The Complete Poems of Sir Thomas Moore Part 70

WHEN FIRST I MET THEE.

When first I met thee, warm and young, There shone such truth about thee.

And on thy lip such promise hung, I did not dare to doubt thee.

I saw the change, yet still relied, Still clung with hope the fonder, And thought, tho' false to all beside, From me thou couldst not wander.

But go, deceiver! go, The heart, whose hopes could make it Trust one so false, so low, Deserves that thou shouldst break it.

When every tongue thy follies named, I fled the unwelcome story; Or found, in even the faults they blamed, Some gleams of future glory.

_I_ still was true, when nearer friends Conspired to wrong, to slight thee; The heart that now thy falsehood rends, Would then have bled to right thee, But go, deceiver! go,-- Some day, perhaps, thou'lt waken From pleasure's dream, to know The grief of hearts forsaken.

Even now, tho' youth its bloom has shed, No lights of age adorn thee: The few, who loved thee once, have fled, And they who flatter scorn thee.

Thy midnight cup is pledged to slaves, No genial ties enwreath it; The smiling there, like light on graves, Has rank cold hearts beneath it.

Go--go--tho' worlds were thine, I would not now surrender One taintless tear of mine For all thy guilty splendor!

And days may come, thou false one! yet, When even those ties shall sever; When thou wilt call, with vain regret, On her thou'st lost for ever; On her who, in thy fortune's fall, With smiles had still received thee, And gladly died to prove thee all Her fancy first believed thee.

Go--go--'tis vain to curse, 'Tis weakness to upbraid thee; Hate cannot wish thee worse Than guilt and shame have made thee.

WHILE HISTORY'S MUSE.

While History's Muse the memorial was keeping Of all that the dark hand of Destiny weaves, Beside her the Genius of Erin stood weeping, For hers was the story that blotted the leaves.

But oh! how the tear in her eyelids grew bright, When, after whole pages of sorrow and shame, She saw History write, With a pencil of light That illumed the whole volume, her Wellington's name.

"Hail, Star of my Isle!" said the Spirit, all sparkling With beams, such as break from her own dewy skies-- "Thro' ages of sorrow, deserted and darkling, "I've watched for some glory like thine to arise.

"For, tho' heroes I've numbered, unblest was their lot, "And unhallowed they sleep in the crossways of Fame;-- "But oh! there is not "One dishonoring blot "On the wreath that encircles my Wellington's name.

"Yet still the last crown of thy toils is remaining, "The grandest, the purest, even _thou_ hast yet known; "Tho' proud was thy task, other nations unchaining, "Far prouder to heal the deep wounds of thy own.

"At the foot of that throne, for whose weal thou hast stood, "Go, plead for the land that first cradled thy fame, "And, bright o'er the flood "Of her tears and her blood, "Let the rainbow of Hope be her Wellington's name!"

THE TIME I'VE LOST IN WOOING.

The time I've lost in wooing, In watching and pursuing The light, that lies In woman's eyes, Has been my heart's undoing.

Tho' Wisdom oft has sought me, I scorned the lore she brought me, My only books Were woman's looks, And folly's all they've taught me.

Her smile when Beauty granted, I hung with gaze enchanted, Like him the Sprite,[1]

Whom maids by night Oft meet in glen that's haunted.

Like him, too, Beauty won me, But while her eyes were on me, If once their ray Was turned away, O! winds could not outrun me.

And are those follies going?

And is my proud heart growing Too cold or wise For brilliant eyes Again to set it glowing?

No, vain, alas! the endeavor From bonds so sweet to sever; Poor Wisdom's chance Against a glance Is now as weak as ever.

[1] This alludes to a kind of Irish fairy, which is to be met with, they say, in the fields at dusk. As long as you keep your eyes upon him, he is fixed, and in your power;--but the moment you look away (and he is ingenious in furnis.h.i.+ng some inducement) he vanishes. I had thought that this was the sprite which we call the Leprechaun; but a high authority upon such subjects, Lady Morgan, (in a note upon her national and interesting novel, O'Donnel), has given a very different account of that goblin.

WHERE IS THE SLAVE.

Oh, where's the slave so lowly, Condemned to chains unholy, Who, could he burst His bonds at first, Would pine beneath them slowly?

What soul, whose wrongs degrade it, Would wait till time decayed it, When thus its wing At once may spring To the throne of Him who made it?

Farewell, Erin.--farewell, all, Who live to weep our fall!

Less dear the laurel growing, Alive, untouched and blowing, Than that, whose braid Is plucked to shade The brows with victory glowing We tread the land that bore us, Her green flag glitters o'er us, The friends we've tried Are by our side, And the foe we hate before us.

Farewell, Erin,--farewell, all, Who live to weep our fall!

COME, REST IN THIS BOSOM.

Come, rest in this bosom, my own stricken deer, Tho' the herd have fled from thee, thy home is still here; Here still is the smile, that no cloud can o'ercast, And a heart and a hand all thy own to the last.

Oh! what was love made for, if 'tis not the same Thro' joy and thro' torment, thro' glory and shame?

I know not, I ask not, if guilt's in that heart, I but know that I love thee, whatever thou art.

Thou hast called me thy Angel in moments of bliss, And thy Angel I'll be, mid the horrors of this,-- Thro' the furnace, unshrinking, thy steps to pursue, And s.h.i.+eld thee, and save thee,--or perish there too!

'TIS GONE, AND FOR EVER.

'Tis gone, and for ever, the light we saw breaking, Like Heaven's first dawn o'er the sleep of the dead-- When Man, from the slumber of ages awaking, Looked upward, and blest the pure ray, ere it fled.

'Tis gone, and the gleams it has left of its burning But deepen the long night of bondage and mourning, That dark o'er the kingdoms of earth is returning, And darkest of all, hapless Erin, o'er thee.