The Complete Poems of Sir Thomas Moore Part 47

TO FRANCIS, EARL OF MOIRA.

GENERAL IN HIS MAJESTY'S FORCES, MASTER-GENERAL OF THE ORDNANCE, CONSTABLE OF THE TOWER, ETC.

MY LORD,

It is impossible to think of addressing a Dedication to your Lords.h.i.+p without calling to mind the well-known reply of the Spartan to a rhetorician, who proposed to p.r.o.nounce an eulogium on Hercules. "Oh Hercules!" said the honest Spartan, "who ever thought of blaming Hercules?" In a similar manner the concurrence of public opinion has left to the panegyrist of your Lords.h.i.+p a very superfluous task. I shall, therefore, be silent on the subject, and merely entreat your indulgence to the very humble tribute of grat.i.tude which I have here the honor to present.

I am, my Lord, With every feeling of attachment and respect, Your Lords.h.i.+p's very devoted Servant,

THOMAS MOORE.

_37 Bury Street, St. James's, April 10, 1806_.

PREFACE.[1]

The princ.i.p.al poems in the following collection were written during an absence of fourteen months from Europe. Though curiosity was certainly not the motive of my voyage to America, yet it happened that the gratification of curiosity was the only advantage which I derived from it. Finding myself in the country of a new people, whose infancy had promised so much, and whose progress to maturity has been an object of such interesting speculation, I determined to employ the short period of time, which my plan of return to Europe afforded me, in travelling through a few of the States, and acquiring some knowledge of the inhabitants.

The impression which my mind received from the character and manners of these republicans, suggested the Epistles which are written from the city of Was.h.i.+ngton and Lake Erie.[2] How far I was right in thus a.s.suming the tone of a satirist against a people whom I viewed but as a stranger and a visitor, is a doubt which my feelings did not allow me time to investigate. All I presume to answer for is the fidelity of the picture which I have given; and though prudence might have dictated gentler language, truth, I think, would have justified severer.

I went to America with prepossessions by no means unfavorable, and indeed rather indulged in many of those illusive ideas, with respect to the purity of the government and the primitive happiness of the people, which I had early imbibed In my native country, where, unfortunately, discontent at home enhances every distant temptation, and the western world has long been looked to as a retreat from real or imaginary oppression; as, in short, the elysian Atlantis, where persecuted patriots might find their visions realized, and be welcomed by kindred spirits to liberty and repose. In all these flattering expectations I found myself completely disappointed, and felt inclined to say to America, as Horace says to his mistress, "_intentata nites_." Brissot, in the preface to his travels, observes, that "freedom in that country is carried to so high a degree as to border upon a state of nature;" and there certainly is a close approximation to savage life not only in the liberty which they enjoy, but in the violence of party spirit and of private animosity which results from it. This illiberal zeal imbitters all social intercourse; and, though I scarcely could hesitate in selecting the party, whose views appeared to me the more pure and rational, yet I was sorry to observe that, in a.s.serting their opinions, they both a.s.sume an equal share of intolerance; the Democrats consistently with their principles, exhibiting a vulgarity of rancor, which the Federalists too often are so forgetful of their cause as to imitate.

The rude familiarity of the lower orders, and indeed the unpolished state of society in general, would neither surprise nor disgust if they seemed to flow from that simplicity of character, that honest ignorance of the gloss of refinement which may be looked for in a new and inexperienced people. But, when we find them arrived at maturity in most of the vices, and all the pride of civilization, while they are still so far removed from its higher and better characteristics, it is impossible not to feel that this youthful decay, this crude antic.i.p.ation of the natural period of corruption, must repress every sanguine hope of the future energy and greatness of America.

I am conscious that, in venturing these few remarks, I have said just enough to offend, and by no means sufficient to convince; for the limits of a preface prevent me from entering into a justification of my opinions, and I am committed on the subject as effectually as if I had written volumes in their defence. My reader, however, is apprised of the very cursory observation upon which these opinions are founded, and can easily decide for himself upon the degree of attention or confidence which they merit.

With respect to the poems in general, which occupy the following pages, I know not in what manner to apologize to the public for intruding upon their notice such a ma.s.s of unconnected trifles, such a world of epicurean atoms as I have here brought in conflict together. To say that I have been tempted by the liberal offers of my bookseller, is an excuse which can hope for but little indulgence from the critic; yet I own that, without this seasonable inducement, these poems very possibly would never have been submitted to the world. The glare of publication is too strong for such imperfect productions: they should be shown but to the eye of friends.h.i.+p, in that dim light of privacy which is as favorable to poetical as to female beauty, and serves as a veil for faults, while it enhances every charm which it displays. Besides, this is not a period for the idle occupations of poetry, and times like the present require talents more active and more useful. Few have now the leisure to read such trifles, and I most sincerely regret that I have had the leisure to write them.

[1] This Preface, as well as the Dedication which precedes it, were prefixed originally to the miscellaneous volume ent.i.tled "Odes and Epistles," of which, hitherto, the poems relating to my American tour have formed a part.

[2] Epistles VI., VII., and VIII.

POEMS RELATING TO AMERICA.

TO LORD VISCOUNT STRANGFORD.

ABOARD THE PHAETON FRIGATE, OFF THE AZORES, BY MOONLIGHT.

Sweet Moon! if, like Crotona's sage,[1]

By any spell my hand could dare To make thy disk its ample page, And write my thoughts, my wishes there; How many a friend, whose careless eye Now wanders o'er that starry sky, Should smile, upon thy orb to meet The recollection, kind and sweet, The reveries of fond regret, The promise, never to forget, And all my heart and soul would send To many a dear-loved, distant friend.

How little, when we parted last, I thought those pleasant times were past, For ever past, when brilliant joy Was all my vacant heart's employ: When, fresh from mirth to mirth again, We thought the rapid hours too few; Our only use for knowledge then To gather bliss from all we knew.

Delicious days of whim and soul!

When, mingling lore and laugh together, We leaned the book on Pleasure's bowl, And turned the leaf with Folly's feather.

Little I thought that all were fled, That, ere that summer's bloom was shed, My eye should see the sail unfurled That wafts me to the western world.

And yet, 'twas time;--in youth's sweet days, To cool that season's glowing rays, The heart awhile, with wanton wing, May dip and dive in Pleasure's spring; But, if it wait for winter's breeze, The spring will chill, the heart will freeze.

And then, that Hope, that fairy Hope,-- Oh! she awaked such happy dreams, And gave my soul such tempting scope For all its dearest, fondest schemes, _That not Verona's child of song_, When flying from the Phrygian sh.o.r.e, With lighter heart could bound along, Or pant to be a wanderer more!

Even now delusive hope will steal Amid the dark regrets I feel, Soothing, as yonder placid beam Pursues the murmurers of the deep, And lights them with consoling gleam, And smiles them into tranquil sleep.

Oh! such a blessed night as this, I often think, if friends were near, How we should feel, and gaze with bliss Upon the moon-bright scenery here!

The sea is like a silvery lake, And, o'er its calm the vessel glides Gently, as if it feared to wake The slumber of the silent tides.

The only envious cloud that lowers Hath hung its shade on Pico's height,[2]

Where dimly, mid the dusk, he towers, And scowling at this heaven of light, Exults to see the infant storm Cling darkly round his giant form!

Now, could I range those verdant isles, Invisible, at this soft hour, And see the looks, the beaming smiles, That brighten many an orange bower; And could I lift each pious veil, And see the blus.h.i.+ng cheek it shades,-- Oh! I should have full many a tale, To tell of young Azorian maids.[3]

Yes, Strangford, at this hour, perhaps, Some lover (not too idly blest, Like those, who in their ladies' laps May cradle every wish to rest,) Warbles, to touch his dear one's soul, Those madrigals, of breath divine, Which Camoens' harp from Rapture stole And gave, all glowing warm, to thine.[4]

Oh! could the lover learn from thee, And breathe them with thy graceful tone, Such sweet, beguiling minstrelsy Would make the coldest nymph his own.

But, hark!--the boatswain's pipings tell 'Tis time to bid my dream farewell: Eight bells:--the middle watch is set; Good night, my Strangford!--ne'er forget That far beyond the western sea Is one whose heart remembers thee.

[1] Pythagoras; who was supposed to have a power of writing upon the Moon by the means of a magic mirror.--See _Boyle_, art. _Pythag_.

[2] A very high mountain on one of the Azores, from which the island derives its name. It is said by some to be as high as the Peak of Teneriffe.

[3] I believe it is Gutherie who says, that the inhabitants of the Azores are much addicted to gallantry. This is an a.s.sertion in which even Gutherie may be credited.

[4] These islands belong to the Portuguese.

STANZAS.

A beam of tranquillity smiled in the west, The storms of the morning pursued us no more; And the wave, while it welcomed the moment of rest.

Still heaved, as remembering ills that were o'er.

Serenely my heart took the hue of the hour, Its pa.s.sions were sleeping, were mute as the dead; And the spirit becalmed but remembered their power, As the billow the force of the gale that was fled.