The Complete Poems of Sir Thomas Moore Part 144

CHORUS.

Blest be Love to whom we owe, All that's fair and bright below.

Song was cold and Painting dim Till Song and Painting learned from him.

Soon as the scene had closed, a cheer Of gentle voices old and young Rose from the groups that stood to hear This tale of yore so aptly sung; And while some nymphs in haste to tell The workers of that fairy spell How crowned with praise their task had been Stole in behind the curtained scene, The rest in happy converse strayed-- Talking that ancient love-tale o'er-- Some to the groves that skirt the glade, Some to the chapel by the sh.o.r.e, To look what lights were on the sea.

And think of the absent silently.

But soon that summons known so well Thro' bower and hall in Eastern lands, Whose sound more sure than gong or bell Lovers and slaves alike commands,-- The clapping of young female hands, Calls back the groups from rock and field To see some new-formed scene revealed;-- And fleet and eager down the slopes Of the green glades like antelopes When in their thirst they hear the sound Of distant rills, the light nymphs bound.

Far different now the scene--a waste Of Libyan sands, by moonlight's ray; An ancient well, whereon were traced The warning words, for such as stray Unarmed there, "Drink and away!"[20]

While near it from the night-ray screened, And like his bells in husht repose, A camel slept--young as if weaned When last the star Canopus rose.[21]

Such was the back-ground's silent scene;-- While nearer lay fast slumbering too In a rude tent with brow serene A youth whose cheeks of wayworn hue And pilgrim-bonnet told the tale That he had been to Mecca's Vale: Haply in pleasant dreams, even now Thinking the long wished hour is come When o'er the well-known porch at home His hand shall hang the aloe bough-- Trophy of his accomplished vow.[22]

But brief his dream--for now the call Of the camp-chiefs from rear to van, "Bind on your burdens,"[23] wakes up all The widely slumbering caravan; And thus meanwhile to greet the ear Of the young pilgrim as he wakes, The song of one who lingering near Had watched his slumber, cheerly breaks.

SONG.

Up and march! the timbrel's sound Wakes the slumbering camp around; Fleet thy hour of rest hath gone, Armed sleeper, up, and on!

Long and weary is our way O'er the burning sands to-day; But to pilgrim's homeward feet Even the desert's path is sweet.

When we lie at dead of night, Looking up to heaven's light, Hearing but the watchman?s tone Faintly chanting "G.o.d is one,"[24]

Oh what thoughts then o'er us come Of our distant village home, Where that chant when evening sets Sounds from all the minarets.

Cheer thee!--soon shall signal lights, Kindling o'er the Red Sea heights, Kindling quick from man to man, Hail our coming caravan:[25]

Think what bliss that hour will be!

Looks of home again to see, And our names again to hear Murmured out by voices dear.

So past the desert dream away, Fleeting as his who heard this lay, Nor long the pause between, nor moved The spell-bound audience from that spot; While still as usual Fancy roved On to the joy that yet was not;-- Fancy who hath no present home, But builds her bower in scenes to come, Walking for ever in a light That flows from regions out of sight.

But see by gradual dawn descried A mountain realm-rugged as e'er Upraised to heaven its summits bare, Or told to earth with frown of pride That Freedom's falcon nest was there, Too high for hand of lord or king To hood her brow, or chain her wing.

'Tis Maina's land--her ancient hills, The abode of nymphs--her countless rills And torrents in their downward dash s.h.i.+ning like silver thro' the shade Of the sea-pine and flowering ash-- All with a truth so fresh portrayed As wants but touch of life to be A world of warm reality.

And now light bounding forth a band Of mountaineers, all smiles, advance-- Nymphs with their lovers hand in hand Linked in the Ariadne dance; And while, apart from that gay throng, A minstrel youth in varied song Tells of the loves, the joys, the ills Of these wild children of the hills, The rest by turns or fierce or gay As war or sport inspires the lay Follow each change that wakes the strings And act what thus the lyrist sings:--

SONG.

No life is like the mountaineer's, His home is near the sky, Where throned above this world he hears Its strife at distance die, Or should the sound of hostile drum Proclaim below, "We come--we come,"

Each crag that towers in air Gives answer, "Come who dare!"

While like bees from dell and dingle, Swift the swarming warriors mingle, And their cry "Hurra!" will be, "Hurra, to victory!"

Then when battle's hour is over See the happy mountain lover With the nymph who'll soon be bride Seated blus.h.i.+ng by his side,-- Every shadow of his lot In her sunny smile forgot.

Oh, no life is like the mountaineer's.

His home is near the sky, Where throned above this world he hears Its strife at distance die.

Nor only thus thro' summer suns His blithe existence cheerly runs-- Even winter bleak and dim Brings joyous hours to him; When his rifle behind him flinging He watches the roe-buck springing, And away, o'er the hills away Re-echoes his glad "hurra."

Then how blest when night is closing, By the kindled hearth reposing, To his rebeck's drowsy song, He beguiles the hour along; Or provoked by merry glances To a brisker movement dances, Till, weary at last, in slumber's chain, He dreams o'er chase and dance again, Dreams, dreams them o'er again.

As slow that minstrel at the close Sunk while he sung to feigned repose, Aptly did they whose mimic art Followed the changes of his lay Portray the lull, the nod, the start, Thro' which as faintly died away His lute and voice, the minstrel past, Till voice and lute lay husht at last.

But now far other song came o'er Their startled ears--song that at first As solemnly the night-wind bore Across the wave its mournful burst, Seemed to the fancy like a dirge Of some lone Spirit of the Sea, Singing o'er h.e.l.le's ancient surge The requiem of her Brave and Free.

Sudden amid their pastime pause The wondering nymphs; and as the sound Of that strange music nearer draws, With mute inquiring eye look round, Asking each other what can be The source of this sad minstrelsy?

Nor longer can they doubt, the song Comes from some island-bark which now Courses the bright waves swift along And soon perhaps beneath the brow Of the Saint's Bock will shoot its prow.

Instantly all with hearts that sighed 'Twixt fear's and fancy's influence, Flew to the rock and saw from thence A red-sailed pinnace towards them glide, Whose shadow as it swept the spray Scattered the moonlight's smiles away.

Soon as the mariners saw that throng From the cliff gazing, young and old, Sudden they slacked their sail and song, And while their pinnace idly rolled On the light surge, these tidings told:--

'Twas from an isle of mournful name, From Missolonghi, last they came-- Sad Missolonghi sorrowing yet O'er him, the n.o.blest Star of Fame That e'er in life's young glory set!-- And now were on their mournful way, Wafting the news thro' h.e.l.le's isles;-- News that would cloud even Freedom's ray And sadden Victory mid her smiles.

Their tale thus told and heard with pain, Out spread the galliot's wings again; And as she sped her swift career Again that Hymn rose on the ear-- "Thou art not dead--thou art not dead!"

As oft 'twas sung in ages flown Of him, the Athenian, who to shed A tyrant's blood poured out his own.

SONG.

Thou art not dead--thou art not dead!

No, dearest Harmodius, no.

Thy soul to realms above us fled Tho' like a star it dwells o'er head Still lights this world below.

Thou art _not_ dead--thou art not dead!

No, dearest Harmodius, no.

Thro' isles of light where heroes tread And flowers ethereal blow, Thy G.o.d-like Spirit now is led, Thy lip with life ambrosial fed Forgets all taste of woe.

Thou art not dead--thou art not dead!

No, dearest Harmodius, no.

The myrtle round that falchion spread Which struck the immortal blow, Throughout all time with leaves unshed-- The patriot's hope, the tyrant's dread-- Round Freedom's shrine shall grow.

Thou art not dead--thou art not dead!

No, dearest Harmodius, no.

Where hearts like thine have broke or bled, Tho' quenched the vital glow, Their memory lights a flame instead, Which even from out the narrow bed Of death its beams shall throw.

Thou art not dead--thou art not dead!

No, dearest Harmodius, no.