The Complete Poems of Sir Thomas Moore Part 74

NE'ER ASK THE HOUR.

Ne'er ask the hour--what is it to us How Time deals out his treasures?

The golden moments lent us thus, Are not _his_ coin, but Pleasure's.

If counting them o'er could add to their blisses, I'd number each glorious second: But moments of joy are, like Lesbia's kisses, Too quick and sweet to be reckoned.

Then fill the cup--what is it to us How time his circle measures?

The fairy hours we call up thus, Obey no wand but Pleasure's.

Young Joy ne'er thought of counting hours, Till Care, one summer's morning, Set up, among his smiling flowers, A dial, by way of warning.

But Joy loved better to gaze on the sun, As long as its light was glowing, Than to watch with old Care how the shadows stole on, And how fast that light was going.

So fill the cup--what is it to us How Time his circle measures?

The fairy hours we call up thus, Obey no wand but Pleasure's.

SAIL ON, SAIL ON.

Sail on, sail on, thou fearless bark-- Wherever blows the welcome wind, It cannot lead to scenes more dark, More sad than those we leave behind.

Each wave that pa.s.ses seems to say, "Tho' death beneath our smile may be, Less cold we are, less false than they, Whose smiling wrecked thy hopes and thee."

Sail on, sail on,--thro' endless s.p.a.ce-- Thro' calm--thro' tempest--stop no more: The stormiest sea's a resting place To him who leaves such hearts on sh.o.r.e.

Or--if some desert land we meet, Where never yet false-hearted men Profaned a world, that else were sweet,-- Then rest thee, bark, but not till then.

THE PARALLEL.

Yes, sad one of Sion,[1] if closely resembling, In shame and in sorrow, thy withered-up heart-- If drinking deep, deep, of the same "cup of trembling"

Could make us thy children, our parent thou art,

Like thee doth our nation lie conquered and broken, And fallen from her head is the once royal crown; In her streets, in her halls, Desolation hath spoken, And "while it is day yet, her sun hath gone down."[2]

Like thine doth her exile, mid dreams of returning, Die far from the home it were life to behold; Like thine do her sons, in the day of their mourning, Remember the bright things that blest them of old.

Ah, well may we call her, like thee "the Forsaken,"[3]

Her boldest are vanquished, her proudest are slaves; And the harps of her minstrels, when gayest they waken, Have tones mid their mirth like the wind over graves!

Yet hadst thou thy vengeance--yet came there the morrow, That s.h.i.+nes out, at last, on the longest dark night, When the sceptre, that smote thee with slavery and sorrow, Was s.h.i.+vered at once, like a reed, in thy sight.

When that cup, which for others the proud Golden City[4]

Had brimmed full of bitterness, drenched her own lips; And the world she had trampled on heard, without pity, The howl in her halls, and the cry from her s.h.i.+ps.

When the curse Heaven keeps for the haughty came over Her merchants rapacious, her rulers unjust, And, a ruin, at last, for the earthworm to cover,[5]

The Lady of Kingdoms[6] lay low in the dust.

[1] These verses were written after the perusal of a treatise by Mr.

Hamilton, professing to prove that the Irish were originally Jews.

[2] 1 "Her sun is gone down while it was yet day."--_Jer_. xv. 9.

[3] "Thou shalt no more be termed Forsaken."--_Isaiah_, lxii. 4.

[4] "How hath the oppressor ceased! the golden city ceased!"-- _Isaiah_, xiv. 4.

[5] "Thy pomp is brought down to the grave . . . and the worms cover thee."--_Isaiah_, xiv. 11.

[6] "Thou shalt no more be called the Lady of Kingdoms."--_Isaiah_, xlvil. 5.

DRINK OF THIS CUP.

Drink of this cup;--you'll find there's a spell in Its every drop 'gainst the ills of mortality; Talk of the cordial that sparkled for Helen!

Her cup was a fiction, but this is reality.

Would you forget the dark world we are in, Just taste of the bubble that gleams on the top of it; But would you rise above earth, till akin To Immortals themselves, you must drain every drop of it; Send round the cup--for oh there's a spell in Its every drop 'gainst the ills of mortality; Talk of the cordial that sparkled for Helen!

Her cup was a fiction, but this is reality.

Never was philter formed with such power To charm and bewilder as this we are quaffing; Its magic began when, in Autumn's rich hour, A harvest of gold in the fields it stood laughing.

There having, by Nature's enchantment, been filled With the balm and the bloom of her kindliest weather, This wonderful juice from its core was distilled To enliven such hearts as are here brought together.

Then drink of the cup--you'll find there's a spell in Its every drop 'gainst the ills of mortality; Talk of the cordial that sparkled for Helen!

Her cup was a fiction, but this is reality.

And tho' perhaps--but breathe it to no one-- Like liquor the witch brews at midnight so awful, This philter in secret was first taught to flow on, Yet 'tisn't less potent for being unlawful.

And, even tho' it taste of the smoke of that flame, Which in silence extracted its virtue forbidden-- Fill up--there's a fire in some hearts I could name, Which may work too its charm, tho' as lawless and hidden.

So drink of the cup--for oh there's a spell in Its every drop 'gainst the ills of mortality; Talk of the cordial that sparkled for Helen!

Her cup was a fiction, but this is reality.

THE FORTUNE-TELLER.