The Complete Poems of Sir Thomas Moore Part 26

TO THE LARGE AND BEAUTIFUL MISS......,

IN ALLUSION TO SOME PARTNERs.h.i.+P IN A LOTTERY SHARE

IMPROMPTU.

--_Ego Pars_--VIRG.

In wedlock a species of lottery lies, Where in blanks and in prizes we deal; But how comes it that you, such a capital prize, Should so long have remained in the wheel?

If ever, by Fortune's indulgent decree, To me such a ticket should roll, A sixteenth, Heaven knows! were sufficient for me; For what could _I_ do with the whole?

A DREAM.

I thought this heart enkindled lay On Cupid's burning shrine: I thought he stole thy heart away, And placed it near to mine.

I saw thy heart begin to melt, Like ice before the sun; Till both a glow congenial felt, And mingled into one!

TO .......

With all my soul, then, let us part, Since both are anxious to be free; And I will sand you home your heart, If you will send mine back to me.

We've had some happy hours together, But joy must often change its wing; And spring would be but gloomy weather, If we had nothing else but spring.

'Tis not that I expect to find A more devoted, fond and true one, With rosier cheek or sweeter mind-- Enough for me that she's a new one.

Thus let us leave the bower of love, Where we have loitered long in bliss; And you may down _that_ pathway rove, While I shall take my way through _this_.

ANACREONTIC.

"She never looked so kind before-- "Yet why the wanton's smile recall?

"I've seen this witchery o'er and o'er, "'Tis hollow, vain, and heartless all!"

Thus I said and, sighing drained The cup which she so late had tasted; Upon whose rim still fresh remained The breath, so oft in falsehood wasted.

I took the harp and would have sung As if 'twere not of her I sang; But still the notes on Lamia hung-- On whom but Lamia _could_ they hang?

Those eyes of hers, that floating s.h.i.+ne, Like diamonds in some eastern river; That kiss, for which, if worlds were mine, A world for every kiss I'd give her.

That frame so delicate, yet warmed With flushes of love's genial hue; A mould transparent, as if formed To let the spirit's light s.h.i.+ne through.

Of these I sung, and notes and words Were sweet, as if the very air From Lamia's lip hung o'er the chords, And Lamia's voice still warbled there!

But when, alas, I turned the theme, And when of vows and oaths I spoke, Of truth and hope's seducing dream-- The chord beneath my finger broke.

False harp! false woman! such, oh, such Are lutes too frail and hearts too willing; Any hand, whate'er its touch, Can set their chords or pulses thrilling.

And when that thrill is most awake, And when you think Heaven's joys await you, The nymph will change, the chord will break-- Oh Love, oh Music, how I hate you!

TO JULIA.

I saw the peasant's hand unkind From yonder oak the ivy sever; They seemed in very being twined; Yet now the oak is fresh as ever!

Not so the widowed ivy s.h.i.+nes: Torn from its dear and only stay, In drooping widowhood it pines, And scatters all its bloom away.

Thus, Julia, did our hearts entwine, Till Fate disturbed their tender ties: Thus gay indifference blooms in thine, While mine, deserted, droops and dies!

HYMN OF A VIRGIN OF DELPHI,

AT THE TOMB OF HER MOTHER.

Oh, lost, forever lost--no more Shall Vesper light our dewy way Along the rocks of Crissa's sh.o.r.e, To hymn the fading fires of day; No more to Tempe's distant vale In holy musings shall we roam, Through summer's glow and winter's gale, To bear the mystic chaplets home.[1]

'Twas then my soul's expanding zeal, By nature warmed and led by thee, In every breeze was taught to feel The breathings of a Deity.

Guide of my heart! still hovering round.

Thy looks, thy words are still my own-- I see thee raising from the ground Some laurel, by the winds o'er thrown.

And hear thee say, "This humble bough Was planted for a doom divine; And, though it droop in languor now, Shall flourish on the Delphic shrine!"