The Complete Poems of Sir Thomas Moore Part 103

These verses were written for a Benefit at the Dublin Theatre, and were spoken by Miss Smith, with a degree of success, which they owed solely to her admirable manner of reciting them. I wrote them in haste; and it very rarely happens that poetry which has cost but little labor to the writer is productive of any great pleasure to the reader. Under this impression, I certainly should not have published them if they had not found their way into some of the newspapers with such an addition of errors to their own original stock, that I thought it but fair to limit their responsibility to those faults alone which really belong to them.

With respect to the t.i.tle which I have invented for this Poem, I feel even more than the scruples of the Emperor Tiberius, when he humbly asked pardon of the Roman Senate for using "the outlandish term, _monopoly_."

But the truth is, having written the Poem with the sole view of serving a Benefit, I thought that an unintelligible word of this kind would not be without its attraction for the mult.i.tude, with whom, "If 'tis not sense, at least 'tis Greek." To some of my readers, however, it may not be superfluous to say, that by "Melologue," I mean that mixture of recitation of music, which is frequently adopted in the performance of Collins's Ode on the Pa.s.sions, and of which the most striking example I can remember is the prophetic speech of Joad in the Athalie of Racine.

T.M.

MELOLOGUE

A SHORT STRAIN OF MUSIC FROM THE ORCHESTRA.

_There_ breathes a language known and felt Far as the pure air spreads its living zone; Wherever rage can rouse, or pity melt, That language of the soul is felt and known.

From those meridian plains, Where oft, of old, on some high tower The soft Peruvian poured his midnight strains, And called his distant love with such sweet power, That, when she heard the lonely lay, Not worlds could keep her from his arms away,[1]

To the bleak climes of polar night, Where blithe, beneath a sunless sky, The Lapland lover bids his reindeer fly, And sings along the lengthening waste of snow, Gayly as if the blessed light Of vernal Phoebus burned upon his brow; Oh Music! thy celestial claim Is still resistless, still the same; And, faithful as the mighty sea To the pale star that o'er its realm presides, The spell-bound tides Of human pa.s.sion rise and fall for thee!

[1] "A certain Spaniard, one night late, met an Indian woman in the streets of Cozco, and would have taken her to his home, but she cried out, 'For G.o.d's sake, Sir, let me go; for that pipe, which you hear in yonder tower, calls me with great pa.s.sion, and I cannot refuse the summons; for love constrains me to go, that I may be his wife, and he my husband.'"--"_Garcila.s.so de la Vega_," in Sir Paul Ryeaut's translation.

GREEK AIR

List! 'tis a Grecian maid that sings, While, from Ilissus' silvery springs, She draws the cool lymph in her graceful urn; And by her side, in Music's charm dissolving, Some patriot youth, the glorious past revolving, Dreams of bright days that never can return; When Athens nurst her olive bough With hands by tyrant power unchained; And braided for the muse's brow A wreath by tyrant touch unstained.

When heroes trod each cla.s.sic field Where coward feet now faintly falter; When every arm was Freedom's s.h.i.+eld, And every heart was Freedom's altar!

FLOURISH OF TRUMPETS.

Hark, 'tis the sound that charms The war-steed's wakening ears!-- Oh! many a mother folds her arms Round her boy-soldier when that call she hears; And, tho' her fond heart sink with fears, Is proud to feel his young pulse bound With valor's fever at the sound.

See, from his native hills afar The rude Helvetian flies to war; Careless for what, for whom he fights, For slave or despot, wrongs or rights: A conqueror oft--a hero never-- Yet lavish of his life-blood still, As if 'twere like his mountain rill, And gushed forever!

Yes, Music, here, even here, Amid this thoughtless, vague career, Thy soul-felt charm a.s.serts its wondrous power.-- There's a wild air which oft, among the rocks Of his own loved land, at evening hour, Is heard, when shepherds homeward pipe their flocks, Whose every note hath power to thrill his mind With tenderest thoughts; to bring around his knees The rosy children whom he left behind, And fill each little angel eye With speaking tears, that ask him why He wandered from his hut for scenes like these.

Vain, vain is then the trumpet's brazen roar; Sweet notes of home, of love, are all he hears; And the stern eyes that looked for blood before Now melting, mournful, lose themselves in tears.

SWISS AIR.--"RANZ DES VACHES."

But wake, the trumpet's blast again, And rouse the ranks of warrior-men!

Oh War, when Truth thy arm employs, And Freedom's spirit guides the laboring storm, 'Tis then thy vengeance takes a hallowed form, And like Heaven's lightning sacredly destroys.

Nor, Music, thro' thy breathing sphere, Lives there a sound more grateful to the ear Of Him who made all harmony, Than the blest sound of fetters breaking, And the first hymn that man awaking From Slavery's slumber breathes to Liberty.

SPANISH CHORUS.

Hark! from Spain, indignant Spain, Burst the bold, enthusiast strain, Like morning's music on the air; And seems in every note to swear By Saragossa's ruined streets, By brave Gerona's deathful story, That, while _one_ Spaniard's life-blood beats, That blood shall stain the conqueror's glory.

SPANISH AIR.--"YA DESPERTO."

But ah! if vain the patriot's zeal, If neither valor's force nor wisdom's light Can break or melt that blood-cemented seal Which shuts so close the books of Europe's right-- What song shall then in sadness tell Of broken pride, of prospects shaded, Of buried hopes, remembered well Of ardor quenched, and honor faded?

What muse shall mourn the breathless brave, In sweetest dirge at Memory's shrine?

What harp shall sigh o'er Freedom's grave?

Oh Erin, Thine!

SET OF GLEES,

MUSIC BY MOORE.