The Complete Poems of Sir Thomas Moore Part 145

Thy name, by myriads sung and said, From age to age shall go, Long as the oak and ivy wed, As bees shall haunt Hymettus' head, Or h.e.l.le's waters flow.

Thou art not dead--thou art not dead!

No, dearest Harmodius, no.

'Mong those who lingered listening there,-- Listening with ear and eye as long As breath of night could towards them bear A murmur of that mournful song,-- A few there were in whom the lay Had called up feelings far too sad To pa.s.s with the brief strain away, Or turn at once to theme more glad; And who in mood untuned to meet The light laugh of the happie train, Wandered to seek some moonlight seat Where they might rest, in converse sweet, Till vanisht smiles should come again.

And seldom e'er hath noon of night To sadness lent more soothing light.

On one side in the dark blue sky Lonely and radiant was the eye Of Jove himself, while on the other 'Mong tiny stars that round her gleamed, The young moon like the Roman mother Among her living "jewels" beamed.

Touched by the lovely scenes around, A pensive maid--one who, tho' young, Had known what 'twas to see unwound The ties by which her heart had clung-- Wakened her soft tamboura's sound, And to its faint accords thus sung:--

SONG.

Calm as beneath its mother's eyes In sleep the smiling infant lies, So watched by all the stars of night Yon landscape sleeps in light.

And while the night-breeze dies away, Like relics of some faded strain, Loved voices, lost for many a day, Seem whispering round again.

Oh youth! oh love! ye dreams that shed Such glory once--where are ye fled?

Pure ray of light that down the sky Art pointing like an angel's wand, As if to guide to realms that lie In that bright sea beyond: Who knows but in some brighter deep Than even that tranquil, moonlit main, Some land may lie where those who weep Shall wake to smile again!

With cheeks that had regained their power And play of smiles,--and each bright eye Like violets after morning's shower The brighter for the tears gone by, Back to the scene such smiles should grace These wandering nymphs their path retrace, And reach the spot with rapture new Just as the veils asunder flew And a fresh vision burst to view.

There by her own bright Attic flood, The blue-eyed Queen of Wisdom stood;-- Not as she haunts the sage's dreams, With brow unveiled, divine, severe; But softened as on bards she beams When fresh from Poesy's high sphere A music not her own she brings, And thro' the veil which Fancy flings O'er her stern features gently sings.

But who is he--that urchin nigh, With quiver on the rose-trees hung, Who seems just dropt from yonder sky, And stands to watch that maid with eye So full of thought for one so young?-- That child--but, silence! lend thine ear, And thus in song the tale thou'lt hear:--

SONG.

As Love one summer eve was straying, Who should he see at that soft hour But young Minerva gravely playing Her flute within an olive bower.

I need not say, 'tis Love's opinion That grave or merry, good or ill, The s.e.x all bow to his dominion, As woman will be woman still.

Tho' seldom yet the boy hath given To learned dames his smiles or sighs, So handsome Pallas looked that even Love quite forgot the maid was wise.

Besides, a youth of his discerning Knew well that by a shady rill At sunset hour whate'er her learning A woman will be woman still.

Her flute he praised in terms extatic,-- Wis.h.i.+ng it dumb, nor cared how soon.-- For Wisdom's notes, howe'er chromatic, To Love seem always out of tune.

But long as he found face to flatter, The nymph found breath to shake and thrill; As, weak or wise--it doesn't matter-- Woman at heart is woman still.

Love changed his plan, with warmth exclaiming, "How rosy was her lips' soft dye!"

And much that flute the flatterer blaming, For twisting lips so sweet awry.

The nymph looked down, beheld her features Reflected in the pa.s.sing rill, And started, shocked--for, ah, ye creatures!

Even when divine you're women still.

Quick from the lips it made so odious.

That graceless flute the G.o.ddess took And while yet filled with breath melodious, Flung it into the gla.s.sy brook; Where as its vocal life was fleeting Adown the current, faint and shrill, 'Twas heard in plaintive tone repeating, "Woman, alas, vain woman still!"

An interval of dark repose-- Such as the summer lightning knows, Twixt flash and flash, as still more bright The quick revealment comes and goes, Opening each time the veils of night, To show within a world of light-- Such pause, so brief, now past between This last gay vision and the scene Which now its depth of light disclosed.

A bower it seemed, an Indian bower, Within whose shade a nymph reposed, Sleeping away noon's sunny hour-- Lovely as she, the Sprite, who weaves Her mansion of sweet Durva leaves, And there, as Indian legends say, Dreams the long summer hours away.

And mark how charmed this sleeper seems With some hid fancy--she, too, dreams!

Oh for a wizard's art to tell The wonders that now bless her sight!

'Tis done--a truer, holier spell Than e'er from wizard's lip yet fell.

Thus brings her vision all to light:--

SONG.

"Who comes so gracefully "Gliding along "While the blue rivulet "Sleeps to her song; "Song richly vying "With the faint sighing "Which swans in dying "Sweetly prolong?"

So sung the shepherd-boy By the stream's side, Watching that fairy-boat Down the flood glide, Like a bird winging, Thro' the waves bringing That Syren, singing To the husht tide.

"Stay," said the shepherd-boy, "Fairy-boat, stay, "Linger, sweet minstrelsy, "Linger a day."

But vain his pleading, Past him, unheeding, Song and boat, speeding, Glided away.

So to our youthful eyes Joy and hope shone; So while we gazed on them Fast they flew on;-- Like flowers declining Even in the twining, One moment s.h.i.+ning.

And the next gone!

Soon as the imagined dream went by, Uprose the nymph, with anxious eye Turned to the clouds as tho' some boon She waited from that sun-bright dome, And marvelled that it came not soon As her young thoughts would have it come.

But joy is in her glance!--the wing Of a white bird is seen above; And oh, if round his neck he bring The long-wished tidings from her love, Not half so precious in her eyes Even that high-omened bird[26] would be.

Who dooms the brow o'er which he flies To wear a crown of royalty.

She had herself last evening sent A winged messenger whose flight Thro' the clear, roseate element, She watched till lessening out of sight Far to the golden West it went, Wafting to him, her distant love, A missive in that language wrought Which flowers can speak when aptly wove, Each hue a word, each leaf a thought.

And now--oh speed of pinion, known To Love's light messengers alone I-- Ere yet another evening takes Its farewell of the golden lakes, She sees another envoy fly, With the wished answer, thro' the sky.

SONG.

Welcome sweet bird, thro' the sunny air winging, Swift hast thou come o'er the far-s.h.i.+ning sea, Like Seba's dove on thy snowy neck bringing Love's written vows from my lover to me.

Oh, in thy absence what hours did I number!-- Saying oft, "Idle bird, how could he rest?"

But thou art come at last, take now thy slumber, And lull thee in dreams of all thou lov'st best.

Yet dost thou droop--even now while I utter Love's happy welcome, thy pulse dies away; Cheer thee, my bird--were it life's ebbing flutter.

This fondling bosom should woo it to stay, But no--thou'rt dying--thy last task is over-- Farewell, sweet martyr to Love and to me!

The smiles thou hast wakened by news from my lover, Will now all be turned into weeping for thee.

While thus this scene of song (their last For the sweet summer season) past, A few presiding nymphs whose care Watched over all invisibly, As do those guardian sprites of air Whose watch we feel but cannot see, Had from the circle--scarcely missed, Ere they were sparkling there again-- Glided like fairies to a.s.sist Their handmaids on the moonlight plain, Where, hid by intercepting shade From the stray glance of curious eyes, A feast of fruits and wines was laid-- Soon to s.h.i.+ne out, a glad surprise!

And now the moon, her ark of light Steering thro' Heaven, as tho' she bore In safety thro' that deep of night Spirits of earth, the good, the bright, To some remote immortal sh.o.r.e, Had half-way sped her glorious way, When round reclined on hillocks green In groups beneath that tranquil ray, The Zeans at their feast were seen.