The Complete Poems of Sir Thomas Moore Part 48

I thought of those days, when to pleasure alone My heart ever granted a wish or a sigh; When the saddest emotion my bosom had known, Was pity for those who were wiser than I.

I reflected, how soon in the cup of Desire The pearl of the soul may be melted away; How quickly, alas, the pure sparkle of fire We inherit from heaven, may be quenched in the clay;

And I prayed of that Spirit who lighted the flame, That Pleasure no more might its purity dim; So that, sullied but little, or brightly the same, I might give back the boon I had borrowed from Him.

How blest was the thought! it appeared as if Heaven Had already an opening to Paradise shown; As if, pa.s.sion all chastened and error forgiven, My heart then began to be purely its own.

I looked to the west, and the beautiful sky Which morning had clouded, was clouded no more: "Oh! thus," I exclaimed, "may a heavenly eye "Shed light on the soul that was darkened before."

TO THE FLYING-FISH.[1]

When I have seen thy snow-white wing From the blue wave at evening spring, And show those scales of silvery white, So gayly to the eye of light, As if thy frame were formed to rise, And live amid the glorious skies; Oh! it has made me proudly feel, How like thy wing's impatient zeal Is the pure soul, that rests not, pent Within this world's gross element, But takes the wing that G.o.d has given, And rises into light and heaven!

But, when I see that wing, so bright, Grow languid with a moment's flight, Attempt the paths of air in vain, And sink into the waves again; Alas! the flattering pride is o'er; Like thee, awhile, the soul may soar, But erring man must blush to think, Like thee, again, the soul may sink.

Oh Virtue! when thy clime I seek, Let not my spirit's flight be weak; Let me not, like this feeble thing, With brine still dropping from its wing, Just sparkle in the solar glow And plunge again to depths below; But, when I leave the grosser throng With whom my soul hath dwelt so long, Let me, in that aspiring day, Cast every lingering stain away, And, panting for thy purer air, Fly up at once and fix me there.

[1] It is the opinion of St. Austin upon Genesis, and I believe of nearly all the Fathers, that birds, like fish, were originally produced from the waters; in defence of which idea they have collected every fanciful circ.u.mstance which can tend to prove a kindred similitude between them.

With this thought in our minds, when we first see the Flying-Fish, we could almost fancy, that we are present at the moment of creation, and witness the birth of the first bird from the waves.

TO MISS MOORE.

FROM NORFOLK, IN VIRGINIA, NOVEMBER, 1803.

In days, my Kate, when life was new, When, lulled with innocence and you, I heard, in home's beloved shade, The din the world at distance made; When, every night my weary head Sunk on its own unthorned bed, And, mild as evening's matron hour, Looks on the faintly shutting flower, A mother saw our eyelids close, And blest them into pure repose; Then, haply if a week, a day, I lingered from that home away, How long the little absence seemed!

How bright the look of welcome beamed, As mute you heard, with eager smile, My tales of all that past the while!

Yet now, my Kate, a gloomy sea Bolls wide between that home and me; The moon may thrice be born and die, Ere even that seal can reach mine eye.

Which used so oft, so quick to come, Still breathing all the breath of home,-- As if, still fresh, the cordial air From lips beloved were lingering there.

But now, alas,--far different fate!

It comes o'er ocean, slow and late, When the dear hand that filled its fold With words of sweetness may lie cold.

But hence that gloomy thought! at last, Beloved Kate, the waves are past; I tread on earth securely now, And the green cedar's living bough Breathes more refreshment to my eyes Than could a Claude's divinest dyes.

At length I touch the happy sphere To liberty and virtue dear, Where man looks up, and, proud to claim His rank within the social frame, Sees a grand system round him roll, Himself its centre, sun, and soul!

Far from the shocks of Europe--far From every wild, elliptic star That, shooting with a devious fire, Kindled by heaven's avenging ire, So oft hath into chaos hurled The systems of the ancient world.

The warrior here, in arms no more Thinks of the toil, the conflict o'er, And glorying in the freedom won For hearth and shrine, for sire and son, Smiles on the dusky webs that hide His sleeping sword's remembered pride.

While Peace, with sunny cheeks of toil, Walks o'er the free, unlorded soil, Effacing with her splendid share The drops that war had sprinkled there.

Thrice happy land! where he who flies From the dark ills of other skies, From scorn, or want's unnerving woes.

May shelter him in proud repose; Hope sings along the yellow sand His welcome to a patriot land: The mighty wood, with pomp, receives The stranger in its world of leaves, Which soon their barren glory yield To the warm shed and cultured field; And he, who came, of all bereft, To whom malignant fate had left Nor hope nor friends nor country dear, Finds home and friends and country here.

Such is the picture, warmly such, That Fancy long, with florid touch.

Had painted to my sanguine eye Of man's new world of liberty.

Oh! ask me not, if Truth have yet Her seal on Fancy's promise set; If even a glimpse my eyes behold Of that imagined age of gold;-- Alas, not yet one gleaming trace![1]

Never did youth, who loved a face As sketched by some fond pencil's skill, And made by fancy lovelier still, Shrink back with more of sad surprise, When the live model met his eyes, Than I have felt, in sorrow felt, To find a dream on which I've dwelt From boyhood's hour, thus fade and flee At touch of stern reality!

But, courage, yet, my wavering heart!

Blame not the temple's meanest part,[2]

Till thou hast traced the fabric o'er;-- As yet, we have beheld no more Than just the porch to Freedom's fame; And, though a sable spot may stain The vestibule, 'tis wrong, 'tis sin To doubt the G.o.dhead reigns within!

So here I pause--and now, my Kate, To you, and those dear friends, whose fate Touches more near this home-sick soul Than all the Powers from pole to pole, One word at parting,--in the tone Most sweet to you, and most my own, The simple strain I send you here, Wild though it be, would charm your ear, Did you but know the trance of thought In which my mind its numbers caught.

'Twas one of those half-waking dreams, That haunt me oft, when music seems To bear my soul in sound along, And turn its feelings all to song.

I thought of home, the according lays Came full of dreams of other days; Freshly in each succeeding note I found some young remembrance float, Till following, as a clue, that strain I wandered back to home, again.

Oh! love the song, and let it oft Live on your lip, in accents soft.

Say that it tells you, simply well, All I have bid its wild notes tell,-- Of Memory's dream, of thoughts that yet Glow with the light of joy that's set, And all the fond heart keeps in store Of friends and scenes beheld no more.

And now, adieu!--this artless air, With a few rhymes, in transcript fair, Are all the gifts I yet can boast To send you from Columbia's coast; But when the sun, with warmer smile.

Shall light me to my destined isle.[3]

You shall have many a cowslip-bell, Where Ariel slept, and many a sh.e.l.l, In which that gentle spirit drew From honey flowers the morning dew.

[1] Such romantic works as "The American Farmer's Letters," and the account of Kentucky by Imlay, would seduce us into a belief, that innocence, peace, and freedom had deserted the rest of the world for Martha's Vineyard and the banks of the Ohio.

[2] Norfolk, it must be owned, presents an unfavorable specimen of America. The characteristics of Virginia in general are not such as can delight either the politician or the moralist, and at Norfolk they are exhibited in their least attractive form. At the time when we arrived the yellow fever had not yet disappeared, and every odor that a.s.sailed us in the streets very strongly accounted for its visitation.

[3] Bermuda.

A BALLAD.

THE LAKE OF THE DISMAL SWAMP.

WRITTEN AT NORFOLK, IN VIRGINIA.

"They tell of a young man, who lost his mind upon the death of a girl he loved, and who, suddenly disappearing from his friends, was never afterwards heard of. As he had frequently said, in his ravings, that the girl was not dead, but gone to the Dismal Swamp, it is supposed he had wandered into that dreary wilderness, and had died of hunger, or been lost in some of its dreadful mora.s.ses."--Anon.

_"La Poesie a ses monstres comme la nature."_ D'ALEMBERT.

"They made her a grave, too cold and damp "For a soul so warm and true; "And she's gone to the Lake of the Dismal Swamp,[1]

"Where, all night long, by a firefly lamp, "She paddles her white canoe.