The Complete Poems of Sir Thomas Moore Part 75

Down in the valley come meet me to-night, And I'll tell you your fortune truly As ever 'twas told, by the new-moon's light, To a young maiden, s.h.i.+ning as newly.

But, for the world, let no one be nigh, Lest haply the stars should deceive me; Such secrets between you and me and the sky Should never go farther, believe me.

If at that hour the heavens be not dim, My science shall call up before you A male apparition,--the image of him Whose destiny 'tis to adore you.

And if to that phantom you'll be kind, So fondly around you he'll hover, You'll hardly, my dear, any difference find 'Twixt him and a true living lover.

Down at your feet, in the pale moonlight, He'll kneel, with a warmth of devotion-- An ardor, of which such an innocent sprite You'd scarcely believe had a notion.

What other thoughts and events may arise, As in destiny's book I've not seen them, Must only be left to the stars and your eyes To settle, ere morning, between them.

OH, YE DEAD!

Oh, ye Dead! oh, ye Dead![1] whom we know by the light you give From your cold gleaming eyes, tho' you move like men who live, Why leave you thus your graves, In far off fields and waves, Where the worm and the sea-bird only know your bed, To haunt this spot where all Those eyes that wept your fall, And the hearts that wailed you, like your own, lie dead?

It is true, it is true, we are shadows cold and wan; And the fair and the brave whom we loved on earth are gone; But still thus even in death, So sweet the living breath Of the fields and the flowers in our youth we wander'd o'er, That ere, condemned, we go To freeze mid Hecla's snow, We would taste it awhile, and think we live once more!

[1] Paul Zealand mentions that there is a mountain in some part of Ireland, where the ghosts of persons who have died in foreign lands walk about and converse with those they meet, like living people. If asked why they do not return to their homes, they say they are obliged to go to Mount Hecla, and disappear immediately.

O'DONOHUE'S MISTRESS.

Of all the fair months, that round the sun In light-linked dance their circles run, Sweet May, s.h.i.+ne thou for me; For still, when thy earliest beams arise, That youth, who beneath the blue lake lies, Sweet May, returns to me.

Of all the bright haunts, where daylight leaves Its lingering smile on golden eyes, Fair Lake, thou'rt dearest to me; For when the last April sun grows dim, Thy Naads prepare his steed[1] for him Who dwells, bright Lake, in thee.

Of all the proud steeds, that ever bore Young plumed Chiefs on sea or sh.o.r.e, White Steed, most joy to thee; Who still, with the first young glance of spring, From under that glorious lake dost bring My love, my chief, to me.

While, white as the sail some bark unfurls, When newly launched, thy long mane[2] curls, Fair Steed, as white and free; And spirits, from all the lake's deep bowers, Glide o'er the blue wave scattering flowers, Around my love and thee.

Of all the sweet deaths that maidens die, Whose lovers beneath the cold wave lie, Most sweet that death will be, Which, under the next May evening's light, When thou and thy steed are lost to sight, Dear love, I'll die for thee.

[1] The particulars of the tradition respecting Donohue and his White Horse, may be found in Mr. Weld's Account of Killarney, or more fully detailed in Derrick's Letters. For many years after his death, the spirit of this hero is supposed to have been seen on the morning of Mayday, gliding over the lake on his favorite white horse to the sound of sweet unearthly music, and preceded by groups of youths and maidens, who flung wreaths of delicate spring flowers in his path.

[2] The boatmen at Killarney call those waves which come on a windy day, crested with foam, "O'Donohue's White Horses."

ECHO.

How sweet the answer Echo makes To music at night, When, roused by lute or horn, she wakes, And far away, o'er lawns and lakes, Goes answering light.

Yet Love hath echoes truer far, And far more sweet, Than e'er beneath the moonlight star, Of horn or lute, or soft guitar, The songs repeat.

'Tis when the sigh, in youth sincere, And only then,-- The sigh that's breath'd for one to hear, Is by that one, that only dear, Breathed back again!

OH BANQUET NOT.

Oh banquet not in those s.h.i.+ning bowers, Where Youth resorts, but come to me: For mine's a garden of faded flowers, More fit for sorrow, for age, and thee.

And there we shall have our feast of tears, And many a cup in silence pour; Our guests, the shades of former years, Our toasts to lips that bloom no more.

There, while the myrtle's withering boughs Their lifeless leaves around us shed, We'll brim the bowl to broken vows, To friends long lost, the changed, the dead.

Or, while some blighted laurel waves Its branches o'er the dreary spot, We'll drink to those neglected graves, Where valor sleeps, unnamed, forgot.

THEE, THEE, ONLY THEE.

The dawning of morn, the daylight's sinking, The night's long hours still find me thinking Of thee, thee, only thee.

When friends are met, and goblets crowned, And smiles are near, that once enchanted, Unreached by all that suns.h.i.+ne round, My soul, like some dark spot, is haunted By thee, thee, only thee.

Whatever in fame's high path could waken My spirit once, is now forsaken For thee, thee, only thee.

Like sh.o.r.es, by which some headlong bark To the ocean hurries, resting never, Life's scenes go by me, bright or dark, I know not, heed not, hastening ever To thee, thee, only thee.

I have not a joy but of thy bringing, And pain itself seems sweet when springing From thee, thee, only thee.

Like spells, that naught on earth can break, Till lips, that know the charm, have spoken, This heart, howe'er the world may wake Its grief, its scorn, can but be broken By thee, thee, only thee.