The Complete Poems of Sir Thomas Moore - LightNovelsOnl.com
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"Thus, in the vale of earthly sense, "Though sunk awhile the spirit lies, "A viewless hand shall cull it thence "To bloom immortal in the skies!"
All that the young should feel and know By thee was taught so sweetly well, Thy words fell soft as vernal snow, And all was brightness where they fell!
Fond soother of my infant tear, Fond sharer of my infant joy, Is not thy shade still lingering here?
Am I not still thy soul's employ?
Oh yes--and, as in former days, When, meeting on the sacred mount, Our nymphs awaked their choral lays, And danced around Ca.s.sotis' fount; As then, 'twas all thy wish and care, That mine should be the simplest mien, My lyre and voice the sweetest there, My foot the lightest o'er the green: So still, each look and step to mould, Thy guardian care is round me spread, Arranging every snowy fold And guiding every mazy tread.
And, when I lead the hymning choir, Thy spirit still, unseen and free, Hovers between my lip and lyre, And weds them into harmony.
Flow, Plistus, flow, thy murmuring wave Shall never drop its silvery tear Upon so pure, so blest a grave, To memory so entirely dear!
[1] The laurel, for the common uses of the temple, for adorning the altars and sweeping the pavement, was supplied by a tree near the fountain of Castalia; but upon all important occasions, they sent to Tempe for their laurel. We find, in Pausanias; that this valley supplied the branches, of which the temple was originally constructed; and Plutarch says, in his Dialogue on Music, "The youth who brings the Tempic laurel to Delphi is always attended by a player on the flute."
SYMPATHY.
TO JULIA.
--_sine me sit nulla Venus_.
SULPICIA.
Our hearts, my love, were formed to be The genuine twins of Sympathy, They live with one sensation; In joy or grief, but most in love, Like chords in unison they move, And thrill with like vibration.
How oft I've beard thee fondly say, Thy vital pulse shall cease to play When mine no more is moving; Since, now, to feel a joy _alone_ Were worse to thee than feeling none, So twined are we in loving!
THE TEAR.
On beds of snow the moonbeam slept, And chilly was the midnight gloom, When by the damp grave Ellen wept-- Fond maid! it was her Lindor's tomb!
A warm tear gushed, the wintry air, Congealed it as it flowed away: All night it lay an ice-drop there, At morn it glittered in the ray.
An angel, wandering from her sphere, Who saw this bright, this frozen gem, To dew-eyed Pity brought the tear And hung it on her diadem!
THE SNAKE.
My love and I, the other day, Within a myrtle arbor lay, When near us, from a rosy bed, A little Snake put forth its head.
"See," said the maid with thoughtful eyes-- "Yonder the fatal emblem lies!
"Who could expect such hidden harm "Beneath the rose's smiling charm?"
Never did grave remark occur Less _a-propos_ than this from her.
I rose to kill the snake, but she, Half-smiling, prayed it might not be.
"No," said the maiden--and, alas, Her eyes spoke volumes, while she said it-- "Long as the snake is in the gra.s.s, "One _may_, perhaps, have cause to dread it: "But, when its wicked eyes appear, "And when we know for what they wink so, "One must be _very_ simple, dear, "To let it wound one--don't you think so?"
TO ROSA.
Is the song of Rosa mute?
Once such lays inspired her lute!
Never doth a sweeter song Steal the breezy lyre along, When the wind, in odors dying, Woos it with enamor'd sighing.
Is my Rosa's lute unstrung?
Once a tale of peace it sung To her lover's throbbing breast-- Then was he divinely blest!
Ah! but Rosa loves no more, Therefore Rosa's song is o'er; And her lute neglected lies; And her boy forgotten sighs.
Silent lute--forgotten lover-- Rosa's love and song are over!
ELEGIAC STANZAS.
_Sic juvat perire_.
When wearied wretches sink to sleep, How heavenly soft their slumbers lie!
How sweet is death to those who weep, To those who weep and long to die!
Saw you the soft and gra.s.sy bed, Where flowrets deck the green earth's breast?
'Tis there I wish to lay my head, 'Tis there I wish to sleep at rest.
Oh, let not tears embalm my tomb,-- None but the dews at twilight given!
Oh, let not sighs disturb the gloom,-- None but the whispering winds of heaven!
