of taking a wife"-- "Why, so it is, father--whose wife shall I take?"

ON THE DEATH OF A FRIEND.

Pure as the mantle, which, o'er him who stood By Jordan's stream, descended from the sky, Is that remembrance which the wise and good Leave in the hearts that love them, when they die.

So pure, so precious shall the memory be, Bequeathed, in dying, to our souls by thee-- So shall the love we bore thee, cherisht warm Within our souls thro' grief and pain and strife, Be, like Elisha's cruse, a holy charm, Wherewith to "heal the waters" of this life!

TO JAMES CORRY, ESQ.

ON HIS MAKING ME A PRESENT OF A WINE STRAINER.

BRIGHTON, JUNE, 1825.

This life, dear Corry, who can doubt?-- Resembles much friend Ewart's[1] wine, When _first_ the rosy drops come out, How beautiful, how clear they s.h.i.+ne!

And thus awhile they keep their tint, So free from even a shade with some, That they would smile, did you but hint, That darker drops would _ever_ come.

But soon the ruby tide runs short, Each minute makes the sad truth plainer, Till life, like old and crusty port, When near its close, requires a strainer.

_This_ friends.h.i.+p can alone confer, Alone can teach the drops to pa.s.s, If not as bright as _once_ they were, At least unclouded, thro' the gla.s.s.

Nor, Corry, could a boon be mine.

Of which this heart were fonder, vainer, Than thus, if life grow like old wine, To have _thy_ friends.h.i.+p for its strainer.

[1] A wine-merchant.

FRAGMENT OF A CHARACTER.

Here lies Factotum Ned at last; Long as he breathed the vital air, Nothing throughout all Europe past In which Ned hadn't some small share.

Whoe'er was _in_, whoe'er was _out_, Whatever statesmen did or said, If not exactly brought about, 'Twas all, at least, contrived by Ned.

With Nap, if Russia went to war, 'Twas owing, under Providence, To certain hints Ned gave the Tsar-- (Vide his pamphlet--price, sixpence.)

If France was beat at Waterloo-- As all but Frenchmen think she was-- To Ned, as Wellington well knew, Was owing half that day's applause.

Then for his news--no envoy's bag E'er past so many secrets thro' it; Scarcely a telegraph could wag Its wooden finger, but Ned knew it.

Such tales he had of foreign plots, With foreign names, one's ear to buzz in!

From Russia, _shefs_ and _ofs_ in lots, From Poland, _owskis_ by the dozen.

When George, alarmed for England's creed, Turned out the last Whig ministry, And men asked--who advised the deed?

Ned modestly confest 'twas he.

For tho', by some unlucky miss, He had not downright _seen_ the King, He sent such hints thro' Viscount _This_, To Marquis _That_, as clenched the thing.

The same it was in science, arts, The Drama, Books, MS. and printed-- Kean learned from Ned his cleverest parts, And Scott's last work by him was hinted.

Childe Harold in the proofs he read, And, here and there infused some soul in't-- Nay, Davy's Lamp, till seen by Ned, Had--odd enough--an awkward hole in't.

'Twas thus, all-doing and all-knowing, Wit, statesman, boxer, chymist, singer, Whatever was the best pie going, In _that_ Ned--trust him--had his finger.