The Complete Poems of Sir Thomas Moore Part 68

Now all the world is sleeping, love, But the Sage, his star-watch keeping, love, And I, whose star, More glorious far, Is the eye from that cas.e.m.e.nt peeping, love.

Then awake!--till rise of sun, my dear, The Sage's gla.s.s we'll shun, my dear, Or, in watching the flight Of bodies of light, He might happen to take thee for one, my dear.

THE MINSTREL-BOY.

The Minstrel-Boy to the war is gone, In the ranks of death you'll find him; His father's sword he has girded on.

And his wild harp slung behind him.

"Land of song!" said the warrior-bard, "Tho' all the world betrays thee, "_One_ sword, at least, thy rights shall guard, "_One_ faithful harp shall praise thee!"

The Minstrel fell!--but the foeman's chain Could not bring his proud soul under; The harp he loved ne'er spoke again, For he tore its chords asunder; And said, "No chains shall sully thee, "Thou soul of love and bravery!

"Thy songs were made for the pure and free, "They shall never sound in slavery."

THE SONG OF O'RUARK,

PRINCE OF BREFFNI.[1]

The valley lay smiling before me, Where lately I left her behind; Yet I trembled, and something hung o'er me, That saddened the joy of my mind.

I looked for the lamp which, she told me, Should s.h.i.+ne, when her Pilgrim returned; But, tho' darkness began to infold me, No lamp from the battlements burned!

I flew to her chamber--'twas lonely, As if the loved tenant lay dead;-- Ah, would it were death, and death only!

But no, the young false one had fled.

And there hung the lute that could soften My very worst pains into bliss; While the hand, that had waked it so often, Now throbbed to a proud rival's kiss.

There _was_ a time, falsest of women, When Breffni's good sword would have sought That man, thro' a million of foe-men, Who dared but to wrong thee _in thought_!

While now--oh degenerate daughter Of Erin, how fallen is thy fame!

And thro' ages of bondage and slaughter, Our country shall bleed for thy shame.

Already, the curse is upon her, And strangers her valleys profane; They come to divide, to dishonor, And tyrants they long will remain.

But onward!--the green banner rearing, Go, flesh every sword to the hilt; On _our_ side is Virtue and Erin, On _theirs_ is the Saxon and Guilt.

[1] These stanzas are founded upon an event of most melancholy importance to Ireland; if, as we are told by our Irish historians, it gave England the first opportunity of profiting by our divisions and subduing us. The following are the circ.u.mstances, as related by O'Halloran:--"The king of Leinster had long conceived a violent affection for Dearbhorgil, daughter to the king of Meath, and though she had been for some time married to O'Ruark, prince of Breffni, yet it could not restrain his pa.s.sion. They carried on a private correspondence, and she informed him that O'Ruark, intended soon to go on a pilgrimage (an act of piety frequent in those days), and conjured him to embrace that opportunity of conveying her from a husband she detested to a lover she adored. MacMurchad too punctually obeyed the summons, and had the lady conveyed to his capital of Ferns."-- The monarch Roderick espoused the cause of O'Ruark, while MacMurchad fled to England, and obtained the a.s.sistance of Henry II.

"Such," adds Giraldus Cambrensis (as I find him in an old translation) "is the variable and fickle nature of woman, by whom all mischief in the world (for the most part) do happen and come, as may appear by Marcus Antonius, and by the destruction of Troy."

OH! HAD WE SOME BRIGHT LITTLE ISLE OF OUR OWN.

Oh! had we some bright little isle of our own, In a blue summer ocean, far off and alone, Where a leaf never dies in the still blooming bowers, And the bee banquets on thro' a whole year of flowers; Where the sun loves to pause With so fond a delay, That the night only draws A thin veil o'er the day; Where simply to feel that we breathe, that we live, Is worth the best joy that life elsewhere can give.

There, with souls ever ardent and pure as the clime, We should love, as they loved in the first golden time; The glow of the suns.h.i.+ne, the balm of the air, Would steal to our hearts, and make all summer there.

With affection as free From decline as the bowers, And, with hope, like the bee, Living always on flowers, Our life should resemble a long day of light, And our death come on, holy and calm as the night.

FAREWELL!--BUT WHENEVER YOU WELCOME THE HOUR.

Farewell!--but whenever you welcome the hour.

That awakens the night-song of mirth in your bower, Then think of the friend who once welcomed it too, And forgot his own griefs to be happy with you.

His griefs may return, not a hope may remain Of the few that have brightened his pathway of pain.

But he ne'er will forget the short vision, that threw Its enchantment around him, while lingering with you.

And still on that evening, when pleasure fills up To the highest top sparkle each heart and each cup, Where'er my path lies, be it gloomy or bright, My soul, happy friends, shall be with you that night;

Shall join in your revels, your sports, and your wiles, And return to me, beaming all o'er with your smiles-- Too blest, if it tells me that, mid the gay cheer Some kind voice had murmured, "I wish he were here!"

Let Fate do her worst, there are relics of joy, Bright dreams of the past, which she cannot destroy; Which come in the night-time of sorrow and care, And bring back the features that joy used to wear.

Long, long be my heart with such memories filled!

Like the vase, in which roses have once been distilled-- You may break, you may shatter the vase, if you will, But the scent of the roses will hang round it still.

OH! DOUBT ME NOT.

Oh! doubt me not--the season Is o'er, when Folly made me rove, And now the vestal, Reason, Shall watch the fire awaked by love.

Altho' this heart was early blown, And fairest hands disturbed the tree, They only shook some blossoms down, Its fruit has all been kept for thee.

Then doubt me not--the season Is o'er, when Folly made me rove, And now the vestal, Reason, Shall watch the fire awaked by Love.

And tho' my lute no longer May sing of Pa.s.sion's ardent spell, Yet, trust me, all the stronger I feel the bliss I do not tell.

The bee thro' many a garden roves, And hums his lay of courts.h.i.+p o'er, But when he finds the flower he loves, He settles there, and hums no more.

Then doubt me not--the season Is o'er, when Folly kept me free, And now the vestal, Reason, Shall guard the flame awaked by thee.