The Complete Poems of Sir Thomas Moore Part 66

She sings the wild song of her dear native plains, Every note which he loved awaking;-- Ah! little they think who delight in her strains, How the heart of the Minstrel is breaking.

He had lived for his love, for his country he died, They were all that to life had entwined him; Nor soon shall the tears of his country be dried, Nor long will his love stay behind him.

Oh! make her a grave where the sunbeams rest, When they promise a glorious morrow; They'll s.h.i.+ne o'er her sleep, like a smile from the West, From her own loved island of sorrow.

NAY, TELL ME NOT, DEAR.

Nay, tell me not, dear, that the goblet drowns One charm of feeling, one fond regret; Believe me, a few of thy angry frowns Are all I've sunk in its bright wave yet.

Ne'er hath a beam Been lost in the stream That ever was shed from thy form or soul; The spell of those eyes, The balm of thy sighs, Still float on the surface, and hallow my bowl, Then fancy not, dearest, that wine can steal One blissful dream of the heart from me; Like founts that awaken the pilgrim's zeal, The bowl but brightens my love for thee.

They tell us that love in his fairy bower, Had two blush-roses of birth divine; He sprinkled the one with a rainbow shower, But bathed the other with mantling wine.

Soon did the buds, That drank of the floods Distilled by the rainbow, decline and fade; While those which the tide Of ruby had dyed All blushed into beauty, like thee, sweet maid!

Then fancy not, dearest, that wine can steal One blissful dream of the heart from me; Like founts, that awaken the pilgrim's zeal, The bowl but brightens my love for thee.

AVENGING AND BRIGHT.

Avenging and bright fall the swift sword of Erin[1]

On him who the brave sons of Usna betrayed!

For every fond eye he hath wakened a tear in, A drop from his heart-wounds shall weep o'er her blade.

By the red cloud that hung over Conor's dark dwelling,[2]

When Ulad's[3] three champions lay sleeping in gore-- By the billows of war, which so often, high swelling, Have wafted these heroes to victory's sh.o.r.e--

We swear to revenge them!--no joy shall be tasted, The harp shall be silent, the maiden unwed, Our halls shall be mute and our fields shall lie wasted, Till vengeance is wreaked on the murderer's head.

Yes, monarch! tho' sweet are our home recollections, Tho' sweet are the tears that from tenderness fall; Tho' sweet are our friends.h.i.+ps, our hopes, our affections, Revenge on a tyrant is sweetest of all!

[1] The words of this song were suggested by the very ancient Irish story called "Deirdri, or the Lamentable Fate of the Sons of Usnach." The treachery of Conor, King of Ulster, in putting to death the three sons of Usna, was the cause of a desolating war against Ulster, which terminated in the destruction of Eman.

[2] "Oh Nasi! view that cloud that I here see in the sky! I see over Eman-green a chilling cloud of blood-tinged red."--_Deirdri's Song_.

[3] Ulster.

WHAT THE BEE IS TO THE FLOWERET.

HE.

What the bee is to the floweret, When he looks for honey-dew, Thro' the leaves that close embower it, That, my love, I'll be to you.

SHE.

What the bank, with verdure glowing, Is to waves that wander near, Whispering kisses, while they're going, That I'll be to you, my dear.

SHE.

But they say, the bee's a rover, Who will fly, when sweets are gone; And, when once the kiss is over, Faithless brooks will wander on.

HE.

Nay, if flowers _will_ lose their looks, If sunny banks _will_ wear away, Tis but right that bees and brooks Should sip and kiss them while they may.

LOVE AND THE NOVICE.

"Here we dwell, in holiest bowers, "Where angels of light o'er our orisons bend; "Where sighs of devotion and breathings of flowers "To heaven in mingled odor ascend.

"Do not disturb our calm, oh Love!

"So like is thy form to the cherubs above, "It well might deceive such hearts as ours."

Love stood near the Novice and listened, And Love is no novice in taking a hint; His laughing blue eyes soon with piety glistened; His rosy wing turned to heaven's own tint.

"Who would have thought," the urchin cries, "That Love could so well, so gravely disguise "His wandering wings and wounding eyes?"

Love now warms thee, waking and sleeping, Young Novice, to him all thy orisons rise.

_He_ tinges the heavenly fount with his weeping, _He_ brightens the censer's flame with his sighs.

Love is the Saint enshrined in thy breast, And angels themselves would admit such a guest, If he came to them clothed in Piety's vest.

THIS LIFE IS ALL CHECKERED WITH PLEASURES AND WOES

This life is all checkered with pleasures and woes, That chase one another like waves of the deep,-- Each brightly or darkly, as onward it flows, Reflecting our eyes, as they sparkle or weep.

So closely our whims on our miseries tread, That the laugh is awaked ere the tear can be dried; And, as fast as the rain-drop of Pity is shed.