The Complete Poems of Sir Thomas Moore - LightNovelsOnl.com
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In myrtle wreaths my votive sword I'll cover, Like them of old whose one immortal blow Struck off the galling fetters that hung over Their own bright land, and laid her tyrant low.
Yes, loved Harmodius, thou'rt undying; Still midst the brave and free, In isles, o'er ocean lying, Thy home shall ever be.
In myrtle leaves my sword shall hide its lightning, Like his, the youth, whose ever-glorious blade Leapt forth like flame, the midnight banquet brightening;'
And in the dust a despot victim laid.
Blest youths; how bright in Freedom's story Your wedded names shall be; A tyrant's death your glory, Your meed, a nation free!
JUVENILE POEMS.
1801.
TO JOSEPH ATKINSON, ESQ.
MY DEAR SIR,
I feel a very sincere pleasure in dedicating to you the Second Edition of our friend LITTLE'S Poems. I am not unconscious that there are many in the collection which perhaps it would be prudent to have altered or omitted; and, to say the truth, I more than once revised them for that purpose; but, I know not why, I distrusted either my heart or my judgment; and the consequence is you have them in their original form:
_non possunt nostros multae, Faustine, liturae emendare jocos; una litura potest_.
I am convinced, however, that, though not quite a _casuiste relache_, you have charity enough to forgive such inoffensive follies: you know that the pious Beza was not the less revered for those sportive Juvenilia which he published under a fict.i.tious name; nor did the levity of Bembo's poems prevent him from making a very good cardinal.
Believe me, my dear friend.
With the truest esteem,
Yours,
T. M.
_April 19, 1802_
JUVENILE POEMS
FRAGMENTS OF COLLEGE EXERCISES.
_n.o.bilitas sola est atque unica virtus_.--JUV.
Mark those proud boasters of a splendid line, Like gilded ruins, mouldering while they s.h.i.+ne, How heavy sits that weight, of alien show, Like martial helm upon an infant's brow; Those borrowed splendors whose contrasting light Throws back the native shades in deeper night.
Ask the proud train who glory's train pursue, Where are the arts by which that glory grew?
The genuine virtues with that eagle-gaze Sought young Renown in all her orient blaze!
Where is the heart by chymic truth refined, The exploring soul whose eye had read mankind?
Where are the links that twined, with heavenly art, His country's interest round the patriot's heart?
_Justum bellum quibus necessarium, et pia arma quibus nulla nisi in armis relinquitur spes_.--LIVY.
Is there no call, no consecrating cause Approved by Heav'n, ordained by nature's laws, Where justice flies the herald of our way, And truth's pure beams upon the banners play?
Yes, there's a call sweet as an angel's breath To slumbering babes or innocence in death; And urgent as the tongue of Heaven within, When the mind's balance trembles upon sin.
Oh! 'tis our country's voice, whose claim should meet An echo in the soul's most deep retreat; Along the heart's responding chords should run, Nor let a tone there vibrate--but the one!
VARIETY.
Ask what prevailing, pleasing power Allures the sportive, wandering bee To roam untired, from flower to flower, He'll tell you, 'tis variety.
Look Nature round; her features trace, Her seasons, all her changes see; And own, upon Creation's face, The greatest charm's variety.
For me, ye gracious powers above!
Still let me roam, unfixt and free; In all things,--but the nymph I love I'll change, and taste variety.
But, Patty, not a world of charms Could e'er estrange my heart from thee;-- No, let me ever seek those arms.
There still I'll find variety.
