The Complete Poems of Sir Thomas Moore Part 28

LOVE AND MARRIAGE.

_Eque brevi verbo ferre perenne malum_.

SECUNDUS, eleg. vii.

Still the question I must parry, Still a wayward truant prove: Where I love, I must not marry; Where I marry, can not love.

Were she fairest of creation, With the least presuming mind; Learned without affectation; Not deceitful, yet refined;

Wise enough, but never rigid; Gay, but not too lightly free; Chaste as snow, and yet not frigid: Fond, yet satisfied with me:

Were she all this ten times over, All that heaven to earth allows.

I should be too much her lover Ever to become her spouse.

Love will never bear enslaving; Summer garments suit him best; Bliss itself is not worth having, If we're by compulsion blest.

ANACREONTIC.

I filled to thee, to thee I drank, I nothing did but drink and fill; The bowl by turns was bright and blank, 'Twas drinking, filling, drinking still.

At length I bade an artist paint Thy image in this ample cup, That I might see the dimpled saint, To whom I quaffed my nectar up.

Behold, how bright that purple lip Now blushes through the wave at me; Every roseate drop I sip Is just like kissing wine from thee.

And still I drink the more for this; For, ever when the draught I drain, Thy lip invites another kiss, And--in the nectar flows again.

So, here's to thee, my gentle dear, And may that eyelid never s.h.i.+ne Beneath a darker, bitterer tear Than bathes it in this bowl of mine!

THE SURPRISE.

Chloris, I swear, by all I ever swore, That from this hour I shall not love thee more.-- "What! love no more? Oh! why this altered vow?"

Because I _can not_ love thee _more_ --than _now_!

TO MISS .......

ON HER ASKING THE AUTHOR WHY SHE HAD SLEEPLESS NIGHTS.

I'll ask the sylph who round thee flies, And in thy breath his pinion dips, Who suns him in thy radiant eyes, And faints upon thy sighing lips:

I'll ask him where's the veil of sleep That used to shade thy looks of light; And why those eyes their vigil keep When other suns are sunk in night?

And I will say--her angel breast Has never throbbed with guilty sting; Her bosom is the sweetest nest Where Slumber could repose his wing!

And I will say--her cheeks that flush, Like vernal roses in the sun, Have ne'er by shame been taught to blush, Except for what her eyes have done!

Then tell me, why, thou child of air!

Does slumber from her eyelids rove?

What is her heart's impa.s.sioned care?

Perhaps, oh sylph! perhaps, 'tis _love_.

THE WONDER.

Come, tell me where the maid is found.

Whose heart can love without deceit, And I will range the world around, To sigh one moment at her feet.

Oh! tell me where's her sainted home, What air receives her blessed sigh, A pilgrimage of years I'll roam To catch one sparkle of her eye!

And if her cheek be smooth and bright, While truth within her bosom lies, I'll gaze upon her morn and night, Till my heart leave me through my eyes.

Show me on earth a thing so rare, I'll own all miracles are true; To make one maid sincere and fair, Oh, 'tis the utmost Heaven can do!

LYING.