The Complete Poems of Sir Thomas Moore Part 130

TO CAROLINE, VISCOUNTESS VALLETORT.

WRITTEN AT LAc.o.c.k ABBEY, JANUARY, 1832.

When I would sing thy beauty's light, Such various forms, and all so bright, I've seen thee, from thy childhood, wear, I know not which to call most fair, Nor 'mong the countless charms that spring For ever round thee, _which_ to sing.

When I would paint thee as thou _art_, Then all thou _wert_ comes o'er my heart-- The graceful child in Beauty's dawn Within the nursery's shade withdrawn, Or peeping out--like a young moon Upon a world 'twill brighten soon.

Then next in girlhood's blus.h.i.+ng hour, As from thy own loved Abbey-tower I've seen thee look, all radiant, down, With smiles that to the h.o.a.ry frown Of centuries round thee lent a ray, Chasing even Age's gloom away;-- Or in the world's resplendent throng, As I have markt thee glide along, Among the crowds of fair and great A spirit, pure and separate, To which even Admiration's eye Was fearful to approach too nigh;-- A creature circled by a spell Within which nothing wrong could dwell; And fresh and clear as from the source.

Holding through life her limpid course, Like Arethusa thro' the sea, Stealing in fountain purity.

Now, too, another change of light!

As n.o.ble bride, still meekly bright Thou bring'st thy Lord a dower above All earthly price, pure woman's love; And showd'st what l.u.s.tre Rank receives, When with his proud Corinthian leaves Her rose this high-bred Beauty weaves.

Wonder not if, where all's so fair, To choose were more than bard can dare; Wonder not if, while every scene I've watched thee thro' so bright hath been, The enamored muse should, in her quest Of beauty, know not where to rest, But, dazzled, at thy feet thus fall, Hailing thee beautiful in all!

A SPECULATION.

Of all speculations the market holds forth, The best that I know for a lover of pelf, Is to buy Marcus up, at the price he is worth, And then sell him at that which he sets on himself.

TO MY MOTHER.

WRITTEN IN A POCKET BOOK, 1822.

They tell us of an Indian tree, Which, howsoe'er the sun and sky May tempt its boughs to wander free, And shoot and blossom wide and high, Far better loves to bend its arms Downward again to that dear earth, From which the life that, fills and warms Its grateful being, first had birth.

'Tis thus, tho' wooed by flattering friends, And fed with fame (_if_ fame it be) This heart, my own dear mother, bends, With love's true instinct, back to thee!

LOVE AND HYMEN.

Love had a fever--ne'er could close His little eyes till day was breaking; And wild and strange enough, Heaven knows, The things he raved about while waking.

To let him pine so were a sin;-- One to whom all the world's a debtor-- So Doctor Hymen was called in, And Love that night slept rather better.

Next day the case gave further hope yet, Tho' still some ugly fever latent;-- "Dose, as before"--a gentle opiate.

For which old Hymen has a patent.

After a month of daily call, So fast the dose went on restoring, That Love, who first ne'er slept at all, Now took, the rogue! to downright snoring.

LINES ON THE ENTRY OF THE AUSTRIANS INTO NAPLES, 1821.

_carbone notati_.

Ay--down to the dust with them, slaves as they are, From this hour let the blood in their dastardly veins, That shrunk at the first touch of Liberty's war, Be wasted for tyrants, or stagnate in chains.

On, on like a cloud, thro' their beautiful vales, Ye locusts of tyranny, blasting them o'er-- Fill, fill up their wide sunny waters, ye sails From each slave-mart of Europe and shadow their sh.o.r.e!

Let their fate be a mock-word--let men of all lands Laugh out with a scorn that shall ring to the poles, When each sword that the cowards let fall from their hands Shall be forged into fetters to enter their souls.

And deep, and more deep, as the iron is driven, Base slaves! let the whet of their agony be, To think--as the Doomed often think of that heaven They had once within reach--that they _might_ have been free.

Oh shame! when there was not a bosom whose heat Ever rose 'bove the _zero_ of Castlereagh's heart.

That did not, like echo, your war-hymn repeat, And send all its prayers with your Liberty's start;

When the world stood in hope--when a spirit that breathed The fresh air of the olden time whispered about; And the swords of all Italy, halfway unsheathed, But waited one conquering cry to flash out!

When around you the shades of your Mighty in fame, FILICAJAS and PETRARCHS, seemed bursting to view, And their words and their warnings, like tongues of bright flame Over Freedom's apostles, fell kindling on you!

Oh shame! that in such a proud moment of life Worth the history of ages, when, had you but hurled One bolt at your tyrant invader, that strife Between freemen and tyrants had spread thro' the world--

That then--oh! disgrace upon manhood--even then, You should falter, should cling to your pitiful breath; Cower down into beasts, when you might have stood men, And prefer the slave's life of prostration to death.

It is strange, it is dreadful:--shout, Tyranny, shout Thro' your dungeons and palaces, "Freedom is o'er;"-- If there lingers one spark of her light, tread it out, And return to your empire of darkness once more.

For if _such_ are the braggarts that claim to be free, Come, Despot of Russia, thy feet let me kiss; Far n.o.bler to live the brute bondman of thee, Than to sully even chains by a struggle like this!

SCEPTICISM.