The Complete Poems of Sir Thomas Moore Part 16

From dread Leucadia's frowning steep, I'll plunge into the whitening deep: And there lie cold, to death resigned, Since Love intoxicates my mind!

Mix me, child, a cup divine, Crystal water, ruby wine; Weave the frontlet, richly flus.h.i.+ng O'er my wintry temples blus.h.i.+ng.

Mix the brimmer--Love and I Shall no more the contest try.

Here--upon this holy bowl, I surrender all my soul!

SONGS FROM THE GREEK ANTHOLOGY.

HERE AT THY TOMB.

BY MELEAGER.

Here, at thy tomb, these tears I shed, Tears, which though vainly now they roll, Are all love hath to give the dead, And wept o'er thee with all love's soul;--

Wept in remembrance of that light.

Which naught on earth, without thee, gives, Hope of my heart! now quenched in night, But dearer, dead, than aught that lives.

Where is she? where the blooming bough That once my life's sole l.u.s.tre made?

Torn off by death, 'tis withering now, And all its flowers in dust are laid.

Oh earth! that to thy matron breast Hast taken all those angel charms, Gently, I pray thee, let her rest,-- Gently, as in a mother's arms.

SALE OF CUPID.

BY MELEAGER.

Who'll buy a little boy? Look, yonder is he, Fast asleep, sly rogue on his mother's knee; So bold a young imp 'tisn't safe to keep, So I'll part with him now, while he's sound asleep.

See his arch little nose, how sharp 'tis curled, His wings, too, even in sleep unfurled; And those fingers, which still ever ready are found For mirth or for mischief, to tickle, or wound.

He'll try with his tears your heart to beguile, But never you mind--he's laughing all the while; For little he cares, so he has his own whim, And weeping or laughing are all one to him.

His eye is as keen as the lightning's flash, His tongue like the red bolt quick and rash; And so savage is he, that his own dear mother Is scarce more safe in his hands than another.

In short, to sum up this darling's praise, He's a downright pest in all sorts of ways; And if any one wants such an imp to employ, He shall have a dead bargain of this little boy.

But see, the boy wakes--his bright tears flow-- His eyes seem to ask could I sell him? oh no, Sweet child no, no--though so naughty you be, You shall live evermore with my Lesbia and me.

TO WEAVE A GARLAND FOR THE ROSE.

BY PAUL, THE SILENTIARY.

To weave a garland for the rose.

And think thus crown'd 'twould lovelier be, Were far less vain than to suppose That silks and gems add grace to thee.

Where is the pearl whose orient l.u.s.tre Would not, beside thee, look less bright?

What gold could match the glossy cl.u.s.ter Of those young ringlets full of light?

Bring from the land, where fresh it gleams, The bright blue gem of India's mine, And see how soon, though bright its beams, 'Twill pale before one glance of thine: Those lips, too, when their sounds have blest us With some divine, mellifluous air, Who would not say that Beauty's cestus Had let loose all its witcheries there?

Here, to this conquering host of charms I now give up my spell-bound heart.

Nor blush to yield even Reason's arms, When thou her bright-eyed conqueror art.

Thus to the wind all fears are given; Henceforth those eyes alone I see.

Where Hope, as in her own blue heaven, Sits beckoning me to bliss and thee!

WHY DOES SHE SO LONG DELAY?

BY PAUL, THE SILENTIARY.

Why does she so long delay?

Night is waning fast away; Thrice have I my lamp renewed, Watching here in solitude, Where can she so long delay?

Where, so long delay?

Vainly now have two lamps shone; See the third is nearly gone: Oh that Love would, like the ray Of that weary lamp, decay!

But no, alas, it burns still on, Still, still, burns on.

G.o.ds, how oft the traitress dear Swore, by Venus, she'd be here!

But to one so false as she What is man or deity?

Neither doth this proud one fear,-- No, neither doth she fear.