The Complete Poems of Sir Thomas Moore Part 79

THO' HUMBLE THE BANQUET.

Tho' humble the banquet to which I invite thee, Thou'lt find there the best a poor bard can command: Eyes, beaming with welcome, shall throng round, to light thee, And Love serve the feast with his own willing hand.

And tho' Fortune may seem to have turned from the dwelling Of him thou regardest her favoring ray, Thou wilt find there a gift, all her treasures excelling, Which, proudly he feels, hath enn.o.bled his way.

'Tis that freedom of mind, which no vulgar dominion Can turn from the path a pure conscience approves; Which, with hope in the heart, and no chain on the pinion, Holds upwards its course to the light which it loves.

'Tis this makes the pride of his humble retreat, And, with this, tho' of all other treasures bereaved, The breeze of his garden to him is more sweet Than the costliest incense that Pomp e'er received.

Then, come,--if a board so untempting hath power To win thee from grandeur, its best shall be thine; And there's one, long the light of the bard's happy bower, Who, smiling, will blend her bright welcome with mine.

SING, SWEET HARP.

Sing, sweet Harp, oh sing to me Some song of ancient days, Whose sounds, in this sad memory, Long buried dreams shall raise;-- Some lay that tells of vanished fame, Whose light once round us shone; Of n.o.ble pride, now turned to shame, And hopes for ever gone.-- Sing, sad Harp, thus sing to me; Alike our doom is cast, Both lost to all but memory, We live but in the past.

How mournfully the midnight air Among thy chords doth sigh, As if it sought some echo there Of voices long gone by;-- Of Chieftains, now forgot, who seemed The foremost then in fame; Of Bards who, once immortal deemed, Now sleep without a name.-- In vain, sad Harp, the midnight air Among thy chords doth sigh; In vain it seeks an echo there Of voices long gone by.

Couldst thou but call those spirits round.

Who once, in bower and hall, Sat listening to thy magic sound, Now mute and mouldering all;-- But, no; they would but wake to weep Their children's slavery; Then leave them in their dreamless sleep, The dead, at least, are free!-- Hush, hush, sad Harp, that dreary tone, That knell of Freedom's day; Or, listening to its death-like moan, Let me, too, die away.

SONG OF THE BATTLE EVE.

TIME--THE NINTH CENTURY.

To-morrow, comrade, we On the battle-plain must be, There to conquer, or both lie low!

The morning star is up,-- But there's wine still in the cup, And we'll take another quaff, ere we go, boy, go; We'll take another quaff, ere we go.

'Tis true, in manliest eyes A pa.s.sing tear will rise, When we think of the friends we leave lone; But what can wailing do?

See, our goblet's weeping too!

With its tears we'll chase away our own, boy, our own; With its tears we'll chase away our own.

But daylight's stealing on;-- The last that o'er us shone Saw our children around us play; The next--ah! where shall we And those rosy urchins be?

But--no matter--grasp thy sword and away, boy, away; No matter--grasp thy sword and away!

Let those, who brook the chain Of Saxon or of Dane, Ign.o.bly by their firesides stay; One sigh to home be given, One heartfelt prayer to heaven, Then, for Erin and her cause, boy, hurra! hurra! hurra!

Then, for Erin and her cause, hurra!

THE WANDERING BARD.

What life like that of the bard can be-- The wandering bard, who roams as free As the mountain lark that o'er him sings, And, like that lark, a music brings Within him, where'er he comes or goes,-- A fount that for ever flows!

The world's to him like some playground, Where fairies dance their moonlight round;-- If dimmed the turf where late they trod, The elves but seek some greener sod; So, when less bright his scene of glee, To another away flies he!

Oh, what would have been young Beauty's doom, Without a bard to fix her bloom?

They tell us, in the moon's bright round, Things lost in this dark world are found; So charms, on earth long past and gone, In the poet's lay live on.-- Would ye have smiles that ne'er grow dim?

You've only to give them all to him.

Who, with but a touch of Fancy's wand, Can lend them life, this life beyond, And fix them high, in Poesy's sky,-- Young stars that never die!

Then, welcome the bard where'er he comes,-- For, tho' he hath countless airy homes, To which his wing excursive roves, Yet still, from time to time, he loves To light upon earth and find such cheer As brightens our banquet here.

No matter how far, how fleet he flies, You've only to light up kind young eyes, Such signal-fires as here are given,-- And down he'll drop from Fancy's heaven, The minute such call to love or mirth Proclaims he's wanting on earth!

ALONE IN CROWDS TO WANDER ON.

Alone in crowds to wander on, And feel that all the charm is gone Which voices dear and eyes beloved Shed round us once, where'er we roved-- This, this the doom must be Of all who've loved, and lived to see The few bright things they thought would stay For ever near them, die away.

Tho' fairer forms around us throng, Their smiles to others all belong, And want that charm which dwells alone Round those the fond heart calls its own.

Where, where the sunny brow?

The long-known voice--where are they now?

Thus ask I still, nor ask in vain, The silence answers all too plain.

Oh, what is Fancy's magic worth, If all her art can not call forth One bliss like those we felt of old From lips now mute, and eyes now cold?

No, no,--her spell is vain,-- As soon could she bring back again Those eyes themselves from out the grave, As wake again one bliss they gave.

I'VE A SECRET TO TELL THEE.