The Complete Poems of Sir Thomas Moore Part 30

RONDEAU.

"Good night! good night!"--And is it so?

And must I from my Rosa go?

Oh Rosa, say "Good night!" once more, And I'll repeat it o'er and o'er, Till the first glance of dawning light Shall find us saying, still, "Good night."

And still "Good night," my Rosa, say-- But whisper still, "A minute stay;"

And I will stay, and every minute Shall have an age of transport in it; Till Time himself shall stay his flight, To listen to our sweet "Good night."

"Good night!" you'll murmur with a sigh, And tell me it is time to fly: And I will vow, will swear to go, While still that sweet voice murmurs "No!"

Till slumber seal our weary sight-- And then, my love, my soul, "Good night!"

SONG.

Why does azure deck the sky?

'Tis to be like thy looks of blue.

Why is red the rose's dye?

Because it is thy blushes' hue.

All that's fair, by Love's decree, Has been made resembling thee!

Why is falling snow so white, But to be like thy bosom fair!

Why are solar beams so bright?

That they may seem thy golden hair!

All that's bright, by Love's decree, Has been made resembling thee!

Why are nature's beauties felt?

Oh! 'tis thine in her we see!

Why has music power to melt?

Oh! because it speaks like thee.

All that's sweet, by Love's decree, Has been made resembling thee!

TO ROSA.

Like one who trusts to summer skies, And puts his little bark to sea, Is he who, lured by smiling eyes, Consigns his simple heart to thee.

For fickle is the summer wind, And sadly may the bark be tost; For thou art sure to change thy mind, And then the wretched heart is lost!

WRITTEN IN A COMMONPLACE BOOK, CALLED "THE BOOK OF FOLLIES;"

IN WHICH EVERY ONE THAT OPENED IT WAS TO CONTRIBUTE SOMETHING.

TO THE BOOK OF FOLLIES.

This tribute's from a wretched elf, Who hails thee, emblem of himself.

The book of life, which I have traced, Has been, like thee, a motley waste Of follies scribbled o'er and o'er, One folly bringing hundreds more.

Some have indeed been writ so neat, In characters so fair, so sweet, That those who judge not too severely, Have said they loved such follies dearly!

Yet still, O book! the allusion stands; For these were penned by _female_ hands: The rest--alas! I own the truth-- Have all been scribbled so uncouth That Prudence, with a withering look, Disdainful, flings away the book.

Like thine, its pages here and there Have oft been stained with blots of care; And sometimes hours of peace, I own, Upon some fairer leaves have shone, White as the snowings of that heaven By which those hours of peace were given; But now no longer--such, oh, such The blast of Disappointment's touch!-- No longer now those hours appear; Each leaf is sullied by a tear: Blank, blank is every page with care, Not even a folly brightens there.

Will they yet brighten?--never, never!

Then _shut the book_, O G.o.d, for ever!

TO ROSA.

Say, why should the girl of my soul be in tears At a meeting of rapture like this, When the glooms of the past and the sorrow of years Have been paid by one moment of bliss?

Are they shed for that moment of blissful delight, Which dwells on her memory yet?

Do they flow, like the dews of the love-breathing night, From the warmth of the sun that has set?

Oh! sweet is the tear on that languis.h.i.+ng smile, That smile, which is loveliest then; And if such are the drops that delight can beguile, Thou shalt weep them again and again.

LIGHT SOUNDS THE HARP.

Light sounds the harp when the combat is over, When heroes are resting, and joy is in bloom; When laurels hang loose from the brow of the lover, And Cupid makes wings of the warrior's plume.

But, when the foe returns, Again the hero burns; High flames the sword in his hand once more: The clang of mingling arms Is then the sound that charms, And brazen notes of war, that stirring trumpets pour;-- Then, again comes the Harp, when the combat is over-- When heroes are resting, and Joy is in bloom-- When laurels hang loose from the brow of the lover, And Cupid makes wings of the warrior's plume.

Light went the harp when the War-G.o.d, reclining, Lay lulled on the white arm of Beauty to rest, When round his rich armor the myrtle hung twining, And flights of young doves made his helmet their nest.

But, when the battle came, The hero's eye breathed flame: Soon from his neck the white arm was flung; While, to his waking ear, No other sounds were dear But brazen notes of war, by thousand trumpets sung.