The Complete Poems of Sir Thomas Moore Part 56

I knew by the smoke, that so gracefully curled Above the green elms, that a cottage was near.

And I said, "If there's peace to be found in the world, "A heart that was humble might hope for it here!"

It was noon, and on flowers that languished around In silence reposed the voluptuous bee; Every leaf was at rest, and I heard not a sound But the woodp.e.c.k.e.r tapping the hollow beech-tree.

And, "Here in this lone little wood," I exclaimed, "With a maid who was lovely to soul and to eye, "Who would blush when I praised her, and weep if I blamed, How blest could I live, and how calm could I die!

"By the shade of yon sumach, whose red berry dips "In the gush of the fountain, how sweet to recline, "And to know that I sighed upon innocent lips, "Which had never been sighed on by any but mine!"

A CANADIAN BOAT SONG.

WRITTEN ON THE RIVER ST. LAWRENCE.[1]

_et remigem cantus hortatur_.

QUINTILIAN.

Faintly as tolls the evening chime Our voices keep tune and our oars keep time.

Soon as the woods on sh.o.r.e look dim, We'll sing at St. Ann's our parting hymn.[2]

Row, brothers, row, the stream runs fast, The Rapids are near and the daylight's past.

Why should we yet our sail unfurl?

There is not a breath the blue wave to curl, But, when the wind blows off the sh.o.r.e, Oh! sweetly we'll rest our weary oar.

Blow, breezes, blow, the stream runs fast, The Rapids are near and the daylight's past.

Utawas' tide! this trembling moon Shall see us float over thy surges soon.

Saint of this green isle! hear our prayers, Oh, grant us cool heavens and favoring airs.

Blow, breezes, blow, the stream runs fast, The Rapids are near and the daylight's past.

[1] I wrote these words to an air which our boatmen sung to us frequently.

The wind was so unfavorable that they were obliged to row all the way, and we were five days in descending the river from Kingston to Montreal, exposed to an intense sun during the day, and at night forced to take shelter from the dews in any miserable hut upon the banks that would receive us. But the magnificent scenery of the St. Lawrence repays all such difficulties.

[2] "At the Rapid of St. Ann they are obliged to take out part, if not the whole, of their lading. It is from this spot Canadians consider they take their departure, as it possesses the last church on the island, which is dedicated to the tutelar saint of voyagers."--_Mackenzie, General History of the Fur Trade_.

TO THE LADY CHARLOTTE RAWDON.

FROM THE BANKS OF THE ST. LAWRENCE.

Not many months have now been dreamed away Since yonder sun, beneath whose evening ray Our boat glides swiftly past these wooded sh.o.r.es, Saw me where Trent his mazy current pours, And Donington's old oaks, to every breeze, Whisper the tale of by-gone centuries;-- Those oaks, to me as sacred as the groves, Beneath whose shade the pious Persian roves, And hears the spirit-voice of sire, or chief, Or loved mistress, sigh in every leaf.

There, oft, dear Lady, while thy lip hath sung My own unpolished lays, how proud I've hung On every tuneful accent! proud to feel.

That notes like mine should have the fate to steal, As o'er thy hallowing lip they sighed along.

Such breath of pa.s.sion and such soul of song.

Yes,--I have wondered, like some peasant boy Who sings, on Sabbath-eve, his strains of joy, And when he hears the wild, untutored note Back to his ear on softening echoes float, Believes it still some answering spirit's tone, And thinks it all too sweet to be his own!

I dreamt not then that, ere the rolling year Had filled its circle, I should wander here In musing awe; should tread this wondrous world, See all its store of inland waters hurled In one vast volume down Niagara's steep, Or calm behold them, in transparent sleep, Where the blue hills of old Toronto shed Their evening shadows o'er Ontario's bed; Should trace the grand Cadaraqui, and glide Down the white rapids of his lordly tide Through ma.s.sy woods, mid islets flowering fair, And blooming glades, where the first sinful pair For consolation might have weeping trod, When banished from the garden of their G.o.d, Oh, Lady! these are miracles, which man, Caged in the bounds of Europe's pigmy span, Can scarcely dream of,--which his eye must see To know how wonderful this world can be!

But lo,--the last tints of the west decline, And night falls dewy o'er these banks of pine.

Among the reeds, in which our idle boat Is rocked to rest, the wind's complaining note Dies like a half-breathed whispering of flutes; Along the wave the gleaming porpoise shoots, And I can trace him, like a watery star,[1]

Down the steep current, till he fades afar Amid the foaming breakers' silvery light.

Where yon rough rapids sparkle through the night.

Here, as along this shadowy bank I stray, And the smooth gla.s.s-snake,[2] glid-o'er my way, Shows the dim moonlight through his scaly form, Fancy, with all the scene's enchantment warm, Hears in the murmur of the nightly breeze Some Indian Spirit warble words like these:--

From the land beyond the sea, Whither happy spirits flee; Where, transformed to sacred doves,[3]

Many a blessed Indian roves Through the air on wing, as white As those wondrous stones of light,[4]

Which the eye of morning counts On the Apalachian mounts,-- Hither oft my flight I take Over Huron's lucid lake, Where the wave, as clear as dew, Sleeps beneath the light canoe, Which, reflected, floating there, Looks as if it hung in air.

Then, when I have strayed a while Through the Manataulin isle,[5]

Breathing all its holy bloom, Swift I mount me on the plume Of my Wakon-Bird,[6] and fly Where, beneath a burning sky, O'er the bed of Erie's lake Slumbers many a water-snake, Wrapt within the web of leaves, Which the water-lily weaves.[7]

Next I chase the floweret-king Through his rosy realm of spring; See him now, while diamond hues Soft his neck and wings suffuse, In the leafy chalice sink, Thirsting for his balmy drink; Now behold him all on fire, Lovely in his looks of ire, Breaking every infant stem, Scattering every velvet gem, Where his little tyrant lip Had not found enough to sip.

Then my playful hand I steep Where the gold-thread loves to creep, Cull from thence a tangled wreath, Words of magic round it breathe, And the sunny chaplet spread O'er the sleeping fly-bird's head, Till, with dreams of honey blest, Haunted, in his downy nest, By the garden's fairest spells, Dewy buds and fragrant bells, Fancy all his soul embowers In the fly-bird's heaven of flowers.

Oft, when h.o.a.r and silvery flakes Melt along the ruffled lakes, When the gray moose sheds his horns, When the track, at evening, warns Weary hunters of the way To the wigwam's cheering ray, Then, aloft through freezing air, With the snow-bird soft and fair As the fleece that heaven flings O'er his little pearly wings, Light above the rocks I play, Where Niagara's starry spray, Frozen on the cliff, appears Like a giant's starting tears.

There, amid the island-sedge, Just upon the cataract's edge, Where the foot of living man Never trod since time began, Lone I sit, at close of day, While, beneath the golden ray, Icy columns gleam below, Feathered round with falling snow, And an arch of glory springs, Sparkling as the chain of rings Round the neck of virgins hung,-- Virgins, who have wandered young O'er the waters of the west To the land where spirits rest!

Thus have I charmed, with visionary lay, The lonely moments of the night away; And now, fresh daylight o'er the water beams!

Once more, embarked upon the glittering streams, Our boat flies light along the leafy sh.o.r.e, Shooting the falls, without a dip of oar Or breath of zephyr, like the mystic bark The poet saw, in dreams divinely dark, Borne, without sails, along the dusky flood, While on its deck a pilot angel stood, And, with his wings of living light unfurled, Coasted the dim sh.o.r.es of another world!

Yet, oh! believe me, mid this mingled maze Of Nature's beauties, where the fancy strays From charm to charm, where every floweret's hue Hath something strange, and every leaf is new,-- I never feel a joy so pure and still So inly felt, as when some brook or hill, Or veteran oak, like those remembered well, Some mountain echo or some wild-flower's smell, (For, who can say by what small fairy ties The memory clings to pleasure as it flies?) Reminds my heart of many a silvan dream I once indulged by Trent's inspiring stream; Of all my sunny morns and moonlight nights On Donington's green lawns and breezy heights.

Whether I trace the tranquil moments o'er When I have seen thee cull the fruits of lore, With him, the polished warrior, by thy side, A sister's idol and a nation's pride!

When thou hast read of heroes, trophied high In ancient fame, and I have seen thine eye Turn to the living hero, while it read, For pure and brightening comments on the dead;-- Or whether memory to my mind recalls The festal grandeur of those lordly halls, When guests have met around the sparkling board, And welcome warmed the cup that luxury poured; When the bright future Star of England's throne, With magic smile, hath o'er the banquet shone, Winning respect, nor claiming what he won, But tempering greatness, like an evening sun Whose light the eye can tranquilly admire, Radiant, but mild, all softness, yet all fire;-- Whatever hue my recollections take, Even the regret, the very pain they wake Is mixt with happiness;--but, ah! no more-- Lady! adieu--my heart has lingered o'er Those vanished times, till all that round me lies, Stream, banks, and bowers have faded on my eyes!

[1] Anburey, in his Travels, has noticed this shooting illumination which porpoises diffuse at night through the river St. Lawrence,--Vol. i. p. 29.

[2] The gla.s.s-snake is brittle and transparent.

[3] "The departed spirit goes into the Country of Souls, where, according to some, it is transformed into a dove."--_Charlevoix upon the Traditions and the Religion of the Savages of Canada_.

[4] "The mountains appeared to be sprinkled with white stones, which glistened in the sun, and were called by the Indians manetoe aseniah, or spirit-stones."--_Mackenzie's Journal_.

[5] Manataulin signifies a Place of Spirits, and this island in Lake Huron is held sacred by the Indians.

[6] "The Wakon-Bird, which probably is of the same species with the bird of Paradise, receives its name from the ideas the Indians have of its superior excellence; the Wakon-Bird being, in their language, the Bird of the Great Spirit."--_Morse_.

[7] The islands of Lake Erie are surrounded to a considerable distance by the large pond-lily, whose leaves spread thickly over the surface of the lake, and form a kind of bed for the water-snakes in summer.