The Complete Poems of Sir Thomas Moore Part 117

THE HOMEWARD MARCH.

Be still my heart: I hear them come: Those sounds announce my lover near: The march that brings our warriors home Proclaims he'll soon be here.

Hark, the distant tread, O'er the mountain's head, While hills and dales repeat the sound; And the forest deer Stand still to hear, As those echoing steps ring round.

Be still my heart. I hear them come, Those sounds that speak my soldier near; Those joyous steps seem winged fox home.-- Rest, rest, he'll soon be here.

But hark, more faint the footsteps grow, And now they wind to distant glades; Not here their home,--alas, they go To gladden happier maids!

Like sounds in a dream, The footsteps seem, As down the hills they die away; And the march, whose song So pealed along, Now fades like a funeral lay.

'Tis past, 'tis o'er,--hush, heart, thy pain!

And tho' not here, alas, they come, Rejoice for those, to whom that strain Brings sons and lovers home.

WAKE UP, SWEET MELODY.

Wake up, sweet melody!

Now is the hour When young and loving hearts Feel most thy power, One note of music, by moonlight's soft ray-- Oh, 'tis worth thousands heard coldly by day.

Then wake up, sweet melody!

Now is the hour When young and loving hearts Feel most thy power.

Ask the fond nightingale, When his sweet flower Loves most to hear his song, In her green bower?

Oh, he will tell thee, thro' summer-nights long, Fondest she lends her whole soul to his song.

Then wake up, sweet melody!

Now is the hour When young and loving hearts Feel most thy power.

CALM BE THY SLEEP.

Calm be thy sleep as infant's slumbers!

Pure as angel thoughts thy dreams!

May every joy this bright world numbers Shed o'er thee their mingled beams!

Or if, where Pleasure's wing hath glided, There ever must some pang remain, Still be thy lot with me divided,-- Thine all the bliss and mine the pain!

Day and night my thoughts shall hover Round thy steps where'er they stray; As, even when clouds his idol cover, Fondly the Persian tracks its ray.

If this be wrong, if Heaven offended By wors.h.i.+p to its creature be, Then let my vows to both be blended, Half breathed to Heaven and half to thee.

THE EXILE.

Night waneth fast, the morning star Saddens with light the glimmering sea, Whose waves shall soon to realms afar Waft me from hope, from love, and thee.

Coldly the beam from yonder sky Looks o'er the waves that onward stray; But colder still the stranger's eye To him whose home is far away

Oh, not at hour so chill and bleak, Let thoughts of me come o'er thy breast; But of the lost one think and speak, When summer suns sink calm to rest.

So, as I wander, Fancy's dream Shall bring me o'er the sunset seas, Thy look in every melting beam, Thy whisper in each dying breeze.

THE FANCY FAIR.

Come, maids and youths, for here we sell All wondrous things of earth and air; Whatever wild romancers tell, Or poets sing, or lovers swear, You'll find at this our Fancy Fair.

Here eyes are made like stars to s.h.i.+ne, And kept for years in such repair, That even when turned of thirty-nine, They'll hardly look the worse for wear, If bought at this our Fancy Fair.

We've lots of tears for bards to shower, And hearts that such ill usage bear, That, tho' they're broken every hour, They'll still in rhyme fresh breaking bear, If purchased at our Fancy Fair.

As fas.h.i.+ons change in every thing, We've goods to suit each season's air, Eternal friends.h.i.+ps for the spring, And endless loves for summer wear,-- All sold at this our Fancy Fair.

We've reputations white as snow, That long will last if used with care, Nay, safe thro' all life's journey go, If packed and marked as "brittle ware,"-- Just purchased at the Fancy Fair.

IF THOU WOULDST HAVE ME SING AND PLAY.

If thou wouldst have me sing and play, As once I played and sung, First take this time-worn lute away, And bring one freshly strung.

Call back the time when pleasure's sigh First breathed among the strings; And Time himself, in flitting by.

Made music with his wings.

But how is this? tho' new the lute, And s.h.i.+ning fresh the chords, Beneath this hand they slumber mute, Or speak but dreamy words.

In vain I seek the soul that dwelt Within that once sweet sh.e.l.l, Which told so warmly what it felt, And felt what naught could tell.

Oh, ask not then for pa.s.sion's lay, From lyre so coldly strung; With this I ne'er can sing or play, As once I played and sung.

No, bring that long-loved lute again,-- Tho' chilled by years it be, If _thou_ wilt call the slumbering strain, 'Twill wake again for thee.