The Complete Poems of Sir Thomas Moore Part 71

For high was thy hope, when those glories were darting Around thee, thro' all the gross clouds of the world; When Truth, from her fetters indignantly starting, At once, like a Sun-burst, her banner unfurled.[1]

Oh! never shall earth see a moment so splendid!

Then, then--had one Hymn of Deliverance blended The tongues of all nations--how sweet had ascended The first note of Liberty, Erin, from thee!

But, shame on those tyrants, who envied the blessing!

And shame on the light race, unworthy its good, Who, at Death's reeking altar, like furies, caressing The young hope of Freedom, baptized it in blood.

Then vanished for ever that fair, sunny vision, Which, spite of the slavish, the cold heart's derision, Shall long be remembered, pure, bright, and elysian, As first it arose, my lost Erin, on thee.

[1] "The Sun-burst" was the fanciful name given by the ancient Irish to the Royal Banner.

I SAW FROM THE BEACH.

I saw from the beach, when the morning was s.h.i.+ning, A bark o'er the waters move gloriously on; I came when the sun o'er that beach was declining, The bark was still there, but the waters were gone.

And such is the fate of our life's early promise, So pa.s.sing the spring-tide of joy we have known; Each wave, that we danced on at morning, ebbs from us, And leaves us, at eve, on the bleak sh.o.r.e alone.

Ne'er tell me of glories, serenely adorning The close of our day, the calm eve of our night;-- Give me back, give me back the wild freshness of Morning, Her clouds and her tears are worth Evening's best light.

Oh, who would not welcome that moment's returning, When pa.s.sion first waked a new life thro' his frame, And his soul, like the wood, that grows precious in burning, Gave out all its sweets to love's exquisite flame.

FILL THE b.u.mPER FAIR.

Fill the b.u.mper fair!

Every drop we sprinkle O'er the brow of Care Smooths away a wrinkle.

Wit's electric flame Ne'er so swiftly pa.s.ses, As when thro' the frame It shoots from br.i.m.m.i.n.g gla.s.ses.

Fill the b.u.mper fair!

Every drop we sprinkle O'er the brow of Care Smooths away a wrinkle.

Sages can, they say, Grasp the lightning's pinions, And bring down its ray From the starred dominions:-- So we, Sages, sit, And, mid b.u.mpers brightening, From the Heaven of Wit Draw down all its lightning.

Wouldst thou know what first Made our souls inherit This enn.o.bling thirst For wine's celestial spirit?

It chanced upon that day, When, as bards inform us, Prometheus stole away The living fires that warm us:

The careless Youth, when up To Glory's fount aspiring, Took nor urn nor cup To hide the pilfered fire in.-- But oh his joy, when, round The halls of Heaven spying, Among the stars he found A bowl of Bacchus lying!

Some drops were in the bowl, Remains of last night's pleasure, With which the Sparks of Soul Mixt their burning treasure.

Hence the goblet's shower Hath such spells to win us; Hence its mighty power O'er that flame within us.

Fill the b.u.mper fair!

Every drop we sprinkle O'er the brow of Care Smooths away a wrinkle.

DEAR HARP OF MY COUNTRY.

Dear Harp of my Country! in darkness I found thee, The cold chain of silence had hung o'er thee long,[1]

When proudly, my own Island Harp, I unbound thee, And gave all thy chords to light, freedom, and song!

The warm lay of love and the light note of gladness Have wakened thy fondest, thy liveliest thrill; But, so oft hast thou echoed the deep sigh of sadness, That even in thy mirth it will steal from thee still.

Dear Harp of my country! farewell to thy numbers, This sweet wreath of song is the last we shall twine!

Go, sleep with the suns.h.i.+ne of Fame on thy slumbers, Till touched by some hand less unworthy than mine; If the pulse of the patriot, soldier, or lover, Have throbbed at our lay, 'tis thy glory alone; I was _but_ as the wind, pa.s.sing heedlessly over, And all the wild sweetness I waked was thy own.

[1] The chain of Silence was a sort of practical figure of rhetoric among the ancient Irish. Walker tells us of "a celebrated contention for precedence between Finn and Gaul, near Finn's palace at Almhaim, where the attending Bards anxious, if possible, to produce a cessation of hostilities, shook the chain of Silence, and flung themselves among the ranks."

MY GENTLE HARP.

My gentle harp, once more I waken The sweetness of thy slumbering strain; In tears our last farewell was taken, And now in tears we meet again.

No light of joy hath o'er thee broken, But, like those Harps whose heavenly skill Of slavery, dark as thine, hath spoken, Thou hang'st upon the willows still.

And yet, since last thy chord resounded, An hour of peace and triumph came, And many an ardent bosom bounded With hopes--that now art turned to shame.

Yet even then, while Peace was singing Her halcyon song o'er land and sea, Tho' joy and hope to others bringing, She only brought new tears to thee.

Then, who can ask for notes of pleasure, My drooping Harp, from chords like thine?

Alas, the lark's gay morning measure As ill would suit the swan's decline!

Or how shall I, who love, who bless thee, Invoke thy breath for Freedom's strains, When even the wreaths in which I dress thee, Are sadly mixt--half flowers, half chains?

But come--if yet thy frame can borrow One breath of joy, oh, breathe for me, And show the world, in chains and sorrow, How sweet thy music still can be; How gaily, even mid gloom surrounding, Thou yet canst wake at pleasure's thrill-- Like Memnon's broken image sounding, Mid desolation tuneful still!

IN THE MORNING OF LIFE.

In the morning of life, when its cares are unknown, And its pleasures in all their new l.u.s.tre begin, When we live in a bright-beaming world of our own, And the light that surrounds us is all from within; Oh 'tis not, believe me, in that happy time We can love, as in hours of less transport we may;-- Of our smiles, of our hopes, 'tis the gay sunny prime, But affection is truest when these fade away.