The Complete Poems of Sir Thomas Moore Part 120

SONG OF A HYPERBOREAN.

I come from a land in the sun bright deep, Where golden gardens grow; Where the winds of the north, be calmed in sleep, Their conch-sh.e.l.ls never blow.[1]

Haste to that holy Isle with me, Haste--haste!

So near the track of the stars are we, That oft on night's pale beams The distant sounds of their harmony Come to our ear, like dreams.

Then haste to that holy Isle with me, etc.

The Moon too brings her world so nigh, That when the night-seer looks To that shadowless...o...b.. in a vernal sky, He can number its hills and brooks.

Then, haste, etc.

To the Sun-G.o.d all our hearts and lyres[2]

By day, by night, belong; And the breath we draw from his living fires, We give him back in song.

Then, haste, etc.

From us descends the maid who brings To Delos gifts divine; And our wild bees lend their rainbow wings To glitter on Delphi's shrine.

Then haste to that holy Isle with me, Haste--haste!

[1] On the Tower of the Winds, at Athens, there is a conch sh.e.l.l placed in the hands of Boreas.--See _Stuart's Antiquities_. "The north wind," says Herodotus, in speaking of the Hyperboreans, "never blows with them."

[2] Hecataeus tells us, that this Hyperborean island was dedicated to Apollo; and most of the inhabitants were either priests or songsters.

THOU BIDST ME SING.

Thou bidst me sing the lay I sung to thee In other days ere joy had left this brow; But think, tho' still unchanged the notes may be, How different feels the heart that breathes them now!

The rose thou wearst to-night is still the same We saw this morning on its stem so gay; But, ah! that dew of dawn, that breath which came Like life o'er all its leaves, hath past away.

Since first that music touched thy heart and mine, How many a joy and pain o'er both have past,-- The joy, a light too precious long to s.h.i.+ne,-- The pain, a cloud whose shadows always last.

And tho' that lay would like the voice of home Breathe o'er our ear, 'twould waken now a sigh-- Ah! not, as then, for fancied woes to come, But, sadder far, for real bliss gone by.

CUPID ARMED.

Place the helm on thy brow, In thy hand take the spear;-- Thou art armed, Cupid, now, And thy battle-hour is near.

March on! march on! thy shaft and bow Were weak against such charms; March on! march on! so proud a foe Scorns all but martial arms.

See the darts in her eyes, Tipt with scorn, how they s.h.i.+ne!

Every shaft, as it flies, Mocking proudly at thine.

March on! march on! thy feathered darts Soft bosoms soon might move; But ruder arms to ruder hearts Must teach what 'tis to love.

Place the helm on thy brow; In thy hand take the spear,-- Thou art armed, Cupid, now, And thy battle-hour is near.

ROUND THE WORLD GOES.

Round the world goes, by day and night, While with it also round go we; And in the flight of one day's light An image of all life's course we see.

Round, round, while thus we go round, The best thing a man can do, Is to make it, at least, a _merry_-go-round, By--sending the wine round too.

Our first gay stage of life is when Youth in its dawn salutes the eye-- Season of bliss! Oh, who wouldn't then Wish to cry, "Stop!" to earth and sky?

But, round, round, both boy and girl Are whisked thro' that sky of blue; And much would their hearts enjoy the whirl, If--their heads didn't whirl round too.

Next, we enjoy our glorious noon, Thinking all life a life of light; But shadows come on, 'tis evening soon, And ere we can say, "How short!"--'tis night.

Round, round, still all goes round, Even while I'm thus singing to you; And the best way to make it a _merry_-go-round, Is to--chorus my song round too.

OH, DO NOT LOOK SO BRIGHT AND BLEST.

Oh, do not look so bright and blest, For still there comes a fear, When brow like thine looks happiest, That grief is then most near.

There lurks a dread in all delight, A shadow near each ray, That warns us then to fear their flight, When most we wish their stay.

Then look not thou so bright and blest, For ah! there comes a fear, When brow like thine looks happiest, That grief is then most near.

Why is it thus that fairest things The soonest fleet and die?-- That when most light is on their wings, They're then but spread to fly!

And, sadder still, the pain will stay-- The bliss no more appears; As rainbows take their light away, And leave us but the tears!

Then look not thou so bright and blest, For ah! there comes a fear, When brow like thine looks happiest, That grief is then most near.

THE MUSICAL BOX.

"Look here," said Rose, with laughing eyes, "Within this box, by magic hid, "A tuneful Sprite imprisoned lies, "Who sings to me whene'er he's bid.