The Complete Poems of Sir Thomas Moore Part 64

Thy rival was honored, while thou wert wronged and scorned, Thy crown was of briers, while gold her brows adorned; She wooed me to temples, while thou lay'st hid in caves, Her friends were all masters, while thine, alas! were slaves; Yet cold in the earth, at thy feet, I would rather be, Than wed what I loved not, or turn one thought from thee.

They slander thee sorely, who say thy vows are frail-- Hadst thou been a false one, thy cheek had looked less pale.

They say, too, so long thou hast worn those lingering chains, That deep in thy heart they have printed their servile stains-- Oh! foul is the slander,--no chain could that soul subdue-- Where s.h.i.+neth _thy_ spirit, there liberty s.h.i.+neth too![2]

[1] Meaning, allegorically, the ancient Church of Ireland.

[2] "Where the Spirit of the Lord is, there is liberty"--_St. Paul's Corinthians_ ii., l7.

ON MUSIC.

When thro' life unblest we rove, Losing all that made life dear, Should some notes we used to love, In days of boyhood, meet our ear, Oh! how welcome breathes the strain!

Wakening thoughts that long have slept; Kindling former smiles again In faded eyes that long have wept.

Like the gale, that sighs along Beds of oriental flowers, Is the grateful breath of song, That once was heard in happier hours; Filled with balm, the gale sighs on, Tho' the flowers have sunk in death; So, when pleasure's dream is gone, Its memory lives in Music's breath.

Music, oh how faint, how weak, Language fades before thy spell!

Why should Feeling ever speak, When thou canst breathe her soul so well?

Friends.h.i.+p's balmy words may feign, Love's are even more false than they; Oh! 'tis only music's strain Can sweetly soothe, and not betray.

IT IS NOT THE TEAR AT THIS MOMENT SHED.[1]

It is not the tear at this moment shed, When the cold turf has just been laid o'er him, That can tell how beloved was the friend that's fled, Or how deep in our hearts we deplore him.

'Tis the tear, thro' many a long day wept, 'Tis life's whole path o'ershaded; 'Tis the one remembrance, fondly kept, When all lighter griefs have faded.

Thus his memory, like some holy light, Kept alive in our hearts, will improve them, For worth shall look fairer, and truth more bright, When we think how we lived but to love them.

And, as fresher flowers the sod perfume Where buried saints are lying, So our hearts shall borrow a sweetening bloom From the image he left there in dying!

[1] These lines were occasioned by the loss of a very near and dear relative, who had died lately at Madeira.

THE ORIGIN OF THE HARP.

'Tis believed that this Harp, which I wake now for thee, Was a Siren of old, who sung under the sea; And who often, at eve, thro' the bright waters roved, To meet, on the green sh.o.r.e, a youth whom she loved.

But she loved him in vain, for he left her to weep, And in tears, all the night, her gold tresses to steep; Till heaven looked with pity on true-love so warm, And changed to this soft Harp the sea-maiden's form.

Still her bosom rose fair--still her cheeks smiled the same-- While her sea-beauties gracefully formed the light frame; And her hair, as, let loose, o'er her white arm it fell, Was changed to bright chords uttering melody's spell.

Hence it came, that this soft Harp so long hath been known To mingle love's language with sorrow's sad tone; Till _thou_ didst divide them, and teach the fond lay To speak love when I'm near thee, and grief when away.

LOVE'S YOUNG DREAM.

Oh! the days are gone, when Beauty bright My heart's chain wove; When my dream of life, from morn till night, Was love, still love.

New hope may bloom, And days may come,

Of milder, calmer beam, But there's nothing half so sweet in life As love's young dream; No, there's nothing half so sweet in life As love's young dream.

Tho' the bard to purer fame may soar, When wild youth's past; Tho' he win the wise, who frowned before, To smile at last; He'll never meet A joy so sweet, In all his noon of fame, As when first he sung to woman's ear His soul-felt flame, And, at every close, she blushed to hear The one lov'd name.

No,--that hallowed form is ne'er forgot Which first love traced; Still it lingering haunts the greenest spot On memory's waste.

'Twas odor fled As soon as shed; 'Twas morning's winged dream; 'Twas a light, that ne'er can s.h.i.+ne again On life's dull stream: Oh! 'twas light that ne'er can s.h.i.+ne again On life's dull stream.

THE PRINCE'S DAY.[1]

Tho' dark are our sorrows, to-day we'll forget them, And smile thro' our tears, like a sunbeam in showers: There never were hearts, if our rulers would let them, More formed to be grateful and blest than ours.

But just when the chain Has ceased to pain, And hope has enwreathed it round with flowers, There comes a new link Our spirits to sink-- Oh! the joy that we taste, like the light of the poles, Is a flash amid darkness, too brilliant to stay; But, tho' 'twere the last little spark in our souls, We must light it up now, on our Prince's Day.

Contempt on the minion, who calls you disloyal!

Tho' fierce to your foe, to your friends you are true; And the tribute most high to a head that is royal, Is love from a heart that loves liberty too.

While cowards, who blight Your fame, your right, Would shrink from the blaze of the battle array, The Standard of Green In front would be seen,-- Oh, my life on your faith! were you summoned this minute, You'd cast every bitter remembrance away, And show what the arm of old Erin has in it, When roused by the foe, on her Prince's Day.

He loves the Green Isle, and his love is recorded In hearts, which have suffered too much to forget; And hope shall be crowned, and attachment rewarded, And Erin's gay jubilee s.h.i.+ne out yet.

The gem may be broke By many a stroke, But nothing can cloud its native ray: Each fragment will cast A light, to the last,-- And thus, Erin, my country tho' broken thou art, There's a l.u.s.tre within thee that ne'er will decay; A spirit, which beams thro' each suffering part, And now smiles at all pain on the Prince's Day.

[1] This song was written for a _fete_ in honor of the Prince of Wales's Birthday, given by my friend, Major Bryan, at his seat in the county of Kilkenny.