The Complete Poems of Sir Thomas Moore Part 139

And now the set hath ceased--the bows Of fiddlers taste a brief repose, While light along the painted floor, Arm within arm, the couples stray, Talking their stock of nothings o'er, Till--nothing's left at last to say.

When lo!--most opportunely sent-- Two Exquisites, a he and she, Just brought from Dandyland, and meant For Fas.h.i.+on's grand Menagerie, Entered the room--and scarce were there When all flocked round them, glad to stare At _any_ monsters, _any_ where.

Some thought them perfect, to their tastes; While others hinted that the waists (That in particular of the _he_ thing) Left far too ample room for breathing: Whereas, to meet these critics' wishes, The isthmus there should be so small, That Exquisites, at last, like fishes, Must manage not to breathe at all.

The female (these same critics said), Tho' orthodox from toe to chin, Yet lacked that s.p.a.cious width of head To hat of toadstool much akin-- That build of bonnet, whose extent Should, like a doctrine of dissent, Puzzle church-doors to let it in.

However--sad as 'twas, no doubt, That nymph so smart should go about, With head unconscious of the place It _ought_ to fill in Infinite s.p.a.ce-- Yet all allowed that, of her kind, A prettier show 'twas hard to find; While of that doubtful genus, "dressy men,"

The male was thought a first-rate specimen.

Such _Savans_, too, as wisht to trace The manners, habits, of this race-- To know what rank (if rank at all) 'Mong reasoning things to them should fall-- What sort of notions heaven imparts To high-built heads and tight-laced hearts And how far Soul, which, Plato says, Abhors restraint, can act in stays-- Might now, if gifted with discerning, Find opportunities of learning: As these two creatures--from their pout And frown, 'twas plain--had just fallen out; And all their little thoughts, of course.

Were stirring in full fret and force;-- Like mites, through microscope espied, A world of nothings magnified.

But mild the vent such beings seek, The tempest of their souls to speak: As Opera swains to fiddles sigh, To fiddles fight, to fiddles die, Even so this tender couple set Their well-bred woes to a Duet.

WALTZ DUET.

HE.

Long as I waltzed with only thee, Each blissful Wednesday that went by, Nor stylish Stultz, nor neat Nugee Adorned a youth so blest as I.

Oh! ah! ah! oh!

Those happy days are gone--heigho!

SHE.

Long as with thee I skimmed the ground, Nor yet was scorned for Lady Jane, No blither nymph tetotumed round To Collinet's immortal strain.

Oh! ah! etc.

Those happy days are gone--heigho!

HE.

With Lady Jane now whirled about, I know no bounds of time or breath; And, should the charmer's head hold out, My heart and heels are hers till death.

Oh! ah! etc.

Still round and round thro' life we'll go.

SHE.

To Lord Fitznoodle's eldest son, A youth renowned for waistcoats smart, I now have given (excuse the pun) A vested interest in my heart.

Oh! ah! etc.

Still round and round with him I'll go.

HE.

What if by fond remembrance led Again to wear our mutual chain.

For me thou cut'st Fitznoodle dead, And I _levant_ from Lady Jane.

Oh! ah! etc.

Still round and round again we'll go.

SHE.

Tho' he the Noodle honors give, And thine, dear youth, are not so high, With thee in endless waltz I'd live, With thee, to Weber's Stop-- Waltz, die!

Oh! ah! etc.

Thus round and round thro' life we'll go.

[_Exeunt waltzing_.

While thus, like motes that dance away Existence in a summer ray, These gay things, born but to quadrille, The circle of their doom fulfil-- (That dancing doom whose law decrees That they should live on the alert toe A life of ups-and-downs, like keys Of Broadwood's in a long concerto:--) While thus the fiddle's spell, _within_, Calls up its realm of restless sprites.

_Without_, as if some Mandarin Were holding there his Feast of Lights, Lamps of all hues, from walks and bowers, Broke on the eye, like kindling flowers, Till, budding into light, each tree Bore its full fruit of brilliancy.

Here shone a garden-lamps all o'er, As tho' the Spirits of the Air Had taken it in their heads to pour A shower of summer meteors there;-- While here a lighted shrubbery led To a small lake that sleeping lay, Cradled in foliage but, o'er-head, Open to heaven's sweet breath and ray; While round its rim there burning stood Lamps, with young flowers beside them bedded, That shrunk from such warm neighborhood, And, looking bashful in the flood, Blushed to behold themselves so wedded.

Hither, to this embowered retreat, Fit but for nights so still and sweet; Nights, such as Eden's calm recall In its first lonely hour, when all So silent is, below, on high, That is a star falls down the sky, You almost think you hear it fall-- Hither, to this recess, a few, To shun the dancers' wildering noise, And give an hour, ere night-time flew, To music's more ethereal joys, Came with their voices-ready all As Echo waiting for a call-- In hymn or ballad, dirge or glee, To weave their mingling ministrelsy, And first a dark-eyed nymph, arrayed-- Like her whom Art hath deathless made, Bright Mona Lisa[4]--with that braid Of hair across the brow, and one Small gem that in the centre shone-- With face, too, in its form resembling Da Vinci's Beauties-the dark eyes, Now lucid as thro' crystal trembling, Now soft as if suffused with sighs-- Her lute that hung beside her took, And, bending o'er it with shy look, More beautiful, in shadow thus, Than when with life most luminous, Past her light finger o'er the chords, And sung to them these mournful words:--

SONG.

Bring hither, bring thy lute, while day is dying-- Here will I lay me and list to thy song; Should tones of other days mix with its sighing, Tones of a light heart, now banisht so long, Chase them away-they bring but pain, And let thy theme be woe again.

Sing on thou mournful lute--day is fast going, Soon will its light from thy chords die away; One little gleam in the west is still glowing, When that hath vanisht, farewell to thy lay.

Mark, how it fades!-see, it is fled!

Now, sweet lute, be thou, too, dead.

The group that late in garb of Greeks Sung their light chorus o'er the tide-- Forms, such as up the wooded creeks Of h.e.l.le's sh.o.r.e at noon-day glide, Or nightly on her glistening sea, Woo the bright waves with melody-- Now linked their triple league again Of voices sweet, and sung a strain, Such as, had Sappho's tuneful ear But caught it, on the fatal steep, She would have paused, entranced, to hear, And for that day deferred her leap.

SONG AND TRIO.

On one of those sweet nights that oft Their l.u.s.tre o'er the AEgean fling, Beneath my cas.e.m.e.nt, low and soft, I heard a Lesbian lover sing; And, listening both with ear and thought, These sounds upon the night breeze caught-- "Oh, happy as the G.o.ds is he, "Who gazes at this hour on thee!"

The song was one by Sappho sung, In the first love-dreams of her lyre, When words of pa.s.sion from her tongue Fell like a shower of living fire.

And still, at close of every strain, I heard these burning words again-- "Oh, happy as the G.o.ds is he, "Who listens at this hour to thee!"

Once more to Mona Lisa turned Each asking eye--nor turned in vain Tho' the quick, transient blush that burned Bright o'er her cheek and died again, Showed with what inly shame and fear Was uttered what all loved to hear.

Yet not to sorrow's languid lay Did she her lute-song now devote; But thus, with voice that like a ray Of southern suns.h.i.+ne seemed to float-- So rich with climate was each note-- Called up in every heart a dream Of Italy with this soft theme:--

SONG.

Oh, where art thou dreaming, On land, or on sea?

In my lattice is gleaming The watch-light for thee;

And this fond heart is glowing To welcome thee home, And the night is fast going, But thou art not come: No, thou com'st not!

'Tis the time when night-flowers Should wake from their rest; 'Tis the hour of all hours, When the lute singeth best, But the flowers are half sleeping Till _thy_ glance they see; And the husht lute is keeping Its music for thee.

Yet, thou com'st not!

Scarce had the last word left her lip, When a light, boyish form, with trip Fantastic, up the green walk came, Prankt in gay vest to which the flame Of every lamp he past, or blue Or green or crimson, lent its hue; As tho' a live chameleon's skin He had despoiled, to robe him in.

A zone he wore of clattering sh.e.l.ls, And from his lofty cap, where shone A peac.o.c.k's plume, there dangled bells That rung as he came dancing on.

Close after him, a page--in dress And shape, his miniature express-- An ample basket, filled with store Of toys and trinkets, laughing bore; Till, having reached this verdant seat, He laid it at his master's feet, Who, half in speech and half in song, Chanted this invoice to the throng:--