The Complete Poems of Sir Thomas Moore Part 142

And now they stept, with measured tread, Martially o'er the s.h.i.+ning field; Now to the mimic combat led (A heroine at each squadron's head), Struck lance to lance and sword to s.h.i.+eld: While still, thro' every varying feat, Their voices heard in contrast sweet With some of deep but softened sound From lips of aged sires around, Who smiling watched their children's play-- Thus sung the ancient Pyrrhic lay:--

SONG.

"Raise the buckler--poise the lance-- "Now here--now there--retreat--advance!"

Such were the sounds to which the warrior boy Danced in those happy days when Greece was free; When Sparta's youth, even in the hour of joy, Thus trained their steps to war and victory.

"Raise the buckler--poise the lance-- "Now here--now there--retreat--advance!"

Such was the Spartan warriors' dance.

"Grasp the falchion--gird the s.h.i.+eld-- "Attack--defend--do all but yield."

Thus did thy sons, oh Greece, one glorious night, Dance by a moon like this, till o'er the sea That morning dawned by whose immortal light They n.o.bly died for thee and liberty![11]

"Raise the buckler--poise the lance-- "Now here--now there--retreat--advance!"

Such was the Spartan heroes' dance.

Scarce had they closed this martial lay When, flinging their light spears away, The combatants, in broken ranks.

All breathless from the war-field fly; And down upon the velvet banks And flowery slopes exhausted lie, Like rosy huntresses of Thrace, Resting at sunset from the chase.

"Fond girls!" an aged Zean said-- One who himself had fought and bled, And now with feelings half delight, Half sadness, watched their mimic fight-- "Fond maids! who thus with War can jest-- "Like Love in Mar's helmet drest, "When, in his childish innocence, "Pleased with the shade that helmet flings, "He thinks not of the blood that thence "Is dropping o'er his snowy wings.

"Ay--true it is, young patriot maids, "If Honor's arm still won the fray, "If luck but shone on righteous blades, "War were a game for G.o.ds to play!

"But, no, alas!--hear one, who well "Hath tracked the fortunes of the brave-- "Hear _me_, in mournful ditty, tell "What glory waits the patriot's grave."

SONG.

As by the sh.o.r.e, at break of day, A vanquished chief expiring lay.

Upon the sands, with broken sword, He traced his farewell to the Free; And, there, the last unfinished word He dying wrote was "Liberty!"

At night a Sea-bird shrieked the knell Of him who thus for Freedom fell; The words he wrote, ere evening came, Were covered by the sounding sea;-- So pa.s.s away the cause and name Of him who dies for Liberty!

That tribute of subdued applause A charmed but timid audience pays, That murmur which a minstrel draws From hearts that feel but fear to praise, Followed this song, and left a pause Of silence after it, that hung Like a fixt spell on every tongue.

At length a low and tremulous sound Was heard from midst a group that round A bashful maiden stood to hide Her blushes while the lute she tried-- Like roses gathering round to veil The song of some young nightingale, Whose trembling notes steal out between The cl.u.s.tered leaves, herself unseen.

And while that voice in tones that more Thro' feeling than thro' weakness erred, Came with a stronger sweetness o'er The attentive ear, this strain was heard:--

SONG.

I saw from yonder silent cave,[12]

Two Fountains running side by side; The one was Memory's limpid wave, The other cold Oblivion's tide.

"Oh Love!" said I, in thoughtless mood, As deep I drank of Lethe's stream, "Be all my sorrows in this flood "Forgotten like a vanisht dream!"

But who could bear that gloomy blank Where joy was lost as well as pain?

Quickly of Memory's fount I drank.

And brought the past all back again; And said, "Oh Love! whate'er my lot, "Still let this soul to thee be true-- "Rather than have one bliss forgot, "Be all my pains remembered too!"

The group that stood around to shade The blushes of that bashful maid, Had by degrees as came the lay More strongly forth retired away, Like a fair sh.e.l.l whose valves divide To show the fairer pearl inside: For such she was--a creature, bright And delicate as those day-flowers, Which while they last make up in light And sweetness what they want in hours.

So rich upon the ear had grown Her voice's melody--its tone Gathering new courage as it found An echo in each bosom round-- That, ere the nymph with downcast eye Still on the chords, her lute laid by, "Another song," all lips exclaimed, And each some matchless favorite named; while blus.h.i.+ng as her fingers ran O'er the sweet chords she thus began:--

SONG.

Oh, Memory, how coldly Thou paintest joy gone by: Like rainbows, thy pictures But mournfully s.h.i.+ne and die.

Or if some tints thou keepest That former days recall, As o'er each line thou weepest, Thy tears efface them all.

But, Memory, too truly Thou paintest grief that's past; Joy's colors are fleeting, But those of Sorrow last.

And, while thou bringst before us Dark pictures of past ill, Life's evening closing o'er us But makes them darker still.

So went the moonlight hours along, In this sweet glade; and so with song And witching sounds--not such as they, The cymbalists of Ossa, played, To chase the moon's eclipse away,[13]

But soft and holy--did each maid Lighten her heart's eclipse awhile, And win back Sorrow to a smile.

Not far from this secluded place, On the sea-sh.o.r.e a ruin stood;-- A relic of the extinguisht race, Who once o'er that foamy flood, When fair Ioulis[14] by the light Of golden sunset on the sight Of mariners who sailed that sea, Rose like a city of chrysolite Called from the wave by witchery.

This ruin--now by barbarous hands Debased into a motley shed, Where the once splendid column stands Inverted on its leafy head-- Formed, as they tell in times of old The dwelling of that bard whose lay Could melt to tears the stern and cold, And sadden mid their mirth the gay-- Simonides,[15] whose fame thro' years And ages past still bright appears-- Like Hesperus, a star of tears!

'Twas. .h.i.ther now--to catch a view Of the white waters as they played Silently in the light--a few Of the more restless damsels strayed; And some would linger mid the scent Of hanging foliage that perfumed The ruined walls; while others went Culling whatever floweret bloomed

In the lone leafy s.p.a.ce between, Where gilded chambers once had been; Or, turning sadly to the sea, Sent o'er the wave a sigh unblest To some brave champion of the Free-- Thinking, alas, how cold might be At that still hour his place of rest!

Meanwhile there came a sound of song From the dark ruins--a faint strain, As if some echo that among Those minstrel halls had slumbered long Were murmuring into life again.

But, no--the nymphs knew well the tone-- A maiden of their train, who loved Like the night-bird to sing alone.

Had deep into those ruins roved, And there, all other thoughts forgot, Was warbling o'er, in lone delight, A lay that, on that very spot, Her lover sung one moonlight night:--

SONG.

Ah! where are they, who heard, in former hours, The voice of Song in these neglected bowers?

They are gone--all gone!

The youth who told his pain in such sweet tone That all who heard him wisht his pain their own-- He is gone--he is gone!

And she who while he sung sat listening by And thought to strains like these 'twere sweet to die-- She is gone--she too is gone!

'Tis thus in future hours some bard will say Of her who hears and him who sings this lay-- They are gone--they both are gone!