The Complete Poems of Sir Thomas Moore Part 80

I've a secret to tell thee, but hus.h.!.+ not here,-- Oh! not where the world its vigil keeps: I'll seek, to whisper it in thine ear, Some sh.o.r.e where the Spirit of Silence sleeps; Where summer's wave unmurmuring dies, Nor fay can hear the fountain's gush; Where, if but a note her night-bird sighs, The rose saith, chidingly, "Hush, sweet, hus.h.!.+"

There, amid the deep silence of that hour, When stars can be heard in ocean dip, Thyself shall, under some rosy bower, Sit mute, with thy finger on thy lip: Like him, the boy,[1] who born among The flowers that on the Nile-stream blush, Sits ever thus,--his only song To earth and heaven, "Hush, all, hus.h.!.+"

[1] The G.o.d of Silence, thus pictured by the Egyptians.

SONG OF INNISFAIL.

They came from a land beyond the sea, And now o'er the western main Set sail, in their good s.h.i.+ps, gallantly, From the sunny land of Spain.

"Oh, where's the Isle we've seen in dreams, Our destined home or grave?"[1]

Thus sung they as, by the morning's beams, They swept the Atlantic wave.

And, lo, where afar o'er ocean s.h.i.+nes A sparkle of radiant green, As tho' in that deep lay emerald mines, Whose light thro' the wave was seen.

"'Tis Innisfail[2]--'tis Innisfail!"

Rings o'er the echoing sea; While, bending to heaven, the warriors hail That home of the brave and free.

Then turned they unto the Eastern wave, Where now their Day-G.o.d's eye A look of such sunny-omen gave As lighted up sea and sky.

Nor frown was seen thro' sky or sea, Nor tear o'er leaf or sod, When first on their Isle of Destiny Our great forefathers trod.

[1] Milesius remembered the remarkable prediction of the princ.i.p.al Druid, who foretold that the posterity of Gadelus should obtain the possession of a Western Island (which was Ireland), and there inhabit.--_Keating_.

[2] The Island of Destiny, one of the ancient names of Ireland.

THE NIGHT DANCE.

Strike the gay harp! see the moon is on high, And, as true to her beam as the tides of the ocean, Young hearts, when they feel the soft light of her eye, Obey the mute call and heave into motion.

Then, sound notes--the gayest, the lightest, That ever took wing, when heaven looked brightest!

Again! Again!

Oh! could such heart-stirring music be heard In that City of Statues described by romancers, So wakening its spell, even stone would be stirred, And statues themselves all start into dancers!

Why then delay, with such sounds in our ears, And the flower of Beauty's own garden before us,-- While stars overhead leave the song of their spheres, And listening to ours, hang wondering o'er us?

Again, that strain!--to hear it thus sounding Might set even Death's cold pulses bounding-- Again! Again!

Oh, what delight when the youthful and gay, Each with eye like a sunbeam and foot like a feather, Thus dance, like the Hours to the music of May, And mingle sweet song and suns.h.i.+ne together!

THERE ARE SOUNDS OF MIRTH.

There are sounds of mirth in the night-air ringing, And lamps from every cas.e.m.e.nt shown; While voices blithe within are singing, That seem to say "Come," in every tone.

Ah! once how light, in Life's young season, My heart had leapt at that sweet lay; Nor paused to ask of graybeard Reason Should I the syren call obey.

And, see--the lamps still livelier glitter, The syren lips more fondly sound; No, seek, ye nymphs, some victim fitter To sink in your rosy bondage bound.

Shall a bard, whom not the world in arms Could bend to tyranny's rude control, Thus quail at sight of woman's charms And yield to a smile his freeborn soul?

Thus sung the sage, while, slyly stealing, The nymphs their fetters around him cast, And,--their laughing eyes, the while, concealing,-- Led Freedom's Bard their slave at last.

For the Poet's heart, still p.r.o.ne to loving, Was like that rack of the Druid race,[1]

Which the gentlest touch at once set moving, But all earth's power couldn't cast from its base.

[1] The Rocking Stones of the Druids, some of which no force is able to dislodge from their stations.

OH, ARRANMORE, LOVED ARRANMORE.

Oh! Arranmore, loved Arranmore, How oft I dream of thee, And of those days when, by thy sh.o.r.e, I wandered young and free.

Full many a path I've tried, since then, Thro' pleasure's flowery maze, But ne'er could find the bliss again I felt in those sweet days.

How blithe upon thy breezy cliffs, At sunny morn I've stood, With heart as bounding as the skiffs That danced along thy flood; Or, when the western wave grew bright With daylight's parting wing, Have sought that Eden in its light, Which dreaming poets sing;[1]--

That Eden where the immortal brave Dwell in a land serene,-- Whose bowers beyond the s.h.i.+ning wave, At sunset, oft are seen.

Ah dream too full of saddening truth!

Those mansions o'er the main Are like the hopes I built in youth,-- As sunny and as vain!

[1] "The inhabitants of Arranmore are still persuaded that, in a clear day, they can see from this coast Hy Brysail or the Enchanted Island, the paradise of the Pagan Irish, and concerning which they relate a number of romantic stories",--_Beaufort's "Ancient Topography of Ireland_."

LAY HIS SWORD BY HIS SIDE.

Lay his sword by his side,[1]--it hath served him too well Not to rest near his pillow below; To the last moment true, from his hand ere it fell, Its point was still turned to a flying foe.