The Complete Poems of Sir Thomas Moore Part 7

ODE x.x.xI.[1]

Armed with hyacinthine rod, (Arms enough for such a G.o.d,) Cupid bade me wing my pace, And try with him the rapid race.

O'er many a torrent, wild and deep, By tangled brake and pendent steep.

With weary foot I panting flew, Till my brow dropt with chilly dew.

And now my soul, exhausted, dying, To my lip was faintly flying; And now I thought the spark had fled, When Cupid hovered o'er my head, And fanning light his breezy pinion, Rescued my soul from death's dominion;[2]

Then said, in accents half-reproving.

"Why hast thou been a foe to loving?"

[1] The design of this little fiction is to intimate, that much greater pain attends insensibility than can ever result from the tenderest impressions of love.

[2] "The facility with which Cupid recovers him, signifies that the sweets of love make us easily forget any solicitudes which he may occasion."--LA FOSSE.

ODE x.x.xII.[1]

Strew me a fragrant bed of leaves, Where lotus with the myrtle weaves; And while in luxury's dream I sink, Let me the balm of Bacchus drink!

In this sweet hour of revelry Young Love shall my attendant be-- Drest for the task, with tunic round His snowy neck and shoulders bound, Himself shall hover by my side, And minister the racy tide!

Oh, swift as wheels that kindling roll, Our life is hurrying to the goal; A scanty dust, to feed the wind, Is all the trace 'twill leave behind.

Then wherefore waste the rose's bloom Upon the cold, insensate tomb?

Can flowery breeze, or odor's breath, Affect the still, cold sense of death?

Oh no; I ask no balm to steep With fragrant tears my bed of sleep: But now, while every pulse is glowing, Now let me breathe the balsam flowing; Now let the rose, with blush of fire, Upon my brow in sweets expire; And bring the nymph whose eye hath power To brighten even death's cold hour.

Yes, Cupid! ere my shade retire, To join the blest elysian choir; With wine, and love, and social cheer, I'll make my own elysium here!

[1] We here have the poet, in his true attributes, reclining upon myrtles, with Cupid for his cup-bearer. Some interpreters have ruined the picture by making [Greek: Eros] the name of his slave. None but Love should fill the goblet of Anacreon. Sappho, in one of her fragments, has a.s.signed this office to Venus.

Hither, Venus, queen of kisses.

This shall be the night of blisses; This the night, to friends.h.i.+p dear.

Thou shalt be our Hebe here.

Fill the golden brimmer high, Let it sparkle like thine eye; Bid the rosy current gush.

Let it mantle like thy blush.

G.o.ddess, hast thou e'er above Seen a feast so rich in love?

Not a soul that is not mine!

Not a soul that is not thine!

ODE x.x.xIII.

'Twas noon of night, when round the pole The sullen Bear is seen to roll; And mortals, wearied with the day, Are slumbering all their cares away; An infant, at that dreary hour, Came weeping to my silent bower, And waked me with a piteous prayer, To s.h.i.+eld him from the midnight air.

"And who art thou," I waking cry, "That bid'st my blissful visions fly?"

"Ah, gentle sire!" the infant said, "In pity take me to thy shed; Nor fear deceit; a lonely child I wander o'er the gloomy wild.

Chill drops the rain, and not a ray Illumes the drear and misty way!"

I heard the baby's tale of woe: I heard the bitter night-winds blow; And sighing for his piteous fate, I trimmed my lamp and oped the gate.

'Twas Love! the little wandering sprite, His pinion sparkled through the night, I knew him by his bow and dart; I knew him by my fluttering heart.

Fondly I take him in, and raise The dying embers' cheering blaze; Press from his dank and clinging hair The crystals of the freezing air, And in my hand and bosom hold His little fingers thrilling cold.

And now the embers' genial ray, Had warmed his anxious fears away; "I pray thee," said the wanton child, (My bosom trembled as he smiled,) "I pray thee let me try my bow, For through the rain I've wandered so, That much I fear the midnight shower Has injured its elastic power."

The fatal bow the urchin drew; Swift from the string the arrow flew; As swiftly flew as glancing flame, And to my inmost spirit came!

"Fare thee well," I heard him say As laughing wild he winged away, "Fare thee well, for now I know The rain has not relaxt my bow; It still can send a thrilling dart, As thou shalt own with all thy heart!"

ODE x.x.xIV.[1]

Oh thou, of all creation blest, Sweet insect, that delight'st to rest Upon the wild wood's leafy tops, To drink the dew that morning drops, And chirp thy song with such a glee, That happiest kings may envy thee.

Whatever decks the velvet field, Whate'er the circling seasons yield, Whatever buds, whatever blows, For thee it buds, for thee it grows.

Nor yet art thou the peasant's fear, To him thy friendly notes are dear; For thou art mild as matin dew; And still, when summer's flowery hue Begins to paint the bloomy plain, We hear thy sweet prophetic strain; Thy sweet prophetic strain we hear, And bless the notes and thee revere!

The Muses love thy shrilly tone; Apollo calls thee all his own; 'Twas he who gave that voice to thee, 'Tis he who tunes thy minstrelsy.

Unworn by age's dim decline, The fadeless blooms of youth are thine.

Melodious insect, child of earth, In wisdom mirthful, wise in mirth; Exempt from every weak decay, That withers vulgar frames away; With not a drop of blood to stain, The current of thy purer vein; So blest an age is past by thee, Thou seem'st--a little deity!

[1] In a Latin ode addressed to the gra.s.shopper, Rapin has preserved some of the thoughts of our author:--

Oh thou, that on the gra.s.sy bed Which Nature's vernal hand has spread, Reclinest soft, and tunest thy song, The dewy herbs and leaves among!

Whether thou lyest on springing flowers Drunk with the balmy morning-showers Or, etc.

ODE x.x.xV.[1]

Cupid once upon a bed Of roses laid his weary head; Luckless urchin not to see Within the leaves a slumbering bee; The bee awaked--with anger wild The bee awaked, and stung the child.

Loud and piteous are his cries; To Venus quick he runs, he flies; "Oh mother!--I am wounded through-- I die with pain--in sooth I do!

Stung by some little angry thing, Some serpent on a tiny wing-- A bee it was--for once, I know, I heard a rustic call it so."