to enibeUislL thy -piMo-vr
"Witk everyttiing" ~beautecms that gro-vrs in the deep.
K.irli Qoweg ..i tin- rock, ecud. eadi gem. of the "biQaw-.
Sli.i': ', ln-il ;unl illinium- ihv sleep.
Tin- !'ir,' X'. iM-sl:i|i|M-l s p. l.'i.'J
Till Heaven. lookcL. -with -pity. OIL true -love so
Ami rhaji.ml to this soft lifErp th.e aeamiaiiens foi-m!
Origia of tke Harp p. 450.
EDINBURGH, ^hn & INGL'IS ft GEORGE STREET.
POETICAL WOEKS
THOMAS MOORE.
WI
IFE.
SngrawngS on Sfteel.
GALL & INGL1S, 6 GEORGE STREET:
LONDONt HOULSTON & WR10UT.
MEMOIR OP THOMAS MOORE,
THOMAS MOORE was born in Dublin on the 28th May 1779.
The social circle in which his parents moved was neither elevated
nor vulgar. His father was a small tradesman, of quiet, taciturn
character, possessing a vein of humour which he occasionally did
not scruple to exercise on the priests of his own faith. The
poet's mother, good devout Catholic that she was, regarded these
sallies of her husband with a pious horror. But though a little
too susceptible to priestly influences, her superstition had in it
nothing ascetic. Moore's gay pleasure-loving disposition, passion
for music, taste for all social enjoyment, and general zest of life,
were derived from his mother. To her tact, also, was he in-
debted for that varied training which contributed so remarkably
to his success in society. At a very early age the future poet
was placed at school. Mr White, an eminent Dublin elocutionist,
was his master. Richard B. Sheridan had been White's pupil.
From this distingui.-hed pedagogue Moore acquired that facility
in declaiming which rendered him, while yet a mere boy, the
delight of those domestic re-unions in which his mother taught
her son to associate social festivity with more refined and in-
tellectual pleasures than the hard drinking with which enjoy-
ment was then too often identified. Like Pope, Moore may
almost, without hyperbole, be said to have lisped in numbers.
The exact date of his earliest rhymes has not been preserved,
but at the age of eleven we find him in print, and at the age of
fourteen he has become a contributor of poetry to the Anthologia
llibernica, a Dublin magazine. Some of his verses then pub-
lished as by " Master Moore" give no inadequate earnest of his
style of song-writing.
The acquisition of the showy accomplishments in which Moore
already excelled was happily not purchased by the sacrifice of
more substantial learning. His classical attainments were more
than respectable, and his knowledge of the ancient languages
was supplemented by a knowledge of the more important of the
modern tongues of Europe. Italian he learned from the family
priest, and a French emigrant taught him the tongue of France.
By this varied preliminary training, Moore was fully prepared
to reap all the advantages the removal of those restrictions
which had closed the University of Dublin against the Catholics
of Ireland was now about to confer. In the summer of 1793
iv MEMOIR OF THOMAS MOORE.
that institution was opened to Roman Catholics, and in 1794
young Moore is entered at Trinity College. At college he pro-
secuted the usual studies with more than average success. The
production of Latin hexameters was, however, a task from which
on all convenient occasions he was disposed to shrink. Some-
times he successfully substituted English for Latin verses, gam-
ing the approval of the judges and the reward of merit. While
the even tenor of his " life's morning inarch" is quietly alter-
nated by classical studies and musical exhibition, the conspiracy
of the United Irishmen is rapidly approaching its crisis. It is
with an Irish poet, not Irish politics, that we have now spe-
cially to do ; but in justice.to the poet's memory we must cast
a hurried glance upon his relation to the conjunction of '98. It
has recently been made the reproach of Moore that he wao at
heart a rebel. A very slight examination of the facts connected
with the most serious political escapade with which he was ever
identified will show upon what slender grounds the charge is
founded. During the last years of Moore's college life societies
of" United Irishmen" were rapidly forming within the Univer-
sity. Robert Emmet, and other leaders of that ill-fated orga-
nisation, were among his father's friends; but though on friendly
terms with all the more eminent of the revolutionary party, and
in daily contact with college companions initiated into its secrets,
Moore never was a member of any of their associations, nor at
any time their political confidant. As a Catholic he had heard
the tyranny of English ascendancy freely enough commented on ;
nor had that ascendancy yet degenerated into a merely senti-
mental grievance. Did not his Catholicism exclude him from
all prospect of University honours ? were not its scholarships still
closed against the sons of the proscribed faith? It would not
have been wonderful in such circumstances, and in such a condi-
tion of society, had Moore been found committed to the fortunes
of the United Irishmen. But he was not committed. He had,
indeed, written a rather fervid article in their organ " The
Press," but the sound and fury signified nothing. The pleasure
of seeing himself in print as a political gladiator, rather than
any desire to co-operate with the contemners of England, dic-
tated the article. His own prudent ambition combined with
the anxious dissuasives of his mother to keep Tom aloof from
the desperate enterprise of Emmet. It was, however, known to
the college authorities that he had contributed to the rebel organ ;
what else he might have done was not known. When, therefore,
the Dons of the University came to inquire into the loyalty of the
Undergraduates, Tom was among the suspected. Summoned
before the tribunal that sat in judgment upon the students, the
scene between himself and Chancellor Fitzgibbon is highly cre-
ditable to the youth. If he refused to share the dangers, he
resolved to say nothing to heighten the calamities of the impru-
dent. When the oath was tendered, in a clear firm voice Tom said, I
have an objection, my Lord ; I have an objection to taking the
oath. What's your objection, sir? retorted Fitzgibbon sternly.
I have no fear, my Lord, that anything I might say would crimi-
nate myself, but it might tend to affect others ; and I must say
that I despise that person's character who vrould be led, uncki
MEMOIK OF TilOMAS MOO11K.
,lny circumstances, to criminate his associates. How old are you,
sir? Fitzgibbon interpolates. Between seventeen and eighteen
(Tom looked little more than fourteen or fifteen). The Chancellor
now turns to the assessor, and having exchanged a few sentences
in an under-tone, resumes We cannot allow any person to remain
in our University who would refuse to take the oath. 1 shall
then, my Lord, take the oath, still reserving to myself the power
of refusing to answer any such questions as 1 have described. The
oath is administered, and Tom. has taken his seat in the witness's
chair. To every question put respecting his connection with the
conspirators, he is able to give such very decided negatives, that
the Chancellor who, no doubt, fancied his contumacy could have
but one cause, at length exclaims When such, sir, are the an-
swers you are able to give, pray what was the reason for your
great repugnance to taking the oath ? To this interrogation Tom
replied 1 have already told you, my Lord, my chief reasons ; in
addition to which it was the first oath I took, and it was, I think,
a vei-y natural hesitation. This narrative reveals the " head and
front" of Moore's offending as a patriot. The candid reader will
have some difficulty in discovering in it anything very damaging
to his loyalty. This conspiracy, with which it had been thus
vainly sought to identify Moore, burst into rebellion when he was
confined by a severe illness, and wholly unable either to handle a
pike or shoulder a musket.
In the spring of 1799, University studies are finished. Moore,
bidding adieu to Dublin scenes and Dublin friends, takes his
way to London to enter himself a member of the Middle Temple.
The money to accomplish this is supplied by his mother, who,
ambitious to see her son occupying a conspicuous position at the
English bar, had long been saving every sixpence she could
scrape together for his legal education. Mrs Moore appears to
have been no believer in a paper currency. Tom was not troubled
Carrying any bank cheques to the metropolis. The needful guineas
were sewed into the waistband of his pantaloons ; and a scapular,
which the priest had ble.-sed, was stowed away in the same secure
retreat. Thus equipped Tom reached London, and hires a
lodging at six shillings per week. AVhile yet a student &t
Trinity College, Dublin, in the hope of obtaining a classical pre
mimn, Moore had translated the Odes of Auacreon. A specimen
of the work was laid before the Provost of the College. The
Provost thought the translation good, but the subject not one
likely to be patronised by the board. This translation Tom car-
ried with him to the great metropolis. IS'ot long after settling
there he has arranged for its publication, has made the friendship
ol Lord Moira, the Marquis of Lansdowne, the Duke of Bedford,
and the Prince, all of whom have become subscribers 1'or his work.
Dr Laurence reads the manuscript, and pronounces it in many
parts elegant and poetical. The English dress in which Moore
presented the Tean bard is, indeed, more accurate and faithful
than the paraphrase of Cowley, but it is too studiously brilliant
to convey the exact idea of the original. Moore's lines had,
however, fallen in pleasant places, and among partial critics.
Everything (he writes) goes on delightfully. The full tide of
London gaiety roars around him., and never did any son of the
MEMOIR OF THOMAS MOORE.
muses take more kindly to the pomp and circumstance of the
great Babel. " The first gentleman in Europe" has permitted
Anacreon to be dedicated to him. The poet thanks the Prince
for the honour, but is assured the honour is entirely his, in being
allowed to put his name to a work of such merit. Everybody is
charmed with Anacreon translated everybody, save the autho-
rities of his college, who do not even so much as subscribe for the
work. For this inability to appreciate merit, Moore, with becom-
ing "modesty, denounces them as " a corporation of boobies, with-
out even sense enough to thank Heaven for anything like an
effort of literature coming out of their leaden body."
Anacreon is followed by a volume of Poems under a feigned
name, which reflected but little credit on their author, though
even so great a purist and so grave a moralist as Sir James
Mackintosh recommends them. Moore's social and literary success
go together. His singing is the rage in every fashionable circle.
The great people begin to think something must be done for so
very promising a young man. The translator of Anacreon and
the beautiful pianist has deserved well of his country. A laureate-
ship is offered him, but declined, in consequence of unseemly
conditions with which the gift is clogged. The interest of Lord
Moira procures him the office of Registrar in the Admiralty
Court of Bermuda. This appointment necessitates a visit to the
island. Bermuda was, however, a place but little to the taste of
Moore, who tarried there just long enough to arrange for the per-
formance of his duties by deputy. Before returning to London he
visits America. He has a quick eye for all the faults, but is
wholly unable to discern the virtues of the men of the New World.
Having returned from his Bermudian and American to.nr,
" Epistle Odes and other Poems," by Thomas Moore, Esq.,
Appeared in 1806. Fashionable London might go on mistaking
the sparkle of sensuous fancy for the outpouring of celestial pas-
sion, but the " facile princeps" of British critics is not to be so de-
ceived. In the July number of the Edinburgh Review, Jeffrey
denounced the work with even more than his wonted pun-
gency. Lord Cockburn, in his life of Jeffrey, has justly re-
marked, that though meant to be restricted to the poetry, there
was a cordiality and a personal application in the satire which
made it natural for the public, and nearly irresistible for the
poet, to refer to the man. His scathing criticism is the talk of all
London circles, when, to make matters worse, Jeffrey arrives in
the metropolis. This was more than the irate bard could bear.
A hostile meeting was arranged, and, on the llth August 1806,
poet and critic have met to obtain the satisfaction of gentlemen.
" From information received," the police discovered what was in-
tended, and the belligerents are apprehended in the very act or
proceeding to extremities. In a day or two the duellists met
amicably at Rogers', and are ever after friends. Jeffrey not only
admires the genius of his adversary, but formed a sincere affec-
tion for the man ; and Moore, in one of his prefaces, exultingly
tells how, in the most formidable of all his censors, he found tha
most cordial of all his friends. Twenty years after this ren
contre Moore visits Scotland, chiefly to visit Jeffrey ; and is sc
often asked to sing his last new song, " Ship Ahoy," that in an-
MEMOIR OF THOMAS MOORE. vil
other preface he playfully tells how the upland echoes of Craig-
crook ought long to have had its burden by heart.
In 1808 " Corruption and Intolerance," a satire, was published,
and in the following year " The Sceptic," a philosophical satire,
appeared. These caustic effusions were a mistake. The manner
belonged to the past, and no felicity of execution could avail for
its resuscitation. Moore was scarcely earnest enough to succeed
as a satirist of the more solemn order ; and the scepticism which
lurked within his soul was of that cowardly character which
Carlyle graphically describes as sticking its head into the nearest
bush of church tippets. It was in the singing robes of the trou-
badour, not the gown of the moralist, that Erin's bard shone most
advantageously. In March 1811, Moore, who had hitherto remain-
ed a mateless bird, married a girl of Kilkenny Miss Bessy Dyke.
The lady had acquired some distinction on the Irish stage, and
possessed remarkable personal attractions. Rogers, the fastidious
Rogers, calls her the " Madonna della Sedia" and " Psyche."
No matrimonial union could possibly have been more suitable to
the poet. Uniting great sweetness of disposition with great self-
control and superior economical talent, Bessy administered
Moore's resources with the utmost skill, Avhile she made his home
a haven of rest, where, weary with the dissipation of London life,
he could ever find a peaceful and secure repose. Querulous critics
have censured Moore for not fully returning the affection of
Bessy. But if Lord John Russell is to be esteemed an authority
in such a matter, we have his testimony, that from the year of his
marriage to the year of his death, this excellent and beautiful
person received from him the homage of a lover, enhanced by all
the gratitude and all the confidence which the daily and hourly
happiness he enjoyed were sure to inspire.
In 1812 Moore commenced another series of satirical effusions.
The vein now adopted was incomparably better adapted to his
genius than the solemn and heavy style formerly attempted. His
quondam patron, the Prince, has broken with the Whigs, and
Moore's parody on the Prince's letter throws Holland House into
ecstacy. Nor is it Holland House alone that laughs with the
satirist. Fourteen editions of the " Twopenny Post Bag," in which
Prince and Minister are satirised, are issued within the first year
>f its publication. In the pasquinades that compose that pro-
duction, Moore is elegant without being dull, and pungent with-
out being truculent. The wit, variety, ease, and playfulness of
the satire directed against Ministers were the talk and the charm
of every circle. The poet's popularity has now reached a point
where he can make his own terms with publishers. His song-
writing alone yields him L.5GO a-year. How much wiser in his
generation is Thomas Moore than Robert Burns. Vegetating in
Dumfries, upon a gauger's salary, the Scottish bard does his song-
writing gratuitously, and threatens Thomson, if he talks of pay-
ment, that the outraged muse will " sleep in silence everma;.''
London publishers have now discovered that Moore's name has
become a thing to conjure with. Murray offers him the editor-
ship of a new Quarterly. The offer is declined, because the poet
is at work upon an Eastern romance. The record of the negotia-
tion for the publication of this greatest effort of Moore's creative
MEMOIR OF THOMAS MOORE.
powers is worthy of perusal. Those who fancy the poet is never
blessed with any more substantial reward of his industry and
genius than the enjoyment of his own splendid visions, will be
agreeably disappointed by this narrative, which we transcribe as
Moore has given it. The poet, his publisher, and Mr Perry, of
the " Morning Chronicle" who has kindly agreed, on behalf of
Moore, to arrange the mutual terms, have met. " I am of opi-
nion," said Mr Perry, " that Mr Moore ought to secure for his poem
the largest price that has been srivcn in our day for such a work."
" That was," answered the Messrs Longinaa, "tiifee thousand
guineas." " Jhixacily so," replied Mr Perry ; " and no lass a sum
ought he to receive." It was then objected, and very reasonably,
on the part of the firm, that they had never yet seen a single line
of the poem, and that a perusal of the work ought to be allowed
them before they embarked so large a sum in the purchase. But
no ; the romantic view my friend Perry took of the matter was,
that this price should be given as a tribute to reputation already
acquired, without any condition for a previous perusal of the new
work. This high tone, I confess, not a little startled and alarmed
me ; but to the honour and glory of romance as well on the pub-
lishers' as on the poet's side, this very generous view of the trans-
action was, without any difficulty, acceded to, and the firm agreed
before we separated that I should receive three thousand guineas
for my poem. The bargain thus concluded, Moore, stimulated by
the confidence reposed in his powers, retires from London society
to a cottage in Derbyshire, gets crammed with all kinds of
Oriental learning, and within some four years from the date of
his negotiation with the Longmans, Lalla Rookh is got up. The
success of the work fully justified the confidence of Perry. Within
a fortnight after its publication the first edition is exhausted, and
before six months have passed away a sixth edition is demanded.
Lalla Rookh was the marvel of old Indians. How a man, who
had never trod the Orient, had been able to reproduce " its bar-
baric splendours" with so much faithfulness, was an enigma that
baffled solution. Has Moore never been in India? Colonel Wells,
the historian of British India, inquires of Sir James Mackintosh.
Never, rejoins Sir James. Well, that shows me, replied the Colonel,
that reading D'Herbelot is as good as having ridden an elephant.
Perhaps a still truer test of its success is found in the fact, that
the Orientals themselves recognised its truthfulness and power.
Lalla Rookh, in its principal passages, appeared in a Persian
translation, and the poet heard how the streets of Ispahan had
resouncbd with his strains. Never was the scene of a rears ace
more admirably selected. The ideal East was precisely the re-
gion where the fancy of a love-poet like Moore could revel at its
own sweet will. The romantic beauty, the fertility of soil, the
temperature of the atmosphere, and the picturesque variety of
the landscapes of the vale of Cashmere have been the immemorial
themes of the eastern travellers. It is " the happy valley " " the
garden in perpetual spring" " the Paradise of India."
Need we wonder that the imagination of the poet, luxuriating
in this voluptuous roton, should sometimes b? found to dazzle,
even more than to enchant, and occasionally to fatigue attention,
by the constant succession of glittering images and high-strained
MEMOIU OF THOMAS MOORE. IX
emotions. These faults of the poem sprung not more, from the
innate tendency than from the environment of the bard. " Lalia
Rookh" was an inspiration of the Row. A brilliant article was
what was wanted. Plainness, simplicity, and repose were at a
discount. Not three thousand guineas, but a " this will never do"
was the reward of bards so far forgetful of their own interest as
trouble themselves with the homely. What now are deemed the
faults of Lalla Rookh, were, on its publication, the essentials of
its success. Jeffrey hailed it as " the finest Orientalism we have
had yet ;" and from every possible source, tributes to the genius
of the bard are poured forth. Moore's poetical fame had now
reached its zenith ; but sadly and sternly he is soon to learn the
secret of vicissitude. The death of his beloved Barbara is the
first shadow that falls upon what is henceforth to be a darkly
chequered domestic existence. The sharp grief which, with his
daughter's loss, pierced his soul was yet unassuaged, when in-
telligence arrives that his deputy in Bermuda has been guilty
of embezzlement, and Moore is responsible for a loss of L.6000.
In this emergency, Rogers and Jeffrey have each L.500 at his
service, Lord Lansdowne will become his security, Lord John
Russell offers to mortgage the Life of his patriotic ancestor, and
the Longmans are willing to advance any sura necessary. Moore
resolves to reject the kindness of friends, and rely exclusively on
his own resources. At first matters wore a rather threatening
aspect ; an attachment is issued against his person, and the poet
is compelled to retreat to Paris. Ultimately, however, the affair
was compromised, and the L.6000 reduced to L.740. " Rhymes on
the Road," " The Epicurean," a prose story, and " Th Loves of
the Angels," were the product of his Parisian exile. " The Loves
of the Angels," in its original form, was not quite a judicious pro-
duction. A wag of a Dublin friend assured the poet, that while
reading the work he could not help figuring to himself Tom,
Jerry, and Logic on a lark from the s-ky. The Longmans express
a fear that the angels may prove a drag upon the popularity of
the poem. Tom's genuine practical talent comes to the rescue of
his publishers. With D'Herbelot's assistance, the angels are
transformed into Turks, and the objectionable connection with
the Scriptures got rid of.
Allusion has already been made to Moore's song-writing; a
more specific reference to that special department of poetic effort
in which he excelled is now necessary. In the last days of his
college curriculum, the poet's attention had been attracted to
Bunting's collection of Irish Melodies. In 1807 he entered into
an engagement with Mr Power to produce a work founded on
them, in which he was to adapt the airs and furnish the words,
while Sir J. Stevenson was to provide the accompaniments. This
work engaged him at intervals throughout more than a quarter
of a century, and upon it his fame will permanently rest. The
songs of Moore have not the passion or the power of the lyrics
of Burns. But Burns aside, in pathos, tenderness, play of wit,
brilliancy of fancy, and rich adornment, the bard of Erin must
ever claim a high, if not the highest, place among our song writers
It may, probably it must, be acknowledged that there is too great
uniformity in the efforts of his muse, and. that, more frequenlli
MEMOIR OF THOMAS MOORE.
than was meet, the poet has been contented to hang the garland
of his fancy over threadbare conventionalities. But to demand,
as certain critics, in depreciating Moore, have demanded, from
the lyrist some wondrously complex manifestation of passion, is to
mistake the true functions of the song-writer. Moore is not the
poet of the people in any wide sense of that word. He has not spe-
cially voiced the aspirations of the plough, the loom, or the forge.
He has no song of which it can be said, as Carlyle has said of
Burns' best known lyric, it might be sung by the throat of the
whirlwind. Yet, though in some respects Moore wants robustness,
it is a gross exaggeration of his one weakness to describe him as
a mere carpet poet. As the critic listens to " The Last Rose of
Summer," " Rich and rare were the gems she wore," " Go where
glory waits thee," sneers are transformed into admiration. Such
soul-stirring, soul-melting effusions fully justify the boast of the
bard :
" Dear harp of my country! in darkness I found thee,
The cold chain of silence had hung o'er thee long,
When proudly, my own island harp, I unbound thee,
And gave all thy chords to love, freedom, and song !
The warm lay of love, and the light note of gladness,
Have waken'd thy fondest, thy loveliest thrill ;
But, so oftthou hast echo'd the deep sigh of sadness,
That even in thy mirth it will steal from thee still!"
In 1823 Moore published his "Fables of the Holy Alliance."
Almost immediately after the appearance of this work, which
certain timid friends feared might subject him to a government
prosecution, he accompanied Lord Lansdowne on a tour through
Ireland. On his return from the Green Isle, he published " Cap-
tain Rock," a historical summary of the misgovernment of his
native country, and an attack upon the Irish Church. This work,
then popular even beyond its merits, now adds nothing to his
fame. In the October of 1825, the " Life of Sheridan," on which
he had long been occupied, appeared. This life is obviously the
fruit of solid study ; facts are carefully elucidated, and the com-
pact narrative presents the reader with all the world cares to
know of Sheridan. Where it fails, it is not from any lack of in-
dustry, but from the lack of pictorial power. Moore could do
admirable justice to a given range of sentiments, but he was des-
titute of the capacity (so invaluable in a biographer) which realises
a vivid image of character. The " Life of Lord Byron" was
Moore's next prose effort. Though not perhaps containing any
single passages of equal power to some that may be found in his
" Sheridan," the work exhibits a greater mastery of the craft of the
biographer. Byron was followed by " The Life of Lord Edward
Fitzgerald," a biography more strongly impregnated with the
odour of Irish patriotism than was altogether to the taste of Hol-
land House. Whig friends began to suspect that the guest of
Belgravia was making too near an approach to the " Croppy
Boy." In his life of Sheridan, he had the temerity to ventilate
certain opinions not quite in keeping with the traditionary rever-
ence for Fox ; and in the biography of the Irish patriot he went
even still greater lengths in the same independent path. Moore
had through life been a waiter upon providence, he is always
expecting that something will be done for him. So long the dupe
MEMOIR OF THOMAS MOORE.
of to-morrow, he has now begun to despair. Disappointment has
somewhat soured his spirit, and though he talks nothing but the
truth of his patrons when chafing under supposed neglect, it is
probable that, but for that imagined want of consideration, the
truth would not have been so frankly told. In cherishing this
petulant spirit, it soon became manifest that Moore was mistaken.
Old friends had not forgotten him, as the following epistle from
Lord John Russell, dated 7th May 1835, will prove :
" My dear Moore, I have been too busy, since I last saw you,
to be able to write on any but public concerns. Having, however,
a little time to spare to-day, I wish to consult you on your own
private affairs. I am now in a better position than I formerly
was for serving my friends ; still, there are very few opportunities
of finding any situation that will suit a gentleman who does not
belong to a profession. It has occurred to me that a pension for
one or both of your sons might be a source of comfort to you in
days of sickness or lassitude. But perhaps, on the contrary, the
offer might be displeasing to you, and I do not like to speak to
Melbourne about it without consulting you. If you have any-
thing else to suggest which is more agreeable to your wishes, pray
tell me freely as an old friend, and I will answer you as a friend,
and not as a minister."
This kindly epistle was received by Moore with feelings of
" surprise, joy, and thankfulness." In his reply, the poet inti-
mates that he had begun to suspect Swift was right when he said
" he never knew a ministry do anything for those whom they had
made the companions of their pleasures." Lord John's letter,
however, had shown him his mistake. After mentioning that his
History of Ireland had been a very poor job, realising only L.750,
from two years and a half of employment, Moore left matters
entirely in the hands of Lord John Russell. The result was, that
on the 24th August it was notified in the public prints that, in
consideration of eminent literary services, Thomas Moore, Esq.,
had received a pension of L.300. This pension brought joy to the
heart of Bessy, who thus writes from their cottage in Sloperton,
on the news being first broken to her, " My dearest Tom, can it
really be true that you have a pension of L.300 a-year; Mr, two
Misses, and young Longman were here to-day, and tell me that
they have seen it in two newspapers. If the good news be true,
I shall then indulge in butter to potatoes. Mind you do not tell
this piece of gluttony to any one." Three years after this, the
poet again visits Ireland. His great popularity has lost none of
its freshness. When he got on board the Dublin packet, at their
united request he has to kiss all the ladies on buard. not excepting
an elderly female, who had been left out of the calculation, and
gallantly came to his cabin to repair the omission. When he set
toot on Irish soil, he was received with the most enthusiastic wel-
come. His progresses through the country were everywhere ova-
tions. He is called out at the Dublin theatre ; " Come, shew your
Irish face, Tom," the galleries shout in chorus. At Bannow he
is received by horsemen with banners, triumphal arches are
erected in honour of the poet. The contagious enthusiasm has
even penetrated the serene regions of Quakenlom. Some very
beautiful ladies of the Society Friends " thould like to hare two
Kii MEMOIR OF THOMAS MOORE
lines of thine with thy name to them." If the breath of popular
applause could confer happiness, then had Moore reached the
summit of earthly felicity. The post-horns of Europe are filled
with his fame, peasant and peer are alike forward to do homage
to his genius; but happiness is not in all this. He has had his
reward. "What he aimed to accomplish he has accomplished.
But something is yet wanting. Fashionable life at length begins
to pall, and the poet begins to babble of his quiet garden and
study, where, in the mute society of his own thoughts and books,
he is neither offended nor wearied. Alas ! Tom, it is now too late.
At sixty, a man does not easily revolutionise his tastes or his
habits. The psalmist has with equal truth and poetry described
human life as " like as yesterday when it is past, or as a watch in
the night." But brief as is man's allotted span, ere he goes hence,
he has often lived long enough to have outlived the capacity for
enjoyment. " The butterfly-wing is faded before the summer is
over, and the humming-bee droops in the heart of the roses." So
was it with Moore.
We noted the first shadow that fell upon his household in the
death of his oeloved Barbara. Since that day, once, twice, thrice
has the insatiate archer plunged that household in gloom ; and
now, in 1846, we find this sad entry in his diary: " The last of
our five children is gone, and we are left desolate and alone. Not
a single relative have I now left in the world." The blow sent
him weeping to the earth. Health was affected, spirits crushed,
and mind impaired. In that last sad year of Southey's existence,
we read of how the poor scholar, whose mind had become an utter
blank, would still walk round his library, gaze intently on his
darling books, take them down mechanically, affect to read them,
and put them back again unread. The last days of Moore are in
a certain sense even still more melancholy. " His memory was
perpetually at fault, and nothing seemed to reft upon his mind.
He made engagements to dinners and parties, but usually forgot
the half of them. When he did appear, his gay flow of spirits,
happy application of humorous stories, and constant and congenial
ease, were all wanting. The brilliant hues of his varied conversa-
tion had failed, and the strong powers of his intellect had mani-
festly sunk. There was something peculiarly sad in the change.
It is not unu?ual to observe the faculties grow weaker with age ;
and in the retirement of a man's own home, there may be no
" unpleasing melancholy" in the task of watching such a decline ;
but when, in the midst of the gay and convivial, the wit appeared
without his gaiety, and the guest without his conviviality when
the fine fancy appeared not so much sobered as saddened, it was
a cheerless sight.
" The harp that once in Tara's halls
The soul of music shed,
Now hangs as mute on Tara's walls,
As if that soul was fled."
The great darkness which had settled on his spirit continued
to deepen, and on the 25th February 1852 he died. The church-
yard of Broinham, a village of Wiltshire, is the last resting-placo
of the bard.
CONTENTS.
PAGE
LALLA ROOKH
7
63
81
136
477
The Veiled Prophet of Khorassau,
Paradise and the Peri,
The Fire-Worshippers,
The Light of the Haram,
Notes,
MISCELLANEOUS POEMS :
To a Boy, with a Watch" Is it not sweet? . 159
Fragment of College Exercises" Mark those proud,"
" Is there no call," 160
Song "'Mary, I believed thee true," . . .
On the Birth-day of Mrs "Of all my happiest,"
To a Lady, with MS. Poems " When casting many," 162
To the Large and Beautiful Miss " In wedlock," .
Inconstancy" And do I then wonder that Julia,
To Julia" Though Fate, my girl," .
Nature's Labels" In vain we fondly strive to trace,
To M " Sweet Lady ! look not thus again," .
To Julia" Mock me no more with love's beguiling," !
To Rosa" Does the harp of Rosa slumber,"
Sympathy, to Julia" Our hearts, my love,"
To Julia" I saw the peasant's hand unkind,
On the death of a Lady" Sweet spirit, if thy airy sleep,
Written in Lady's Common-place Book" Here is one, 1
To Rosa " Like who trusts to summer skies,"
" The wisest soul by anguish torn," . 16S
Anacreontic" Press the grape, and let it, pour "
" i'ric'nd of my soul ! this goblet, 1 RJ
CONTENTS.
MISCELLANEOUS POEMS (continued.) PAGK
" Oh, woman ! if by simple wile," . . . 170
To Miss , on her asking, &c. "I'll ask the sylph," 171
Elegiac Stanzas " How sweetly could I lay my head," 171
To Julia " When time was entwining," . . 171
To Rosa " And are you then a thing of art," . 172
The Surprise " Chloris, I swear, by all I ever swore," 172
The Ballad " Thou hast sent me a flowery band," 172
To Mrs " How heav'nly was the Poet's doom," 173
To a Lady, on her singing " Thy song has taught," 173
A Dream " I thought this heart consuming lay," 174
"Written in a Common-place Book " This tribute," 174
The Tear " On beds of snow the moonbeam slept," 175
To Julia weeping " Oh ! if your tears are giv'n," 175
Song " Have you not seen the timid tear," . 175
The Shield " Oh ! did you not hear a voice," . 176
" Pity me, love ! I'll pity thee," . . . . 177
Elegiac Stanzas " Though sorrow long," . . 177
A Night Thought" How oft a cloud," . . 178
Elegiac Stanzas " When wearied wretches," . 179
To " With all my soul, then, let us part," 179
A Reflection at Sea " See how, beneath," . . 179
" Come, tell me where the maid is found," . . 180
Song " Sweetest love ! I'll not forget thee," . 180
" Think on that look of humid ray," . 181
,, " When Time, who steals our years away," 181
Reuben and Rose " The darkness which hung," . 182
The Ring. A Tale" The happy day at length," 184
Song " Why does azure deck the sky ?" . . 189
Morality " Though long at school," . . .190
The Natal Genius. ADream "In witching slumbers," 192
The Tell-Tale Lyre" I've heard, there was," . 193
To Cara, after absence " Conceal'd within," . 194
on New Year's Day "When midnight," 195
To the Invisible Girl " They try to persuade me," 196
Peace and Glory " Where is now the smile ?" . 197
To " To be the theme of every hour," . 198
Song " Take back the sigh thy lips of art," . 199
The Genius of Harmony,an Ode "There lies a shell," 199
The Ring. To " No Lady ! keep the ring," 202
To " When I lov'd you, I can't but allow," 203
From the Greek of Meleager " Fill high the cup," 203
" I found her not the chamber seem'd," . . 204
Love and Reason " 'Twas in the summer-time," 204
" Nay, do not weep, my Fanny dear!" . . . 206
Aspasia " 'Twas in the fair Aspasia's bower," 206
The Grecian Girl's Dream of the Blessed Islands, 207
CONTENTS.
MISCELLANEOUS POEMS (continued.} PAGE
To Cloe, imitated from Martial " I could resign," 209
The Wreath and the Chain " I bring thee, love," 209
To "And hast thou marked the pensive shade" 210
Song " The wreath you wove," . . . .211
Lying " I do confess, in many a sigh," . . 211
Anacreontic " I fill'd to thee, to thee I drank," . 212
To 's Picture" Go then, if she whose shade," 213
Fragment of Mythological Hymn " Blest infant," 213
To the Duke of Montpensier " To catch the thought," 214
The Philosopher Aristippus. To a Lamp " Oh love," 215
To Mrs Bl h d, written in her Album "They say," 217
The Fall of Hebe" Twas on a day," . " . 219
Anacreontic " She never look'd so kind before," 222
To Mrs " Is not thy mind a gentle mind," 223
Hymn of a Virgin of Delphi " Oh ! lost, for ever," 224
ToMissBeckford,on her singing "I morethanonce," 225
To Mrs Henry Tighe " Tell me the witching tale," 226
Impromptu, upon leaving some Friends " No, never," 227
A Warning " Oh ! fair as Heaven and chaste," . 227
Woman " Away, away you're all the same," . 228
To " Come, take the harp 'tis vain to muse," 229
A Vision of Philosophy ' 'Twas on the Keel Sea," 229
To " The world had just begun to steal," . 231
To Mrs " To see thee every day that came," 232
To Lady H , on an old Ring "When Grammont,' 223
To " Never mind how the pedagogue proses," 234
Did Not " 'Twas a new feeling something more," 234
At Night " At night, when all is still around," . 235
To Lord Viscount Strangford " Sweet Moon," . 235
Stanzas " A beam of tranquillity smil'd," . . 237
To the Flying Fish " When I have seen," . 288
To Miss Moore " In days, my Kate, when life," 239
The Lake of the Dismal Swamp " They made her," 242
To the Marchioness Dowager of Donegall, . . 243
To George Morgan, Esq. " Oh what a tempest," 246
Lines, written in a stormat Sea "Oh! there's a holy," 248
ODES TO NBA :
I. " Nay, tempt me not to love again," . 249
II. " You read it in my languid eyes," . . 250
III. Dream of Antiquity " I just had turn'd," 251
IV. "Well peace to thy heart," . . .253
V. " If I were yonder wave, my dear," . . 253
VI. The Snow-Spirit "No, ne'er did the wave," 254
VII. "I stole along the flowery bank," . . 255
VIII. " Behold, my love, the curious gem 25V
xvi CONTENTS.
MISCELLANEOUS POEMS (continued.} PAGE
IX. " There's not a look, a word of thine," . . 257
To Joseph Atkinson, Esq., " The daylight is gone," 258
The Steersman's Song " When freshly blows," . 259
To the Fire-fly " This morning, when the earth," 260
To Lord Viscount Forbes "Ifformer times had never," 260
To Thomas Hume, Esq., M.D. " 'Tis evening," 265
On leaving Philadelphia "Aloneby the Schuylkill," 267
Lines, written at the Cohos " From rise of morn," 268
Song of Evil Spirit of the Woods" Now the vapour," 269
To the Hon. W. K. Spencer" Thou oft has told me," 270
Ballad Stanzas " I knew by the smoke," . . 273
Canadian Boat-song " Faintly as tolls the evening," 273
To Lady Charlotte Eawdon " Not many months," 274
Impromptu " 'Twas but for a moment," . . 278
Written on passing Dead-Man's Island " See you," 279
To the Boston Frigate" With triumph, this," . 279
Black and Blue Eyes " The brilliant black eye," 281
Dear Fanny " She has beauty, but still you must," 282
" From Lie without Freedom," .... 282
" Here's the bower she lov'd so much," . . 282
" I saw the Moon rise clear," Finland love Song, 283
Love and the Sun-dial "Young Love found a dial," 284
Love and Time " 'Tis said but whether true," 284
Love's light summer-cloud " Pain and sorrow," 285
" Love, wand'ring through the golden maze," . 286
" Merrily every bosom boundeth," Tyrolese Song, 286
" Oh remember the time," The Castilian Maid," 287
Oh, soon return " The white sail caught," . . 287
Love Thee " Oh yes ! so well, so tenderly," . 288
One dear Smile " Couldst thou look as dear, : . 289
The Day of Love " The beam of morning," . 289
' The song of war shall echo through," . . 290
" The young rose which I give thee," . . . 290
When midst the gay I meet, . . . .291
" When twilight dews are falling soft," . . 291
Fanny, dearest " Oh ! had I leisure to sigh," . 292
" Sigh not thus, oh simple boy," ....
" 'Tis Love that murmurs in my breast," . . 293
" Young Ella was the happiest maid," . . 293
The Pilgrim " Holy be the pilgrim's sleep," . 294
" Wilt thou say farewell, love," .... 295
" Cease, oh cease to tempt," .... 296
" Joys that pass away," . . 296
My Mary " Love, my Mary, dwells with thee," . 297
" Now let the warrior wave his sword," . . 297
** Light sounds the harp when the combat is over," 298
CONTENTS.
xvii
PAG^!
MELOLOGUE upon National Music Advertisement .
299
" There breathes a language, known and felt,"
300
THE ODES OF ANACREON :
I. " I saw the smiling bard of pleasure,"
305
II. " Give me the harp of epic song,"
306
III. " Listen to the Muse's lyre,"
306
IV. " Vulcan ! hear your glorious task," .
307
V. " Grave me a cup witn brilliant grace,"
307
VI. " As late I sought the spangled bowers,"
308
VII. " The women tell me every day,"
308
VIII. ' I care not for the idle state," .
309
IX. ' I pray thee, by the gods above,"
309
X. ' Tell me how to punish thee,"
310
XI. ' Tell me, gentle youth, I pray thee,"
310
XII. They tell how Atys, wild with love,"
811
XIII. ' I will ; I will ; the conflict's past,"
31^
XIV. ' Tell me, why, my sweetest dove," .
312
XV. " Thou, whose soft and rosy hues," .
314
XVI. " And now with all thy pencil's truth,"
315
XVII. " Now the star of day is high,"
31G
XVIII. " Here recline you, gentle maid,"
317
XIX. " One day, the Muses twin'd the hands,"
317
XX. " Observe when mother earth is dry,"
318
XXI. " The Phrygian rock, that braves," .
318
XXII. " I often wish this languid lyre,"
319
XXIII. " To all that breathe the airs of heaven,"
319
XXIV. " Once in each revolving year," .
320
XXV. " Thy harp may sing of Troy's alarms,"
321
XXVI. " We read the flying courser's name,"
321
XXVII. " As in the Lemnian caves of fire," .
321
XXVIII. ' Yes loving is a painful thrill,"
322
XXIX. ' 'Twas in an airy dream of night," .
323
XXX. 'Arm'd with hyacinthine rod," .
323
XXXI. ' Strew me a breathing bed of leaves,"
324
XXXII. ' 'Twas noon of night, when round," .
324
XXXIII. Oh thou, of all creation blest,"
326
XXXIV. " Cupid once upon a bed," .
326
XXXV. " If hoarded gold possess'd a power," .
327
XXXVI. ' 'Twas night, and many a circling bowl,"
328
XXXVII. ' Let us drain the nectar'd bowl," .
328
XXXVIII. ' How I love the festive boy," .
329
XXXIX. ' I know that Heaven ordains me here,"
329
XL. ' When spring begems the dewy scene,"
330
XLI. ' Yes, be the glorious revel mine,"
330
X.LII. " While our rosy fillets shed," .
331
b '
xriii
CONTENTS.
THE ODES OF ANACREON (continued.} PAGE
XLIII. " Buds of roses, virgin flowers," . . 332
XLIV. " Within this goblet, rich and deep," 332
XLV. " See the young, the rosy Spring," . 333
XLVI. " 'Tis true, my fading years decline," 333
XLVII. " When my thirsty soul I steep," . 334
XLVIII. " When Bacchus, Jove's immortal boy," 335
XL1X. " When I drink, I feel, I feel," . . 335
L. " Fly not thus my brow of snow," . 336
LI. " Away, away, you men of rules," . 336
LII. " When I behold the festive train," . 337
LIII. " Methinks, the pictur'd bull we see," 337
LIV. " While we invoke the wreathed spring," 338
LV. " He, who instructs the youthful crew," 339
LVI. " And whose immortal hand .could shed," 340
LVII. " When gold, as fleet as zephyr's pinion," 341
LVIII. " Sabled by the solar beam," . . 342
LIX. " Awake to life, my dulcet shell," . 343
Golden hues of youth are fled," . 344
Fill me, boy, as deep a draught," . 344
To Love, the soft and blooming child," 345
Haste thee, nymph, whose winged spear," 345
Rich in bliss, I proudly scorn," . 346
Now Neptune's sullen month appears," 346
They wove the lotus band to deck," . 346
A broken cake, with honey sweet,"
LX.
LXI.
LXII.
LXIII.
LXIV.
LXV.
LXVI.
LXVII.
LXVIII.
LXIX.
LXX.
LXXI.
LXXII.
LXXIII.
LXXIV.
LXXV.
LXXVI.
347
With twenty chords my lyre is hung," 347
Fare-thee-well, perfidious maid !" . 347
I bloom'd awhile, a happy flower," . 348
Monarch Love ! resistless boy," . 348
Spirit of Love, whose tresses shine," 348
Hither, gentle Muse of mine," . 349
Would that I were a tuneful lyre," . 349
When Cupid sees my beard of snow," 349
' Cupid, whose lamp has lent the ray," 349
LXXVII. Let me resign a wretched breath," . 350
LXXVIII. ' I knowthou lov'st a brimming measure," 350
LXXIX. " I fear that love disturbs my rest," . 360
LXXX. " From dread Leucadia's frowning steep," 350
LXXXI. " Mix me, child, a cup divine," . . 350
An Ode by the Translator, 351
EPIGEAMS OF THE ANTHOLOGIA :
" Around the tomb, oh bard divine !" . . . 352
" Here sleeps Anacreon, in this ivied shade," . 353
" Oh stranger ! if Anacreon's shell," . . . 353
" At length thy golden hours have wing'd their flight," 354
CONTENTS.
THE TWOPENNY POST-BAG : PAGE
Preface, 355
Letter I. From the Pr-nc-ssCh eofW s
to the Lady B-rb a A-shl-y, . 356
II. From Colonel M'M-h-n to G Id
Fr-nc-s L-ckie, Esq., . . . 358
III. From G. R. to the E ofY , 360
IV. From the Right Hon. P-tr-ck D-g-n-n
to the Right Hon. Sir J-hn N-ch-1, 361
V. From the Countess Dowager of C
to Lady , .... 363
VI. From Abdallah, in London, to Mo-
hassan, in Ispahan, . . .365
VII. From Messrs L-ck gt-n and Co. to
, Esq 367
VIII. From Colonel Th-m-s to Esq., 372
TRIFLES :
The Insurrection of the Papers " Last night I toss'd," 375
Parody of a celebrated Letter "At length, dearest," 376
Anacreontic to a Plumassier " Fine and feathery," 379
Extracts from the Diary of a Politician, . . 380
Epigram " What news, to-day ? Oh ! worse," . 381
King Crack and his Idols "King Crack was the best," 381
" What's my thought like ?" . . . .382
Epigram. Dialogue between a Catholic Delegate
and His R-y-1 H-ghn-ss the D e of C b 1 d, 382
Wreaths for Ministers" Hither, Flora, queen," . 383
Epigram. Dialogue between a Dowager and her
maid on the night of Lord Y-rm th's fete, . 384
Horace, Ode XL" Come Y-rm th, my boy," . 384
XXII." The man who keeps," . 385
Epigram, from the French " I never give a kiss,"
On a Squinting Poetess " To no one Muse," . 386
T " Die when you will, you need not wear," 387
The new Costume of the Ministers " Having sent," 387
Occasional Address for the opening of the New
Theatre of St S ph-n " This day a New House," 388
The Sale of the Tools " Here's a choice set," . 389
M.P., OK THE BLUE STOCKING :
" Young Love liv'd once in an humble shed," . 393
" To sigh, yet feel no pain, 393
" Spirit of Joy, thy altar lies," .... 394
" When Leila touch'd the lute," .... 395
Boat Glee" The song that lightens," . . 396
CONTENTS.
M.P., OR THE BLUE STOCKING (continued.) PAGE
" Oli think, when a hero is sighing," . . . 396
Cupid's Lottery " A Lottery, 'a Lottery," . . 396
Song " Though sacred the tie that our country," 397
" When Charles was deceiv'd by the maid he lov'd," 397
" When life looks lone and dreary," . . . 398
" Mr Orator Puff had two tones in his voice," . 398
' Dear aunt, in the olden time of love," . . 399
" Tis sweet to behold, when the billows are sleeping," 399
CORRUPTION AND INTOLERANCE :
Preface, .400
Corruption : an Epistle " Boast on, my friend," . 402
Intolerance : a Satire. Note," .... 407
" Start not, my friend," . . .409
SACRED SONGS :
" Thou art, God, the life and light," . .412
" The bird, let loose in eastern skies," . . . 413
"Fallen is thy throne, oh Israel," . . . 413
" Who is the Maid my spirit seeks," . . . 414
" This world is all a fleeting show," . . .415
" Oh, Thou ! who dry'st the mourner's tear," . 416
" Weep not for those whom the veil of the tomb," 416
" The turf shall be my fragrant shrine," . . 417
" Sound the loud timbrel o'er Egypt's dark sea," 418
" Go, let me weep there's bliss in tears," . . 419
" Come not, oh Lord, in the dread robe of splendour," 419
" Were not the sinful Mary's tears, . . . 420
" As down in the sunless retreats of the ocean," . 420
" But who shall see the glorious day," . . 421
" Almighty God ! when round thy shrine," . . 421
" Oh fair ! oh purest ! be thou the dove," . . 422
I UISH MELODIES :
Prefaratory Letter on Music, .... 423
" Go where glory waits thee," .... 428
War Song " Remember the Glories of Brien," . 429
' Erin ! the tear and the smile in thine eyes," . 430
1 Oh, breathe not his name, let it sleep in the shade," 430
' AVhen he, who adores thee, has left but the name," 430
1 The harp that once through Tara's halls, . . 431
' Fly not yet, 'tis just the hour," . . . .431
' Oh ! think not my spirits are always as light," . 432
' Tho' the last glimpse of Erin with sorrow I see," 433
' Rich and rare were the gems she wore," . . 433
CONTENTS. xxl
IRISH MELODIES (continued.} PAGE
" As a beam o'er the face of the waters may glow," 434
The meeting of the waters " There is not in the," 434
St Senanus and the Lady " Oh ! haste and leave," 435
" How dear to me the hour when day-light dies," 435
" Take back the virgin page," , 43(5
The Legacy "When in death I shall calm recline," 436
" How oft has the Benshee cried," . . . 437
" We may roam thro' this world, like a child," . 438
" Eveleen's Bower " Oh ! weep for the hour," . 439
The Song of Fionnuala " Silent, oh Moyle," . 440
" Let Erin remember the days of old," . . 440
" Come, send round the wine, and leave points," . 441
" Sublime was the warning which Liberty spoke," 441
" Believe me, if all those endearing young charms," 442
Erin ! oh Erin ! " Like the bright lamp that lay," 443
" Drink to her, who long," 443
" Oh ! blame not the bard, if he fly to the bowers," 444
" While gazing on the moon's light," . . . 445
111 omens " When day-light was yet sleeping," . 44(5
Before the Battle " By the hope within us,". . 447
After the Battle'- Sight clos'd around," . . 447
" Oh ! 'tis sweet to think, that, where'er we rove," 448
The Irish Peasant to his Mistress "Through grief," 449
On Music " When thro' life unblest we rove," . 449
" It is not the tear at this moment shed," . . 450
Origin of the harp " 'Tis believ'd that this harp," 450
Love's young dream " Oh ! the days are gone," . 451
The Prince's day " Tho' dark are our sorrows," . 452
" Weep on, weep on, your hour is past," . . 453
" Lesbia hath a beaming eye," .... 453
" I saw thy form in youthful prime," . . . 454
" By that Lake, whose gloomy shore," . . . 455
" She is far from the land where her young hero," 456
" Nay, tell me not, dear ! that the goblet drowns," 457
" Avenging and bright fall the swift sword of Erin," 457
" What the bee is to the flow'ret," . . .458
Love and the Novice " Here we dwell in holiest,'' 458
" This life is all chequer'd with pleasures and woes, 459
Oh the Shamrock " Through Erin's Isle," . . 460
" At the mid hour of night," . . . .. 401
" One bumper at parting," 461
" 'Tis the last rose of Summer," .... 462
" Tho young May Moon is beaming love," . . 463
" The minstrel-boy to the war is gone," . . 463
The Song of O'Ruark " Tho valley lay smiling," 464
" Oli! had we some bright little Isle of our own," 466
CONTENTS.
IRISH MELODIES (continued.} PAGE
Farewell ! but, whenever you welcome the hour," 465
Oh ! doubt me not the season," . . . 466
You remember Ellen, our hamlet's pride," . 466
I'd mourn the hopes that leave me," . . . 467
Come o'er the sea," ...... 468
Has sorrow thy young days shaded ?" . . 469
No, not more welcome the fairy numbers ;" . 470
; When first I met thee, warm and young," . . 470
1 While History's Muse the memorial was keeping," 471
The time I've lost in wooing," .... 472
: Oh ! where is the slave so lowly," . . . 473
; Come, rest in this bosom, my own stricken deer," 473
; Tis gone, and for ever, the light we saw breaking," 474
' I saw from the beach when the morning was shining," 474
' Fill the bumper fair," 475
! Dear Harp of my country ! in darkness I found thee," 476
NOTES, 4.11
LALLA ROOKH:
<&rimtal Romance.
TO
SAMUEL EOQEKS, ESQ.,
THIS VOLUME IS DEDICATED,
BT
HIS VERY GBATEFTJL A?TD AFFECTIONATE FWEND,
THOMAS MOORE.
LALLA HOOKK.
IN the eleventh, year of the reign of Aurungzebe, Abdalla,
King of the Lesser Bucharia, a lineal descendant from the
Great Zingis, having abdicated the throne in favour of his
eon, set out on a pilgrimage to the Shrine of the Prophet ;
and, passing into India through the delightful valley of Cash-
mere, rested for a short time at Delhi on his way. He was
entertained by Aurungzebe in a style of magnificent hospi-
tality, worthy alike of the visitor and the host, and was after-
wards escorted with the same splendour to Surat, where he
embarked for Arabia. During the stay of the Royal Pilgrim
at Delhi, a marriage was agreed upon between the Prince,
his son, and the youngest daughter of the Emperor, Lalla
Rookh * a Princess described by the poets of her time, as
more beautiful than Leila, Shirine, Dewilde, or any of those
heroines whose names and loves embellish the songs of
Persia and Hindostan. It was intended that the nuptials
should be celebrated at Cashmere ; where the young King,
as soon as the cares of the empire would permit, was to meet,
for the first time, his lovely bride, and, after a few months'
repose in that enchanting valley, conduct her over the snowy
hills into Bucharia.
The day of Lalla Rookh's departure from Delhi was as
splendid as sunshine and pageantry could make it. The
bazaars and baths were all covered with the richest tapestry ;
hundreds of gilded barges upon the Jumna floated with their
banners shining in the water; while through the streets
groups of beautiful children went strewing the most deli-
cious flowers around, as in that Persian festival called Gul
Reazee, or the Scattering of the Roses ; till every part of the
city was as fragrant as if a caravan of musk from Khotec
* Tulip chack.
LALLA ROOKH.
had passed through it. The princess, having taken leave of
her kind father, who at parting hung a cornelian of Yemen
round her neck, on which was inscribed a verse from the
Koran, and having sent a considerable present to the
Fakirs, who kept up the perpetual lamp in her sister's
tomb, meekly ascended the palankeen prepared for her ;
and, while Aurungzebe stood to take a last look from his
balcony, the procession moved slowly on the road to
Lahore.
Seldom had the Eastern world seen a cavalcade so superb
From the gardens in the suburbs to the imperial palace, it
was one unbroken line of splendour. The gallant appear-
ance of the Rajas and Mogul lords, distinguished by those
insignia of the Emperor's favour, the feathers of the egret
of Cashmere in their turbans, and the small silver-rimmed
kettle-drums at the bows of their saddles; the costly armour
of their cavaliers, who vied, on this occasion, with the guards
of the great Keder Khan, in the brightness of their silver
battle-axes and the massiness of their maces of gold ; the
glittering of the gilt pine-apples on the tops of the palan-
keens ; the embroidered trappings of the elephants, bear-
ing on their backs small turrets, in the shape of little
antique temples, within which the Ladies of Lalla Rookh
lay, as it were enshrined ; the rose-coloured veils of the
Princess's own sumptuous litter, at the front of which a fair
young female slave sat fanning her through the curtains,
with feathers of the Argus pheasant's wing ; and the
lovely troop of Tartarian and Cashrnerian maids of honour,
whom the young King had sent to accompany his bride,
and who rode on each side of the litter, upon small Ara-
bian horses ; all was brilliant, tasteful, and magnificent,
and pleased even the critical and fastidious Fadladeen,
Great Nazir or Chamberlain of the Haram, who was borne
in his palankeen immediately after the Princess, and con-
sidered himself not the least important personage of the
pageant.
Fadladeen was a judge of everything, from the pencil-
ing of a Circassian's eye-lids to the. deepest questions of
science and literature ; from the mixture of a conserve of
rose-leaves to the composition of an epic poem: and such
influence had his opinion upon the various tastes of the
day, that all the cooks and poets of Delhi stood in awe of
him. His political conduct and opinions were founded
upon that line of Sadi, " Should the Prince at noon-day
say, ' It is night,' declare that you behold the moon and
stars." And his zeal for religion, of which Aumngzebe
uras a munificent protector, was about as disinterested as
LALLA BOOKH.
that of tlie goldsmith who fell in love with the diamond
eyes of the idol of Jugghernaut.
During the first days of their journey, Lalla Rookh, who
bad passed all her life within the shadow of the Royal Gar-
dens of Delhi, found enough in the beauty of the scenery
through which they passed to interest her mind and delight
her imagination ; and when, at evening or in the heat of
the day, they turned off from the high road to those retired
and romantic places which had been selected for her encamp-
ments, sometimes on the banks of a small rivulet, as clear
as the waters of the Lake of Pearl ; sometimes under the
sacred shade of a Banyan tree, from which the view opened
upon a glade covered with antelopes ; and often in those
hidden, embowered spots, described by one from the Isles of
the West, as " places of melancholy, delight, and safety,
where all the company around was wild peacocks and turtle-
doves," she felt a charm in these scenes, so lovely and so
new to her, which, for a time, made her indifferent to every
other amusement. But Lalla Rookh was young, and the
young love variety ; nor could the conversation of her ladies
and the great chamberlain, Fadladeen (the only persons,
of course, admitted to her pavilion), sufficiently enliven those
many vacant hours, which were devoted neither to the pil-
low nor the palankeen. There was a little Persian slave
who sung sweetly to the vina, and who, now and then, lul-
led the Princess to sleep with the ancient ditties of her coun-
try, about the loves of Wamak and Ezra, the fair-haired Zal
and his mistress Rodahver ; not forgetting the combat of
Rustam with the terrible White Demon. At other times
she was amused by those graceful dancing-girls of Delhi,
who had been permitted by the Brahmins of the Great Pag-
oda to attend her, much to the horror of the good Mussul-
man Fadladeen, who could see nothing graceful or agreeable
in idolaters, and to whom the very tinkling of their golden
anklets was an abomination.
But these and many other diversions were repeated till
they lost all their charm, and the nights and noondays were
beginning to move heavily, when, at length, it was recol-
lected that, among the attendants sent by the bridegroom,
was a young poet of Cashmere, much celebrated throughout
the valley for his manner of reciting the stories of the East,
on whom his royal master had conferred the privilege of
being admitted to the pavilion of the Princess, that he
might help to beguile the tediousness of the journey by some
of his most agreeable recitals. At the mention of a poet,
Fadladeen elevated his critical eyebrows, and, having re-
freshed his faculties with a dose of that delicious opium.
LALLA ROOKH.
which is distilled from the black poppy of the Thebais, gave
orders for the minstrel to be forthwith introduced into the
presence.
The Princess, who had once in her life seen a poet from
behind the screens of gauze in her father's hall, and had
conceived from that specimen no very favourable ideas of
the cast, expected but little in this new exhibition to interest
her ; she felt inclined however to alter her opinion on the
very first appearance of Feramorz. He was a youth about
Lalla Rookh's own age, and graceful as that idol of woman,
Crishna (the Indian Apollo), such as he appears to their
young imaginations, heroic, beautiful, breathing music from
his very eyes, and exalting the religion of his worshippers
into love. His dress was simple, yet not without some
marks of costliness, and the ladies of the Princess were not
long in discovering that the cloth which encircled his high
Tartarian cap, was of the most delicate kind that the shawl-
goats of Tibet supply. Here and there, too, over his vest,
which was confined by a flowered girdle of Kashan, hung
strings of fine pearl, disposed with an air of studied negli-
gence ; nor did the exquisite embroidery of his sandals
escape the observation of these fair critics ; who, however
they might give way to Fadladeen upon the unimportant
topics of religion and government, had the spirit of martyrs
in everything relating to such momentous matters as jewels
and embroidery.
For the purpose of relieving the pauses of recitation by
music, the young Cashmerian held in his hand a kitar,
such as, in old times, the Arab maids of the West used to
listen to by moonlight in the gardens of the Alhambra,
and, having premised, with much humility, that the story
he was about to relate was founded on the adventures of that
Veiled Prophet of Khorassan, who, in the year of the Hegira
163, created such alarm throughout the Eastern Empire,
made an obeisance to the Princess, and thus began .
THE
VEILED PROPHET OF KHORASSAN!
IN that delightful Province of the Sun,
The first of Persian lands he shines upon,
Where, all the loveliest children of his beam,
Flowrets and fruits blush over every stream,
And, fairest of all streams, the Murga roves
Among Merou'st bright palaces and groves ;
There on that throne, to which the blind belief,
Of millions raised him, sat the Prophet-Chief,
The Great Mokanna. O'er his features hung
The veil, the silver veil, which he had flung
In mercy there, to hide from mortal sight
His dazzling brow, till man could bear its light.
For, far less luminous, his votaries said,
Were ev'n the gleams, miraculously shed
O'er Moussa'st cheek, when down the Mount he trod,
All glowing from the presence of his God !
On either side, with read^ hearts and hands,
His chosen guard of bold Believers stands ;
Young fire-eyed disputants, who deem their swords,
On points of faith, more eloquent than words ;
And such their zeal, there's not a youth with brand
Uplifted there, but, at the Chief's command,
Would make his own devoted heart its sheath,
And bless the lips that doom'd so dear a death 1
In hatred to the Caliph's hue of night,
Their vesture, helms and all, is snowy white ;
Their weapons various ; some equipp'd, fur speed,
With javelins of the light Kathaian reed ;
Or bows of buffalo horn, and shining quivers
Fill'd with the stemsll that bloom on Iran's rivers ;
While some, for wrj's more terrible attacks,
Wield the huge mace and ponderous battle-axe ;
* " Khornssan signifies, in the old Persian language, Province, or
oftlic Sun."
J One of the royal cities of Khorassan.
J Moses.
Klack was the colour adopted by the Caliphs of the Houiie of AMtsa.
hi llH'h garments, turbans, ;u:d standards.
| Pichula. usvd ai.i'iently for arrows by the Persians.
LALLA ROOKH.
And, as they wave aloft in morning's beam
The milk-white plumage of their helms, they seem
Like a chenar-tree grove, when winter throws
O'er all its tufted heads his feathering snows.
Between the porphyry pillars, that uphold
The rich moresque-work of the roof of gold,
Aloft the Haram's curtain'd galleries rise,
Where, through the silken net-work, glancing eyes,
From time to time, like sudden gleams that glow
Through autumn clouds, shine o'er the pomp below.
What impious tongue, ye blushing saints, would dare
To hint that aught but Heav'u hath placed you there ?
Or that the loves of this light world could bind,
In their gross chain, your Prophet's soaring mind?
No wrongful thought ! commission'd from above
To people Eden's bowers with shapes of lovo
(Creatiu'es so bright, that the same lips and eyes
They wear on earth will serve in Paradise),
There to recline among Heav'n's native maids,
And crown the' Elect with bless that never fades !
Well hath the Proplret-Chief his bidding done ;
And every beauteous race beneath the sun,
From those who kneel at Brahma's burning founts,*
To the fresh nymphs bounding o'er Yemen's mounts ;
From Persia's eyes of full and fawn-like ray,
To the small, half-shut glances of Kathay ;t
And Georgia's bloom, and Azab's darker smiles,
And the gold ringlets of the Western Isles ;
All, all are there ; each land its flower hath given,
To form that fair young nursery for Heaven !
But why this pageant now? this arm'd array?
What triumph crowds the rich Divan to-day
With turban 'd heads, of every hue and race,
Bowing before that veil'd and awful face,
Like tulip-beds, of different shape and dyes,
Bending beneath th' invisible West-wind's sighs !
What new-made mystery now, for Faith to sign,
And blood to seal, as genuine and divine,
What dazzling mimickry of God's own power
Hath the bold Prophet plann'd to grace this hour?
Not such the pageant now, though not less proud,
Yon warrior youth, advancing from the crowd,
With silver bow, with belt of broider'd crape,
A.nd fur-bound bonnet of Bucharian
80 fiercely beautiful in form and eye,
* " Near Chittagong. esteemed as holy " t
THE VEILED PROPHET OF KHOEASSAN.
Lite war's wild planet in a summer sky ,
That youth to-day, a proselyte, worth hordes
Of cooler spirits and less practis'd swords,
Is come to join, all bravery and belief,
The creed and standard of the Heav'n-sent Chief.
Though few his years, the West already knows
Young Azim's fame; beyond th' Olympian snows,
Ere manhood darken'd o'er his downy cheek,
O'erwhelm'd in fight and captive to the Greek,
He linger'd there, till peace dissolv'd his chains ;
Oh ! who could, ev'n in bondage, tread the plains
Of glorious Greece, nor feel his spirit rise
Kindling within him ? who, with heart and eyes,
Could walk where Liberty had been, nor see
The shining foot-prints of her Deity,
Nor feel those god-like breathings in the air,
Which mutely told her spirit had been there?
Not he, that youthful warrior, no, too well
For his soul's quiet work'd th' awakening spell ;
And now, returning to his own dear land,
Full of those dreams of good that, vainly grand,
Haunt the young heart ; proud views of human -kind,
Of men to gods exalted and refin'd ;
False views, like that horizon's fair deceit,
Where earth and heav'n but seem, alas, to meet !
Soon as he heard an arm divine was rais'd
To right the nations, and beheld, emblaz'd
On the white flag Mokanna's host unfuii'd,
Those words of sunshine, " Freedom to the World,"
At once his faith, his sword, his soul obey'd
Th' inspiring summons ; every chosen blade,
That fought beneath that banner's sacred text,
Seem'd doubly edg'd, for this world and Ihe next ;
And neY.r did Faith with her smooth bandage bind
Eyes more devoutly willing to be blind,
In Virtue's cause ; never was soul inspir'd
With livelier trust in what it most desir'd,
Than his, th' enthusiast there, who kneeling, pale
With pious awe, before that silver veil,
Believes the form, to which he bends his knee,
Some pure, redeeming angel, sent to free
This fetter'd world from every bond and stain,
And bring its primal glories back again !
Low as young Azim knelt, that motley crowd
Of all earth's nations sunk the knee and bow'd.
"With shouts of "Alia!" echoing long and loud;
10 LALLA ROOKH.
"While high in air, above the Prophet's head,
Hundreds of banners, to the sunbeam spread,
"Wav'd, like the wings of the white birds that fan
The flying throne of star-taught Soliman !
Then thus he spoke : " Stranger, though new the framo
Thy soul inhabits now, I've track'd its flame
For many an age,* in every chance and change
Of that existence, through whose varied range.
As through a torch-race, where, from hand to hand
The flying youths transmit their shining brand,
From frame to frame the unextinguish'd soul
.Rapidly passes, till it reach the goal I
" Nor think 'tis only the gross spirits, warm'd
With duskier fire and for earth's medium form'd,
That run this course ; Beings, the most divine,
Thus deign through dark mortality to shine.
Such was the Essence that in Adam dwelt,
To which all Heav'n, except the Proud One, knelt :t
Such the refin'd Intelligence that glow'd
In Moussa's frame ; and, thence descending, flow'd
Through many a Prophet's breast ; in Issat shone,
And in Mohammed burn'd ; till, hastening on
(As a bright river that, from fall to fall
In many a maze descending, bright through all,
Finds some fair region where, each labyrinth past,
In one full lake of light it rests at last !)
That Holy Spirit, settling calm and free
From lapse or shadow, centers all in me !"
Again, throughout th' assembly at these words,
Thousands of voices rung ; the warriors' swords
"Were pointed up to Heav'n ; a sudden wind
In the' open banners play'd, and from behind
Those Persian hangings, that but ill could screen
The Haram's loveliness, white hands were seen
"Waving embroider'd scarves, whose motion gave
A perfume forth ; like those the Houris wave
"When beckoning to their bowers th' Immortal Brave.
" But these," pursued the Chief, " are truths sublimo,
That claim a holier mood and calmer time
Than earth allows us now ; this sword must first
The darkling prison-house of mankind burst,
Ere Peace can visit them, or Truth let in
* "The transmigration of souls was one of his doctrines."
t And when we said unto the angels, " Worship Adam," they nil wor-
shipped him except Eblis (Lucifer), who refused. The Koran, chap. ii.
t Jesus.
THE VEILED PROPHET OF KHORASSAN. 11
Her wakening day-light on a world of sin !
But then, celestial warriors, then, when all
Earth's shrines and thrones before our banner fall ;
When the glad slave shall at these feet lay down
His broken chain, the tyrant lord his crown,
The priest his book, the conqueror his wreath,
And from the lips of Truth one mighty breath
Shall, like a whirlwind, scatter in its breeze
That whole dark pile of human mockeries ;
Then shall the reign of Mind commence on earth,
And starting fresh, as from a second birth,
Man, in the sunshine of the world's new spring,
Shall walk transparent, like some holy thing !
Then, too, your Prophet from his angel brow
Shall cast the veil, that hides its splendours now,
And gladden'd Earth shall, through her wide expanse,
Bask in the glories of this countenance !
" For thee, young warrior, welcome ! thou hast yot
Some tasks to learn, some frailties to forget,
Ere the white war-plume o'er thy brow can wave ;
But, once my own, mine all till in the grave !"
The pomp is at an end, the crowds are gone
Each ear and heart still haunted by the tone
Of that deep voice, which thrill'd like Alla's own !
The young all dazzled by the plumes and lances,
The glittering throne, and Haram's half-caught glances
The old deep pondering on the promis'd reign
Of peace and truth ; and all the female train
Ready to risk their eyes, could they but gaze
A moment on that brow's miraculous blaze !
But there was one, among the chosen maids
Who blush'd behind the gallery's silken shades,
One, to whose soul the pageant of to-day
Has been like death ; you saw her pale dismay,
Ye wondering sisterhood, and heard the burst
Of exclamation from her lips, when first
She saw that youth, too well, too dearly known,
Silently kneeling at the Prophet's throne.
Ah Zelica ! there was a time, when bliss
Shone o'er thy heart from every look of his ;
When but to see him, hear him, breathe the air
In which he dwelt, was thy soul's fondest prayer !
When round him hung such a perpetual spell.
What e'er he did, none ever did so well.
Too happy days ! when, if he touched a flower
12 LALLA ROOKH.
Or gem of thine, 'twas sacred from that hour ;
When thou didst study him, till every tone
And gesture and dear look became thy own,
Thy voice like his, the changes of his face
In thine reflected with still lovelier grace,
Like echo, sending back sweet music, fraught
With twice th' aerial sweetness it had brought !
Yet now he comes brighter than even he
E'er beam'd before, but ah ! not bright for thee ;
No dread, unlook'd for, like a visitant
From the' other world, he comes as if to haunt
Thy guilty soul with dreams of lost delight,
Long lost to all but memory's aching sight :
Sad dreams ! as when the spirit of our youth
Returns in sleep, sparkling with all the truth
And innocence once ours, and leads us back,
In mornful mockery, o'er the shining track
Of our young life, and points out every ray
Of hope and peace we've lost upon the way !
Once happy pair ! in proud Bokhara's groves,
Who had not heard of their first youthful loves ?
Born by that ancient flood,* which from its spring
In the Dark Mountains swiftly wandering,
Enrich 'd by every pilgrim brook that shines
With relics from Bucharia's ruby mines,
And, lending to the Caspian half its strength,
In the cold Lake of Eagles sinks at length ;
There, on the banks of that bright river born,
The flowers, that hung above its wave at morn,
Bless'd not the waters, as they rnurinur'd by,
With holier scent and lustre, than the sigh
And virgin glance of first affection cast
Upon their youth's smooth current, as it pass'd !
But war disturb'd this vision far away
From her fond eyes, summon'd to join th' array
Of Persia's warriors on the hills of Thrace,
The youth exchang'd his sylvan dwelling-place
For the rude tent and war-field's deathful clash ;
His Zelica's sweet glances for the flash
Of Grecian wild-fire, and Love's gentle chains
For bleeding bondage on Byzantium's plains.
Month after month, in widowhood of soul
Drooping, the maiden saw two summers roll
* The Amoo, which rises in the Belur Tag, or Dark Mountains, nnd
running pearly from east to west, splits into two branches, one of whidi
falls into the Caspian Sea, and the other into Aral Nahr, or the Lake ol
Eagles.
THE VKII.ED PROPHET OF KHOV.ASSAX.
Their suns away but, ah ! how cold and dim
Ev'n summer suns, when not beheld with him !
From time to time ill-omen'd rumours came
(Like spirit-tongues, muttering the sick man's name,
Just ere he dies), At length, those sounds of dread
Fell withering on her soul, " Azim is dead !"
Oh grief, beyond all other griefs, when fate
First leaves the young heart lone and desolate
In the wide world, without that only tie
For which it lov'd to live or fear'd to die ;
Lorn as the hung-up lute, that ne'er hath spoken
Since the sad day its master-chord was broken !
Fond maid, the sorrow of her soul was such,
Ev'n reason sunk blighted beneath its touch ;
And though, ere long, her sanguine spirit rose
Above the first dead pressure of its woes,
Though health and bloom returned, the delicate chain
Of thought, once tangled, never cleared again.
Warm, lively, soft as in youth's happiest day,
The mind was still all there, but turn'd astray ;
A wandering bark, upon whose path-way shone
All stars of Ilcav'n, except the guiding one !
Again she smil'd, nay, much and brightly smil'd,
But 'twas a lustre, strange, unreal, wild ;
And when she sung to her lute's touching strain,
Twas like the notes, half ecstasy, half pain,
The bulbul* utters, ere her soul depart,
When, vanquished by some minstrel's powerful art,
She dies upon the lute whose sweetness broke her heart 1
Such was the mood in which that mission found
Young Zelica, that mission, which around
The Eastern world, in every region blest
With woman's smile, sought out its loveliest,
To grace that galaxy of lips and eyes,
Which the Veil'd Prophet destin'd for the skies !
And such quick welcome as a spark receives
Dropp'd on a bed of autumn's wither'd leaves,
Did every tale of these enthusiasts find
In the wild maiden's sorrow-blighted mind.
All fire at once the madd'niug zeal she caught ;
Elect of Paradise ! blest, rapturous thought ;
Predestin'd bride, in Heaven's eternal dome,
Of some brave youth ha ! durst they say " of some ?"
No of the one, one only object trac'd
In her heart's core too deep to be effac'd ;
* The nightirgale.
14 LALLA KOOKH.
The one whose memory, fresh as life, is twined
With every broken link of her lost mind ;
Whose image lives, though reason's self be wreok'd,
Safe 'mid the ruins of her intellect 1
Alas, poor Zelica ! it needed all
The fantasy, which held thy mind in thrall,
To see in that gay Hararn's glowing maids
A sainted colony for Eden's shades ;
Or dream that he, of whose unholy flame
Thou wert too soon the victim, shining came
From Paradise, to people its pure sphere
With souls like thine, which he hath ruin'd here !
No -had not reason's light totally set,
And left thee dark, thou had'st an amulet
In the lov'd image, graven on thy heart,
Which would have sav'd thee from the tempter's art,
And kept alive, in all its bloom of breath,
That purity, whose fading is love's death !
But lost, inflam'd, a restless zeal took place
Of the mild virgin's still and feminine grace ;
First of the Prophet's favourites, proudly first
In zeal and charms, too well th' Impostor nurs'd
Her soul's delirium, in whose active flame,
Thus lighting up a young, luxuriant frame,
He saw more potent sorceries to bind
To his dark yoke the spirits of mankind,
More subtle chains than hell itself e'er twin'd.
No art was spar'd, no witchery ; all the skill
His demons taught him was employ'd to fill
Her mind with gloom and ecstasy by turns
That gloom, through which frenzy but fiercer burns ;
That ecstasy, which from the depth of sadness
Glares like the maniac's moon, .whose light is madness !
'Twas from a brilliant banquet, where the sound
Of poesy and music breath 'd around,
Together picturing to her mind and ear
The glories of that Heav'n, her destin'd sphere,
Where all was pure, where every stain that lay
Upon the spirit's light should pass away,
And, realizing more than youthful love
E'er wislrd or dreani'd, she should for ever rove
Through fields of fragrance by her Azim's side,
His own bless'd, purified, Eternal bride !
'Twas from a scene, a witching trance like this,
He hurried her away, yet breathing bliss,
To the dim charnel-houue ; through all its streams
THE VEILED PROPHET OF KHOR-ASSAN. 16
Of damp and death, led only by those gleams
Which foul Corruption lights, as with design
To show the gay and proud she too can shine !
And, passing on through upright ranks of dead,
Which to the maiden, doubly craz'd by dread,
Seem'd, through the bluish death-light round them cast.,
To move their lips in mutterings as she pass'd
There, in that awful place, when each had quaff d
And pledg'd in silence such a fearful draught,
Such oh ! the look and taste of that red bowl
W ill haunt her till she dies he bound her soul
By a dark oath, in hell's own language fram'd,
Never, while earth his mystic presence claim'd,
While the blue arch of day hung o'er them both,
Never, by that all-imprecating oath,
In joy or sorrow from his side to sever.
She swore, and the wide charnel echoed, "never, never!"
From that dread hour, entirely, wildly given
To him and she believ'd, lost maid ! to Heaven ;
Her brain, her heart, her passions all inflam'd,
How proud she stood, when in full Haram nam'd
The Priestess of the Faith ! how flash 'd her eyes
With light, alas ! that was not of the skies,
When round in trances only less than hers,
She saw the Haram kneel, her prostrate worshippers !
Well might Mokanna think that form alone
Had spells enough to make the world his own :
Light, lovely limbs, to which the spirit's play
Gave motion, airy as the dancing spray,
When from its stem the small bird wings 'away !
Lips in whose rosy labyrinth, when she smil'd,
The soul was lost ; and blushes, swift and wild
As are the momentary meteors sent
Across th' uncalm, but beauteous firmament.
And then her look ! oh ! where's the heart so wise,
Could unbewilder'd meet those matchless eyes ?
Quick, restless, strange, but exquisite withal,
Like those of angels, just before their fall ;
Now shadow'd with the shames of earth now crost
By glimpses of the Heav'n her heart had lost ;
In every glance there broke, without controul,
The flashes of a bright but troubled sold,
Where sensibility still wildly play'd,
Like lightning, round the ruins it had made !
And such was now young Zelica so chang'd
From her who, some years since, delighted rang'd
Jti LALLA ROOKH.
The almond groves, that shade Bokhara's tide,
All life and bliss, \v\th Azim by her side !
So alter'd was she now, this festal day,
When, 'mid the proud Divan's dazzling array,
The vision of that youth, whom she had lov'd,
And wept as dead, before her breath'd and mov'd ;
When bright, she thought, as if from Eden's track
.But half-way trodden, he had wandered back
Again to earth, glistening with Eden's light
Her beauteous Azim shone before her sight.
Oh Reason ! who shall say what spells renew,
When least we look for it, thy broken clew !
Through what small vistas o'er the darkened brain
Thy intellectual day-beam bursts again ;
And how, like forts, to which beleaguerers win
Unhop'd-for entrance through some friend within,
One clear idea, wakened in the breast
By memory's magic, lets in all the rest !
Would it were thus, unhappy girl, with thee !
But, though light came, it came but partially ;
Enough to show the maze, in which thy sense
Wander'd about, but not to guide it thence ;
Enough to glimmer o'er the yawning wave,
But not to point the harbour which might save.
Hours of delight and peace, long left behind,
With that dear form came rushing o'er her mind ;
But oh ! to think how deep her soul had gone
In shame and falsehood since those moments shone ;
And, then, her oath there madness lay again,
And, shuddering, back she sunk into her chain
Of mental darkness, as if blest to flee
From light, whose every glimpse was agj3ny I
Yet, one relief this glance of former years
Brought, mingled with its pain, tears, floods of tears
Long frozen at her heart, but now like rills
Let loose in spring-time from the snowy hills,
And gushing warm, after a sleep of frost,
Through valleys where their flow had long been lost !
Sad and subdued, for the first time her frame
Trembled with horror, when the summons came
(A summons proud and rare, which all but she,
And she, till now, had heard with ecstasy),
To meet Mokanna at his place of prayer,
A garden oratory, cool and fair,
By the stream's side, where still at close of day
The Prophet of the Veil retir'd to pray ;
THE VEILED PROPHET OF KHORASSAN. 1 7
Sometimes alone but, oftener far, with one,
One chosen nymph to share his orfson.
Of late none found such favour in his sight
As the young Priestess ; and though, since that night
When the death-caverns echoed every tone
Of the dire oath that made her all his own,
Tli' Imposter, sure of his infatuate prize,
Had, more than once, thrown off his soul's disgnise,
And utter'd such unheav'nly, monstrous things,
As ev'n across the desperate wanderings
Of a weak intellect, whose lamp was out,
Threw startling shadows of dismay and doubt ;
Yet zeal, ambition, her tremendous vow,
The thought, still haunting her, of that bright brow
Whose blaze, as yet from mortal eye conceal'd,
Would soon, proud triumph ! be to her reveal'd,
To her alone ; and then the hope, most dear,
Most wild of all, that her transgression here
Was but a passage through earth's grosser fire,
From which the spirit would at last aspire,
Ev'n purer than before, as perfumes rise
Through flame and smoke, most welcome to the skies-
And that when Azim's fond, divine embrace
Should circle her in Heav'n, no darkening trace
Would on that bosom he once lov'd remain,
But all be bright, be pure, be his again !
These were the wildering dreams, whose curst deceit
Had chain'd her soul beneath the Tempter's feet,
And made her think ev'n damning falsehood sweet.
But now that shape, which had appall'd her view,
That semblance oh how terrible, if true !
Which came across her frenzy's full career
With shock of consciousness, cold, deep, severe,
As when, in northern seas, at midnight dark,
An isle of ice encounters some swift bark,
And, startling all its wretches from their sleep,
By one cold impulse hurls them to the deep ;
So came that shock not frenzy's self could bear,
And waking up each long-lull'd image there,
But check'd her headlong soul, to sink it in despair '
Wan and dejected, through the evening dusk,
She now went slowly to that small kiosk,
Where, pondering alone his impious schemes,
Mokanna waited her too wrapt in dreams
Of the fair-ripening future's rich success,
To heed the sorrow, pale and spiritless,
18 LALLA ROOKH.
That sat upon his victim's downcast brow,
Or mark how slow hqf step, how altered now
From the quick, ardent Priestess, whose light bound
Came like a spirit o'er th' unechoing ground,
From that wild Zelica, whose every glance
Was thrilling fire, whose every thought a trance !
Upon his couch the veiled Mokanna lay,
While lamps around not such as lend their ray,
Glimmering and cold, to those who nightly pray
In holy Room,* or Mecca's dim arcades,
But brilliant, soft, such lights as lovely maids
Look loveliest in, shed their luxurious glow
Upon his mystic veil's white glittering flow.
Beside him, 'stead of beads and books of prayer,
Which the world fondly thought he mused on there,
Stood vases, filled with Kishmee'st golden wine,
And the red weepings of the Shiraz vine ;
Of which his curtain'd lips full many a draught
Took zealously, as if each drop they quaff'd,
Like Zemzem's Spring of Holiness,* had power
To freshen the soul's virtues into flower !
And still he drank and ponder'd nor could see
Th' approaching maid, so deep his reverie ;
At length, with fiendish laugh, like that which broke
From Eblis at the fall of man, he spoke :
" Yes, ye vile race, for Hell's amusement given,
Too mean for earth, yet claiming kin with Heaven ;
God's images, forsooth ! such gods as he
Whom India serves, the monkey deity ;
Ye creatures of a breath, proud things of clay,
To whom if Lucifer, as grandams say,
Refus'd, though at the forfeit of Heaven's light,
To bend in worship, Lucifer was right !
Soon shall I plant this foot upon the neck
Of your foul race, and without fear or check,
Luxuriating in hate, avenge my shame,
My deep-felt, long-nurst loathing of man's name !
Soon, at the head of myriads, blind and fierce
As hooded falcons, through the universe
I'll sweep my darkening, desolating way,
Weak man my instrument, curst man my prey !
* " The cities of Com (or Koom) and Cashan are full of mosques, mau-
soleums, and sepulchres of the descendants of Ali, the saints of Persia."
t An island in the Persian Gulf, celebrated for its white wine.
j " The miraculous well at Mecca ; so called from the murmuring of ita
waters."
5 The god Hannamaa.
THE VEILED PROPHET OF KHORASSAN. 19
" Ye wise, ye learn'd, who grope your dull way on
By the dim twinkling gleams of ages gone,
Like superstitious thieves, who think the light
From dead men's marrow guides them best at night*
Ye shall have honours wealth, yes, sages, yes
I know, grave fools, your wisdom's nothingness ;
Undazzled it can track yon starry sphere,
But a gilt stick, a bauble blinds it here.
How I shall laugh, when trumpetted along,
In lying speech, and still more lying song,
By these learn'd slaves the meanest of the throng ;
Their wits bought up, their wisdom shrunk so small,
A sceptre's puny point can wield it all I
" Ye too, believers of incredible creeds,
Whose faith mshriiies the monsters which it breei;
Who, bolder ev'n than Nemrod, think to rise,
By nonsense heaped on nonsense to the skies ;
Ye shall have miracles, aye, sound ones too,
Seen, heard, attested, every thing but true.
Your preaching zealots, too inspired to seek
One grace of meaning for the things they speak ;
Your martyrs, ready to shed out their blood,
For truths too heavenly to be understood ;
And your state priests, sole vendors of the lore,
That works salvation ; as on Ava's shore,
Where none but priests are privileged to trade
In that best marble of which gods are made ;
They shall have mysteries aye, precious stuff
For knaves to thrive by mysteries enough ;
Dark, tangled doctrines, dark as fraud can weave,
Which simple votaries shall on trust receive,
While craftier feign belief, till they believe.
A Heav'n too ye must have, ye lords of dust,
A splendid Paradise, pure souls, ye must :
That Prophet ill sustains his holy call,
Who finds not Heav'ns to suit the tastes of all ;
Houris for boys, omniscience for sages,
And wings and glories for all ranks and ages.
Vain things ! as lust or vanity inspires,
The Heav'n of each is but what eacli desires,
And, soul or sense, whate'er the object be,
Man would be man to all eternity !
So let him Eblis ! grant this crowning curse,
But keep him what he is, no Hell were worse."
* A kind of lantern formerly used by robbers, called the Hand of GKrj
the candle for which was made of the fat of a dead malefactor.
LALLA ROOKH.
" Oh my lost soul !" exclaim'd the shuddering maid,
Whose ears had drunk like poison all lie said,
Mokanna started not abash'd, afraid,
He knew no more of fear than one who dwells
Beneath the tropics knows of icicles !
But, in those dismal words that reach'd his ear,
" Oh my lost soul !" there was a sound so drear,
So like that voice, among the sinful dead,
In which the legend o'er Hell's Gate is read,
That, new as 'twas from her, whom nought could dim
Or sink till now, it startled even him.
" Ha, my fair Priestess !" thus, with ready wile,
Th' Impostor turn'd to greet her " thou, whose smile
Hath inspiration in its rosy beam
Beyond th' Enthusiast's hope or Prophet's dream !
Light of the Faith ! who twin'st religion's zeal
So close with love's, men know not which they feel,
Nor which to sigh for, in their trance of heart,
The Heav'n thou preachest or the Heav'n thou art !
What should I be without thee ? without thee
How dull were power, how joyless victory !
Though borne by angels, if that smile of thine
Bless'd not my banner, 'twere but half divine.
But why so mournful, child? those eyes, that shone
All life last-night what ! is thuir glory gone ?
Come, come this morn's fatigue hath made them pale,
They want rekindling suns themselves would fail,
Did not their comets bring, as I to thee,
From light's own fount supplies of brilliancy !
Thou seest this cup no juice of earth is here,
But the pure waters of that upper sphere,
Whose rills o'er ruby beds and topaz flow,
Catching the gem's bright colour, as they go.
Nightly my Genii come and fill these urns
Nay, drink in every drop life's essence burns ;
'Twill make that soul all fire, those eyes all bright
Come, come, I want thy loveliest smiles to-night :
There is a youth why start ? thou saw'st him then ;
Look'd he not nobly ? such the god-like men
Thou'lt have to woo thee in the bowers above ;
Though he, I fear, hath thoughts too stern for love,
Too rul'd by that cold enemy of bliss
The world calls Virtue we must conquer this ;
Nay, shrink not, pretty sage ; 'tis not for thee
To scan the mazes of Heav'n's mystery.
The steel must pass through fire, ere it can yield
THE VEILED PROPHET OF KHORASSAN.
Fit, instruments for mighty hands to wield.
This very night I mean to try tho art
Of powerful beauty on that warrior's heart.
All that my Haram boasts of bloom and wit,
Of skill and charms, most rare and exquisite,
Shall tempt the boy ; young Mirzala's blue eyes,
Whose sleepy lid like snow on violet lies ;
Arouya's cheeks, warm as a spring-day sun,
And lips that, like the seal of Solomon,
Have magic in their pressure ; Zeba's lute,
And Lilla's dancing feet, that gleam and shoot
Rapid and white as sea-birds o'er the deep !
All shall combine their witching powers to steep
My convert's spirit in that softening trance,
From which to Heav'n is but the next advance ;
That glowing, yielding fusion of the breast,
On which Religion stamps her image best.
But hear me, Priestess ! though each nymph of these
Hath some peculiar, practised power to please,
Some glance or step which, at the mirror tried,
First charms herself, then all the world beside ;
There still wants one, to make the victory sure,
One, who in every look joins every lure ;
Through whom all beauty's beams concenter'd pass,
Dazzling and rich, as through love's burning-glass ;
Whose gentle lips persuade without a word,
Whose words, ev'n when unmeaning, are ador'd,
Like inarticulate breathings from a shrine,
Which our faith takes for granted are divine !
Such is the nymph we want, all warmth and light,
To crown the rich temptations of to-night ;
Such the refin'd enchantress that must be
This hero's vanquisher, and thou art she !"
With her hands clasp'd, her lips apart and pale,
The maid had stood, gazing upon the veil
From which these words, like south-winds through a fcnco
Of Kerzrah flow'rs, came filled with pestilence :*
So boldly utter'd too ! as if all dread
Of frowns from her, of virtuous frowns, were fled,
And the wretch felt assur'd that, once plung'd in,
Her woman's soul would know no pause in sin 1
At first, tho' mute she listen'd, like a dream
Seem'd all he said ; nor could her mind, whose beam
* " It is commonly said in Persia, that if a man breathe in the hot sonth
wild, which in June or July passes over thaf flower (the Keraoreh), it
\v,ll kill him."
82 LALLA ROOKH.
As yet was weak, penetrate half his scheme.
But when, at length, he uttered " Thou art she !"
All flash'd at once, and, shrieking piteously,
" Oh not for worlds!" she cried " Great God! to whom
I once knelt innocent, is this my doom ?
Are all my dreams, my hopes of heavenly bliss,
My purity, my pride, then come to this,
To live, the wanton of a fiend ! to be
^The pander of his guilt oh infamy !
And sunk, myself, as low as Hell can steep
In its hot flood, drag others down as deep !
Others ? ha ! yes that youth who came to-day
Not him I lov'd not him oh ! do but say,
But swear to me this moment 'tis not he,
And I will serve, dark fiend ! will worship even thce !' r
" Beware, young raving thing ! in time beware,
Nor utter what I cannot, must not bear
Ev'n from thy lips. Go try thy lute, thy voice,
The boy must feel their magic I rejoice
To see those fires, no matter whence they rise,
Once more illuming my fair Priestess' eyes ;
And should the youth, whom soon those eyes shall warm,
Indeed resemble thy dead lover's form,
So much the happier wilt thou find thy doom,
As one warm lover, full of life and bloom,
Excels ten thousand cold ones in the tomb.
Nay, nay, no frowning, sweet! those eyes were niado
For love, not anger I must be obeyed."
" Obeyed ! 'tis well yes, I deserve it all
On me, on me Heaven's vengeance cannot fall
Too heavily but Azim, brave and true
And beautiful must he be ruined too ?
Must he too, glorious as he is, be driven
A renegade like me from love and Heaven ?
Like me ? weak wretch, I wrong him not like me ;
No he's all truth and strength and purity !
Fill up your madd'ning hell-cup to the brim,
Its witchery, fiends, will have no charm for him.
Let loose your glowing wantons from their bowers,
He loves, he loves, and can defy their powers !
Wretch as I am, in his heart still I reign
Pure as when first we met, without a stain !
Though ruin'd lost my memory, like a charm
Left by the dead, still keeps his soul from harm.
Oh ! never let him know how deep the brow
He kiss'd at parting is dishonour'd now
Till! VEILED rilOI'HET OF KHORASSAN. -X
Ne'er tell him how dfbas'd, how sunk is she,
"Whom once he lov'd once ! still loves dotingly !
Thou laugh'st, tormentor, wh at ! thou'lt brand my namoli
Do, do in vain he'll not believe-my shame
He thinks me true, that nought beneath God's sky
Could tempt or change me, and so once thought I.
But this is past though worse than death my lot,
Than Hell 'tis nothing, while he knows it not.
Far off to some benighted land I'll fly,
Where sunbeam ne'er shall enter till I die ;
Where none will ask the lost one whence she came,
But I may fade and fall without a name !
And thou curst man or fiend, whate'er thou art,
Who found's this burning plague-spot in my heart,
And spread'st it oh, so quick ! through soul and frame
With more than demon's art, till I became
A loathsome thing, all pestilence, all flame !
If, when I'm gone "
" Hold, fearless maniac, hold,
Nor tempt my rage by Heav'n not half so bold
The puny bird, that dares with teasing hum
Within the crocodile's stretcird jaws to come !*
And so thou 'It fly, forsooth '? what ! give up all
Thy chaste dominion in the Haiam Hall,
Where now to I.ove and now to Alia given,
Half mistress and half saint, thou hang'st as even
As doth Medina's tomb, 'twixt Hell and Heaven !
Thou 'It fly? as easily may reptiles run
The gaunt snake once hath fix'd his eyes upon ;
As easily, when caught, the prey may be
Pluck'd from his loving folds, as thou from me.
No, no, 'tis fix'd let good or ill betide,
Thou'rt mine till death, till death Mokanna's bride !
Hast thou forgot thy oath ?"
At this dread word,
The Maid, whose spirit his rude taunts had stirr'J
Through all its depths, and rous'd an anger there,
That burst and lighten 'd ev'n through her despair!
Shrunk back, as if a blight were in the breath
That spoke that word, and stagger'd, pale as death.
" Yes, my sworn Bride, let others seek in bowers
Their bridal place the charnel vault was ours !
Instead of scents and balms, for tliee and mo
Rose the rich steams of sweet mortality ;
* " The ancient story concerning the Trochilus, or hummiiifr bird, en-
roring- with impunity into the mouth of the crocodile, is firmly believed
at Java."
LALLA ROUKH.
Gay, flickering death-lights shone while we were wed,
And, for our guests, a row of goodly dead
(Immortal spirits in their time no doubt),
From reeking shrouds upon the rite iook'd out !
That oath thouheardest more lips than thine repeat
That cup thou shudderest, lady was it sweet ?
Tli at cup we pledg'd, the charnel's choicest wine,
Hath bound thee aye body and soul all mine ;
Bound thee by chains that, whether blest or curst
No matter now, not Hell itself shall burst!
Hence, woman, to the Haram, and look gay,
Look wild, look anything but sad ; yet stay
One moment more from what this night hath pass'd,
I see thou know'st me, know'st me well at last.
Ha ! ha ! and so, fond thing, thou thought'st all true,
And that I love mankind ! I do, I do
As victims, love them ; as the sea-dog cloats
Upon the small, sweet fry that round him floats ;
Or, as the Nile-bird loves the .slime that gives
That rank and venomous food on which she lives !
" And, now thou see'st my soul's angelic hue,
'Tis time these features were uncurtain'd too ;
This brow, whose light oh rare celestial light !
Hath been reserv'd to bless thy favour'd sight ;
These dazzling eyes, before whose shrouded might
Thou'st seen immortal man kneel down and quake
Would that they were Heaven's lightnings for his sake
But turn and look then wonder, if thou wilt,
That I should hate, should take revenge, by guilt,
Upon the hand, whose mischief or whose mirth
Sent me thus maim'd and monstrous upon earth ;
And on that race who, though more vile they be
Than mowing apes, are demi-gods to me !
Here -judge if Hell, with all its power to damn,
Can add one curse to the foul thing I am !"
He rais'd his veil the Maid turn'd slowly round,
Look'd at him shriek'd and sunk upon the ground !
On their arrival, next night, at the place of encampment,
they were surprised and delighted to find the groves all
round illuminated ; some artists of Yamtcheou having been
sent on previously for the purpose. On each side of the
green alley, which led to the Eoyal Pavilion, artificial
sceneries of bamboo-work were erected, representing arches,
minarets, and towers, from which hung thousands of silken
Innterns, painted by the most delicate pencils of Canton.
He rais.-' i
i 'i'k -upon -th<>
THE VEILED PROPHET OF KHORASSAN. 25
Nothing could be more beautful than the leaves of the
mango-trees and acacias, shining in the light of the bamboo
scenery, which shed a lustre round as soft as that of the
nights of Peristan.
Lalla Rookh, however, who was too much occupied by the
sad story of Zelica and her lover, to give a thought to any-
thing else, except, perhaps, him who related it, hurried on
through this scene of splendour to her pavilion, greatly to
the mortification of the poor artists of Yamtcheou, and
was followed with equal rapidity by the Great Chamberlain,
cursing, as he went, that ancient Mandarin, whose parental
anxiety in lighting up the shores of the lake, where his be-
loved daughter had wandered and been lost, was the origin
of these fantastic Chinese illuminations.
Without a moment's delay young Feramorz was intro-
duced, and Fadladeen, who could never make up his mind
as to the merits of a poet, till he knew the religious sect to
which he belonged, was about to ask him whether he was a
Shia or a Sooni, when Lalla Rookh impatiently clapped her
hands for silence, and the youth, being seated upon the
musnud near her, proceeded :
Prepare thy soul, young Azim ! thou hast brav'd
The bands of Greece, still mighty though enslav'd ;
Hast fac'd her phalanx, arm'd with all its fame,
Her Macedonian pikes and globes of flame ;
All this hast fronted, with firm heart and brow,
But a more perilous trial waits thee now,
Woman's bright eyes, a dazzling host of eyes
From every land where woman smiles or sighs ;
Of every hue, as Love may chance to raise
His black or azure banner in their blaze ;
And each sweet mode of warfare, from the flash
That lightens boldly through the shadowy lash,
To the sly, stealing splendors, almost hid,
Like swords half-sheath'd, beneath the downcast lid.
Such, Azim, is the lovely, luminous host
Now led against thee ; and, let conquerors boast
Their fields of fame, he who in virtue arms
A young, warm spirit against beauty's charms,
Who feels her brightness, yet defies her thrall,
Is the best, bravest conqueror of them all.
Now, through the Haram chambers, moving lights
And busy shapes proclaim the toilet's rights ;
From room to room the ready handmaids hie,
Some skill'd to wreath the turban tastefully,
Or hang the veil, in negligence of shade
* LALLA ROOKH.
O'er the warm blushes of the youthful maid,
Who, if between the folds but one eye shone,
Like Seba's Queen could vanquish with that one :*
While some bring leaves of Henna, to imbue
The fingers' ends with a bright roseate hue,t
So bright, that in the mirror's depth they seem
Like tips of coral branches in the stream ;
And others mix the Kohol's jetty dye,
To give that long dark languish to the eye,t
Which makes the maids, whom kings are proud to cull
From fair Circassia's vales, so beautiful !
All is in motion ; rings and plumes and pearls
Are shining everywhere : some younger girls
Are gone by moonlight to the garden beds,
To gather fresh, cool chaplets for their heads ;
Gay creatures ! sweet, though mournful 'tis to see
How each prefers a garland from that tree
Which brings to mind her childhood's innocent day,
And the dear fields and friendships far away.
The maid of India, blest again to hold
In her full lap the Champac's leaves of gold,
Thinks of the time when, by the Ganges' flood,
Her little playmates scatter'd many a bud
Upon her long black hair, with glossy gleam
Just dripping from the consecrated stream ;
While the young Arab, haunted by the smell
Of her own mountain flowers, as by a spell,
The sweet Elcaya,ll and that courteous tree
Which bows to all who seek its canopy **
Sees, call'd up round her by these magic scents,
The well, the camels, and her father's tents ;
Sighs for the home she left with little pain,
And wishes ev'n its sorrows back again !
Meanwhile, through vast illuminated halls,
Silent and bright, where nothing but the falls
Of fragrant waters, gushing with cool sound
From many a jasper fount is heard around,
* Thou hast ravished my heart with one of thine eyes. Sol. Song.
t "They tinged the ends of her fingers scarlet with henna, so that they
resembled branches of coral "
I " The women blacken the inside of their eyelids with a powder named
the black kohol."
"The appearance of the blossoms of the gold-coloured campac on the
black hair of the Indian women has supplied the Sanscrit poets with many
elegant allusions."
|| "A tree famous for its perfume, and common on the hills of Yemen."
** Of the genus mimosa, "which droops its branches whenever any
person approaches it, seeming as if it saluted those who retire under its
shade. "
THE VEILED PROPHET OF KHORASSAN. 27
Young Azim roams bewilder'd, nor can guess
What means this maize of light and loneliness.
Here, the way leads, o'er tesselated floors
Or mats of Cairo, through long corridors,
Where, rang'd in cassolets and silver urns,
Sweet wood of aloe or of sandal burns ;
And spicy rods, such as illume at night
The bowers of Tibet,* send forth odorous light,
Like Peris' wands, when pointing out the road
For some pure spirit to its blest abode !
And here, at once, the glittering saloon
Bursts on his sight, boundless and bright as noon ;
Where, in the midst, reflecting back the rays
In broken rainbows, a fresh fountain plays
High as th' enamell'd cupola, which towers
All rich with Arabesques of gold and flowers :
And the mosaic floor beneath shines through
The sprinkling of that fountain's silvery dew,
Like the wet, glistening shells, of every dye,
That on the margin of the Ked Sea lie.
Here too he traces the kind visitings
Of woman's love in those fair, living things
Of land and wave, whose fate, in bondage thrown
For their weak loveliness is like her own !
On one side gleaming with a sudden grace
Through, water, brilliant as the crystal vase
In which it undulates, small fishes shine,
Like golden ingots from a fairy mine ;
While, on the other, lattic'd lightly in
With odoriferous woods of Cornorin,t
Each brilliant bird that wings the air is seen ;
Gay, sparkling loories, such as gleam between
The crimson blossoms of the coral tree
In the warm isles of India's sunny sea :
Mecca's blue sacred pigeon,? and the thrush
Of Hindostan, whose holy warblings giish,
At evening, from the tall pagoda's top ;
Those golden birds that, in the spice time, drop
* " Cloves are a principal Ingredient in the composition of the per-
fumed rods which men of rank keep constantly burning in their pre-
sence."
t " C'est d'ou vient le bois d'aloes, que les Arabes appellent Oud Comari,
et celui du sandal, qui s'y trouve en grand quantitd."
J "In Mecca there are quantities of blue pigeons, which none wil]
affright or abuse, much less kill."
"The pagoda thrush is esteemed among the first choristers of India.
It sits perched oil the sacred pagodas, and from thence delivers its melo-
dious song."
LALLA ROOKH.
About tlie gardens, drunk with that sweet food
Whose scent hath lur'd them o'er the summer flood ;*
And those that under Araby's soft sun
Build their high nests of budding cinnamon ;
In short, all rare and beauteous things, that fly
Through the pure element, here calmly lie
Sleeping in light, like the green birdst that dwell
In Eden's radiant fields of asphodel !
So on, through scenes past all imagining,
More like the luxuries of that impious King,*
Whom Death's dark Angel, with his lightening torch,
Struck down and blasted even in Pleasure's porch,
Than the pure dwelling of a Prophet sent,
Arm'd with Heav'n's sword, for man's enfranchisement
Young Azim wander'd, looking sternly round,
His simple garb and war-boots' clanking sound
But ill according with the pomp and grace
And silent lull of that voluptuous place !
" Is this then," thought the youth, " is this the way
To free man's spirit from the deadening sway
Of worldly sloth ; to teach him, while he lives,
To know no bless but that which virtue gives,
And when he dies, to leave his lofty name
A light, a land-mark on the cliffs of fame ?
It was not so, land of the generous thought
And daring deed ! thy godlike sages taught ;
It was not thus, in bowers of wanton ease,
Thy Freedom nurs'd her sacred energies ;
Oh ! not beneath th' enfeebling, withering glow
Of such dull luxury did those myrtles grow,
With which she wreath'd her sword, when she would daw
Immortal deeds ; but in the bracing air
Of toil, of temperance, of that high, rare,
Etherial virtue, which alone can breathe
Life, health, and lustre into Freedom's wreath !
Who, that surveys this span of eartli we press,
This speck of life in time's great wilderness,
This narrow isthmus 'twixt two boundless seas,
The past, the future, two eternities !
* Birds of paradise, which, at the nutmeg season, come in flights from
the southern isles to India, and "the strength of the nutmeg so intoxi-
cates them that they fall dead drunk to the earth."
t The spirits of the martyrs will be lodged in the crops of green birds.
Gibbon, vol. ix. p 421.
J Shedad, who made the delicious gardens of Trim, in imitation of Para-
dise, and was destroyed by lightning the first time lie attempted to enter
THE VEILED PROPHET OF KHORASSAN. 29
Would sully the bright spot or leave it bare,
When he might build him a proud temple there,
A name, that long shall hallow all its space,
And be each purer soul's high resting-place !
But no it cannot be, that one, whom God
Has sent to break the wizard Falsehood's rod,
A Prophet of the Truth, whose mission draws
Its rights from Heaven, should thus profane his cause
With the world's vulgar pomps ; no, no I see
He thinks me weak this glare of luxury
Is but to tempt, to try the eaglet gaze
Of my young soul ; shine on, 'twill stand the blaze !"
So thought the youth ; but, ev'n while he defied
This witching scene, he felt its witchery glide
Through every sense. The perfume, breathing round,
Like a pervading spirit ; the still sound
Of falling waters, lulling as the song
Of Indian bees at sunset, when they throng
Around the fragrant Nilica, and deep
In its blue blossoms hum themselves to sleep !*
And music too dear music ! that can touch
Beyond all else the soul that loves it much
Now heard far off, so far as but to seem
Like the faint, exquisite music of a dream ;
All was too much for him, too full of bliss,
The heart could nothing feel, that felt not this ;
Soften'd he sunk upon a couch, and gave
His soul up to sweet thoughts, like wave on wave
Succeeding in smooth seas, when storms are laid ;
He thought of Zelica, his own dear maid,
And of the time when, full of blissful sighs,
They sat and look'd into each other's eyes,
Silent and happy as if God had given
Nought else worth looking at on this side Heaven !
" Oh my lov'd mistress ! whose enchantments still
Are with me, round me, wander where I will
It is for thee, for thee alone I seek
The paths of glory to light up thy cheek
With warm approval in that gentle look,
To read my praise, as in an angel's book,
And think all toils rewarded, when from thee
I gain a smile, worth immortality !
How shall I bear the moment, when restor'd
* My pandits assure me that the plant before us (the Nilica) is their
Scpluilica, thus mimed because the bees are supposed to deep on its
blossoms. Sir W. Jones.
80 LALLA ROOKH.
To that young heart where I alone am lord,
Though of such bliss unworthy, since the best
Alone deserve to be the happiest !
When from those lips, unbreath'd upon for years,
I shall again kiss off the soul-felt tears,
And find those tears warm as when last they started,
Those sacred kisses pure as when we parted !
Oh my own life ! why should a single day,
A moment keep me from those arms away?"
"While thus he thinks, still nearer on the breeze
Come those delicious, dream-like harmonies,
Each note of which but adds new, downy links
To the soft chain in which his spirit sinks.
He turns him tow'rd the sound, and, far away
Through a long vista, sparkling with the play
Of countless lamps, like the rich track which clay
Leaves on the waters, when he sinks from us ;
So long the path, its light so tremulous ;
He sees a group of female forms advance,
Some chain'd together in the mazy dance
By fetters, forg'd in the green sunny bowers,
As they were captives to the King of Flowers ;
And some disporting round, unliiik'd and free,
Who seem'd to mock their sister's slavery,
And round and round them still, in wheeling flight
Went, like gay moths about a lamp at night ;
While others walk'd, as gracefully along
Their feet kept time, the very soul of song
From psaltery, pipe, and lutes of heavenly thrill,
Or their own youthful voices, heavenlier still !
And now they come, now pass before his eye,
Forms such as Nature moulds, when she would via
With Fancy's pencil, and give birth to things
Lovely beyond its fairest picturings !
Awhile they dance before him, then divide,
Breaking, like rosy clouds at even-tide
Around the rich pavilion of the sun,
Till silently dispersing, one by one,
Through many a path that from the chamber loads
To gardens, terraces, and moonlight meads,
Their distant laughter comes upon the wind,
And but one trembling nymph remains behind,
Beck'ning them back in vain, for they are gone,
And she is left in all that light alone ;
No veil to curtain o'er her beauteous brow,
In its young bashfulness more beauteous now ;
TJ1E YKII.KD IROPHKT OF KHORASSAN. 81
But a l. : ght, golden chain-work round her hair,
Such as the maids of Yezd and Shiraz wear,
From which, on either side, gracefully hung
A golden amulet, in the' Arab tongue,
Engraven o'er with some immortal line
From holy writ, or bard scarce less divine ;
While her left hand, as shrinkingly she stood,
Held a small lute of gold and sandal-wood,
Which, once or twice, she touch'd with hurried strain,
Then took her trembling fingers off again.
But when at length a timid glance she stole
At Azim, the sweet gravity of soul
She saw through all his features calm VI her fear,
And, like a half-tarn VI antelope, more near,
Though shrinking still, she came ; then sat her down
Upon a musnud's* edge, and, bolder grown,
In the pathetic mode of Isfahan,!
Touch VI a preluding strain, and thus began :
" There's a bower of roses by Bendemeer'sJ stream,
And the nightingale sings round it all the day long ;
In the time of my childho-'d 'twas like a sweet dream,
To sit in the roses and hear the bird's song.
That bower and its music I never forget,
But oft when alone, in the bloom of the year,
I think is the nightingale singing there yet ?
Are the roses still bright by the calm Bendemeer ?
"No, the roses soon wither'd that hung o'er the wave,
But some blossoms were gather'd, while freshly they shoi e,
And a dew was distill'd from the flowers, that gave
All the fragrance of summer, when summer was gone.
Thus memory draws from delight, ere it dies,
An essence that breathes of it many a year ;
Thus bright to my soul, as 'twas then to my eyes,
Is that bower on the banks of the calm Bendemeer ?"
" Poor maiden ! " thought the youth, " if thou wert sent,
With thy soft lute and beauty's blandishment,
To wake unholy wishes in this heart,
Or tempt its truth, thou little know'st the art.
For though thy lip should sweetly counsel wrong,
Those vestal eyes would disavoAV its song.
But thou hast breath VI such purity, thy lay
Returns so fondly to youth's virtuous day,
And leads thy soul if e'er it wander'd thence
* Musnuds are cushioned seats, reserved for persons of distinction.
t The Persians, like the ancient Greeks, call their -xusical modes or
Perdas by the names of different countries or cities, as the mode of
Isfahan, the mode of Irak, itc.
J A river which tiows near the ruins of Chilminar.
LALLA KOOKH.
So gently back to its first innocence,
That I would sooner stop th' unchained dove,
"When swift returning to its home of love,
And round its snowy wing new fetters twine,
Than turn from virtue one pure wish of thine !"
Scarce had this feeling pass'd, when, sparkling through
The gently open'd curtains of light blue
That veil'd the breezy casement, countless eyes,
Peeping like stars through the blue evening skies,
Look'd laughing in, as if to mock the pair
That sat so still and melancholy there
And now the curtains fly apart, and in
From the cool air, 'mid showers of jessamine
Which those without fling after them in play,
Two lightsome maidens spring, lightsome as they
"Who live in the' air on odours, and around
The bright saloon, scarce conscious of the ground,
Chase one another, in a varying dance
Of mirth and languor, coyness, and advance,
Too eloquently like love's warm pursuit :
AVhile she, who sung so gently to the lute
Her dream of home, steals timidly away,
Shrinking as violets do in summer's ray,
But takes with her from Azim's heart that sigh
"We sometimes give to forms that pass us by
In the world's crowd, too lovely to remain,
Creatures of light we never see again !
Around the white necks of the nymphs who danc'd
Hung carcanets of orient gems, that glanc'd
More brilliant than the sea-glass glittering o'er
The hills of crystal on the Caspian shore ;*
While from their long, dark tresses, in a fall
Of curls descending, bells as musical
As those that, on the golden-shafted trees
Of Eden, shake in the Eternal Breeze,!
Rung round their steps, at every bound more sweet,
As 'twere th' extatic language of their feet !
At length the chase was o'er, and they stood wreath 'd
Within each other's arms ; while soft there brcath'd
Through the cool casement, mingled with the sighs
Of moonlight flowers, music that seem'd to rise
* To the north was a mountain which sparkled like diamonds, arising
from the sea-glass and crystals with which it abounds. Journey of tht
Russian Ambassador to Persia, 1746.
t To which will he added, the sound of the bells hanging: on the trees,
which will be put in motion by the wind proceeding from the throne of
God, as often as the blessed wish for music. Sale.
THE VEILED PROPHET OF KHOftASSAN. 33
From some still lake, so liquidly it rose ;
And, as it swell'd again at each faint close,
The ear could track through all that maze of chords
And young sweet voices, these impassion'd words :
A Spirit there is, whose fragrant sigh
Is burning now through earth and air ;
Where cheeks are blushing, the Spirit is nigh,
Where lips are meeting, the Spirit is there 1
His breath is the soul of flowers like these,
And his floating eyes oh ! they resemble
Blue water-lilies,* when the breeze
Is making the stream around them tremble !
Hail to thee, hail to thee, kindling power 1
Spirit of Love, Spirit of Bliss !
Thy holiest time is the moonlight hour,
And there never was moonlight so sweet as tin?.
By the fair and brave,
Who blushing unite,
Like the sun and wave,
When they meet at night I
By the tear that shows
When passion is nigh,
As the rain-drop flows
From the heat of the sky I
By the first love-beat
Of the youthful heart,
By the bliss to meet,
And the pain to part !
By all that thou hast
To mortals given,
"Which oh I could it last,
This earth were heaven !
We call thee hither, entrancing Power !
Spirit of Love ! Spirit of Bliss I
Thy holiest time is the moonlight hour,
And there never was moonlight so sweet as this.
Impatient of a scene, whose luxuries stole,
Spite of himself, too deep into his soul,
And where, midst all that the young heart loves most,
Flowers, music, smiles, to yield was to be lost,
The youth had started up, and turn'd away
From the light nymphs and their luxurious lay,
To muse upon the pictures that hung round,
Bright images, that spoke without a sound,
And views, like vistas into fairy ground.
But here again new spells came o'er his sense ;
* The blue lotos, which grows in Cashmere and in Persia.
81 LALLA ROOKH.
An that the pencil's mute omnipotence
Could call up into life, of soft and fair,
Of fond and passionate, was glowing there ;
Nor yet too warm, but touch'd with that fine art
Which paints of pleasure but the purer part ;
Which knows ev'n Beauty when half-veil'd is boat,
Like her own radiant planet of the west,
Whose orb when half retir'd looks loveliest!
, There hung the history of the Genii-King,*
Trac'd through each gay, voluptuous wandering
With her from Saba's bowers,t in whose bright eyes
He read that to be blest is to be wise ;
Here fond Zuleikat woos with open arms
The Hebrew boy, who flies from her young charing,
Yet, flying, turns to gaze, and, half undone,
Wishes that Heav'n and she could both be won !
And here Mohammed, born for love and guile,
Forgets the Koran in his Mary's smile ;
Then beckons some kind angel from above
With a new text to consecrate their love !
With rapid step, yet pleas'd and lingering eye,
Did the youth pass these pictur'd stories by,
And hasten'd to a casement, where the light
Of the calm moon came in, and freshly bright
The fields without were seen, sleeping as still
As if no life remain'd in breeze or rill.
Here paus'd he, while the music, now less near,
Breath'd with a holier language on his ear,
As though the distance, and that heavenly ray
Through which the sounds came floating, took away
All that had been too earthly in the lay.
Oh ! could he listen to such sounds, unmov'd,
And by that light nor dream of her he lov'd ?
Dream on, unconscious boy ! while yet thou may'st ;
'Tis the last bliss thy soul shall ever taste.
Clasp yet awhile her image to thy heart,
Ere all the light, that made it dear, depart.
Think of her smiles as when thou saw'st them last,
Clear, beautiful, by nought of earth o'ercast ;
Kecal her tears, to thee at parting given,
Pure as they weep, if angels weep in heaven !
Think in her own still b'owcr she waits thee now,
With the same glow of heart and bloom of brow,
Yet shrin'd in solitude thine all, thine only,
* King Solomon, who was supposed to preside over thewhole race of genii
t The Queen of Sheba or Salvo.
j The wife of Potiphar, thus named by the Orientals.
THE VEILED PROPHET OF KHORASSAN.
Like tho one star above tlice, bright and lonely !
Oh that a dream so sweet, so long enjoy'd,
Should be so sadly, cruelly destroy 'd !
The song is hush'd, the laughing nymphs are flown,
And he is left, musing of bliss, alone ;
Alone ? no, not alone that heavy sigh,
That sob of grief, which broke from some one nigh
Whose could it be ? alas ! is misery found
Here, even here, on this enchanted ground ?
He turns, and sees a female form, close veil'd,
Leaning, as if both heart and strength had fail'd,
Against a pillar near ; not glittering o'er
With gems and wreaths, such as the others wore,
But in that deep-blue, melancholy dress,*
Bokhara's maidens wear in mindfulness
Of friends or kindred, dead or far away ;
And such as Zelica had on that day
He left her, when, with heart too full to speak,
He took away her last warm tears upon his cheek.
A strange emotion stirs within him, more
Than mere compassion ever wak'd before ;
Unconsciously he opes his arms, while she
Springs forward, as with life's last energy,
But, swooning in that one convulsive bound,
Sinks ere she reach his arms, upon the ground ;
Her veil falls off her faint hands clasp his knees
'Tis she herself! 'tis Zelica he sees !
But, ah, so pale, so chang'd none but a lover
Could in that wreck of beauty's shrine discover
The once ador'd divinity ! even he
Stood for some moments mute, and doubtingly
Put back the ringlets from her brow, and gaz'd
Upon those lids, where once such lustre blaz'd,
Ere he could think she was indeed his own,
Own darling maid, whom he so long had known
In joy and sorrow, beautiful in both ;
Who, ev'n when grief was heaviest when loth
He left her for the wars in that worst hour
Sat in her sorrow like the sweet night-fiower,t
When darkness brings its weeping glories out,
And spreads its sighs like frankincense about !
" Look up, my Zelica one moment show
Those gentle eyes to me, that I may know
* " Deep blue Is their mourning colour."
t The soiTOwful nyctanthes, which begins to spread its rich odour after
onset,
3(5 LALLA ROOKH.
Thy life, thy loveliness is not all gone,
But there, at least, shines as it ever shone.
Come, look upon thy Azim one dear glance,
Like those of old, were Heav'n ! whatever chance
Hath brought thee here, oh ! 'twas a blessed one !
There my sweet lids they move that kiss hath run
Like the first shoot of life through every vein,
And now I clasp her, mine, all mine again !
Oh the delight now, in this very hour,
When had the whole rich world been in my power,
I should have singled out thee, only thee,
From the whole world's collected treasury
To have thee here to hang thus fondly o'er
My own best, purest Zelica once more!"
It was indeed the touch of those lov'd lips
Upon her eyes that chas'd their short eclipse,
And, gradual as the snow, at Heaven's breath,
Melts off, and shows the azure flowers beneath,
Her lids unclos'd, and the bright eyes were seen
Gazing on his, not, as they late had been,
Quick, restless, wild, but mournfully serene ;
As if to lie, ev'n for that tranced minute,
So near his heart, had consolation in it ;
And thus to wake in his belov'd caress
Took from her soul one half its wretchedness.
But, when she heard him call her good and pure,
Oh 'twas too much -too dreadful to endure !
Shuddering she broke away from his embrace,
And, hiding with both hands her guilty face,
Said, in a tone whose anguish would have riven
A heart of very marble, " pure ! oh Heaven."
That tone those looks so chang'd the withering blight
That sin and sorrow leave where'er they light
The dead despondency of those sunk eyes,
Where once, had lie thus met her by surprize,
He would have seen himself, too happy boy,
Reflected in a thousand lights of joy ;
And then the place, that bright unholy place,
Where vice lay hid beneath each winning grace
And charm of luxury, as the viper weaves
Its wily covering of sweet balsam-leaves ;
All struck upon his heart, sudden and cold
As death itself ; it needs not to be told
No, no he sees it all, plain as the brand
Of burning shame can mark whate'er the hand,
That could from Heav'n and him such brightness sever,
THE VEILED PRoPHET OF KHORASSAN. 37
Tis done to Heav'n and him she's lost for ever !
It was a dreadful moment ; not the tears,
The lingering, lasting misery of years
Could match that minute's anguish all the worst
Of sorrow's elements in that dark burst
Broke o'er his soul, and, with one crash of fate,
Laid the whole hopes of his life desolate !
" Oh ! curse me not," she cried, as wild he toss'd
His desperate hand tow'rds Heav'n " though I am losl
Think not that guilt, that falsehood made me fall,
No, no 'twas grief, 'twas madness did it all !
Nay, doubt me not though all thy love hath ceas'd
I know it hath yet, yet believe, at least,
That every spark of reason's light must be
Quench'd in this brain, ere I could stray from thee !
They told me thou wert dead why, Azim, why
Did we not, both of us, that instant die
When we were parted ? oh ! could'st thou .but know
With what a deep devotedness of woe
I wept thy absence o'er and o'er again
Thinking of thee, still thee, till thought grew pain,
And memory, like a drop that, night and day,
Falls cold and ceaseless, wore my heart away !
Didst thou but know how pale I sat at home,
My eyes still turn'd the way thou wert to come,
And, all the long, long night of hope and fear,
Thy voice and step still sounding in my ear
Oh God ! thou would'st not wonder that, at last,
When every hope was all at once o'ercast,
When I heard frightful voices round me say
Azim is dead! this wretched brain gave way,
And I became a wreck, at random driven,
Without one glimpse of reason or of Heaven
All wild and ev'n this quenchless love within
Turn'd to foul fires to light me into sin !
Thou pitiest me I knew thou would'st that sky
Hath nought beneath it half so lorn as I.
The fiend, who lur'd me hither hist ! come near,
Or thou too, thou art lost, if he should hear
Told me such things oh ! with such devilish art,
As would have ruin'd ev'n a holier heart
Of thee, and of that ever-radiant sphere,
Where blest at length, if I but serv'd him here,
I should for ever live in thy dear sight,
And drink from those pure eyes eternal light!
Think, think how lost, how madden'd I must be,
38 LALLA KOOKH.
To hope that guilt could lead to God or thee !
Thou weep'st for me do, weep oh ! that I durst
Kiss off that tear ! but, no these lips are curst,
They must not touch thee ; one divine caress,
One blessed moment of forgetfulness
I've had within those arms, and that shall lie,
Shrin'd in my soul's deep memory till I die 1
The last of joy's last relics here below,
The one sweet drop, in all this waste of woe,
My heart has treasur'd from affection's spring,
To soothe and cool its deadly withering !
But thou yes, thou must go for ever go ;
This place is not for thee for thee ! oh no,
Did I but tell thee half, thy tortur'd brain
Would burn like mine, and mine go wild again !
Enough, that guilt reigns here that hearts, once goo i
Now tainted, chill'd and broken, are his food.
Enough, that we are parted that there rolls
A flood of headlong fate between our souls,
Whose darkness severs me as wide from thee
As Hell from Heav'n, to all eternity! "
" Zolica I Zelica !" the youth exclaim'd,
In all the tortures of a mind inflam'd
Almost to madness " by that sacred Heav'n,
Where yet, if prayers can move, thou'lt be forgiven,
As thou art here here, in this writhing heart,
All sinful, wild and ruin'd as thou art !
By the remembrance of our once pure love,
Which, like a church-yard light, still burns above
The grave of our lost souls which guilt in thee
Cannot extinguish, nor despair in me !
I do conjure, implore thee to fly hence
If thou hast yet one spark of innocence,
Fly with me from this place, "
"With thee! oh bless,
'Tis worth whole years of torment to hear this.
What ! take the lost one with thee ? let her rove
By thy dear side, as in those days of love,
When we were both so happy, both so pure
Too heavenly dream ! if there's on earth a cure
For the sunk heart, 'tis this day after day
To be the blest companion of thy way ;
To hear thy angel eloquence to see
Those virtuous eyes for ever turn'd on me ;
And in their light re-chasten'd silently,
Like the stain'd web that whitens in the suu,
TIIK VEII.KD PROPHET OF KHORASSAN. 39
Grow pure by being purely shone upon !
And thou wilt pray for me I know thou wilt
At the dim vesper hour, when thoughts of guilt
Come heaviest o'er the heart, thou'lt lift thine eyes,
Full of sweet tears unto the darkening skies,
And plead for me with Heav'n, till I can dare
To fix my own weak, sinful glances there ;
Till the good angels, when they see me cling
For ever near thee, pale and sorrowing,
Shall for thy sake pronounce my soul forgiven,
And bid thee take thy weeping slave to Heav'n !
Oh yes, I'll fly with thee "
Scarce had she said
These breathless words, when a voice deep and dread
As that of Monker, waking up the dead
From their first sleep so startling 'twas to both
Rung through the casement near, " Thy oath! thy oath!"
Oh Heav'n, the gastliness of that maid's look !
" 'Tis he," faintly she cried, while terror shook
Her inmost core, nor durst she lift her eyes,
Though through the casement, now, nought but the Bkiefl
And moonlight fields were seen, calm as before
" 'Tis he, and I am his all, all is o'er
Go fly this instant, or thou'rt ruin'd too
My oath, my oath, oh God ! 'tis all too true,
True as the worm in this cold heart it is
I am Mokanna's bride his, Azim, his
The dead stood round us, while I spoke that vow,
Their blue lips echoed it I hear them now !
Their eyes glar'd on me, while I pledg'd that bowl,
'Twas burning blood I feel it in my soul !
And the Veil'd Bridegroom hist ! I've seen to-night
What angels know not of so foul a sight,
So horrible oh ! never may'st thou see
What there lies hid from all but hell and me !
But I must hence off, off I am not thine,
Nor Heaven's, nor Love's, nor aught that is divine
Hold me not ha! think'st thou the fiends that sever
Hearts, cannot sunder hands ? thus, then for ever !"
With all that strength, which madness lends the weak,
She flung away his arm ; and, with a shriek,
Whose sound, though he should linger out more years
Than wretch e'er told, can never leave his ears,
Flew up through that long avenue of light,
Fleetly as some dark, ominous bird of night
Across the sun, and soon was out of sight !
40 LAT.T A TCOOKIT.
Lalla Rookh could think of nothing all day but the misery
of these two young lovers. Her gaiety was gone, and she
looked pensively even upon Fadladeen. She felt too, with-
out knowing why, a sort of uneasy pleasure in imagining
that Azim must have been just such a youth as Feramorz ;
just as worthy to enjoy all the blessings, without any of the
pangs, of that illusive passion, which too often, like the sunny
apples of Istkahar, is all sweetness on one side, and all bitter-
ness on the other.
As they passed along a sequestered river after sunset, they
saw a young Hindoo girl upon the bank, whose employment
seemed to them so strange, that they stopped their palankeens
to observe her. She had lighted a small lamp, filled with oil
of cocoa, and placing it in an earthern dish, adorned with a
wreath of flowers, had committed it with a trembling hand
to the stream, and was now anxiously watching its progress
down the current, heedless of the gay cavalcade which had
drawn up beside her. Lalla Kookh was all curiosity ;
when one of her attendants, who had lived upon the banks
of the Ganges (where this ceremony is so frequent, that
often, in the dusk of the evening, the river is seen glittering
all over with lights, like the Oton-tala or Sea of Stars), in-
formed the Princess that it was the usual way, in which the
friends of those who had gone on dangerous voyages offered
up vows for their safe return. If the lamp sunk immediately,
the omen was disastrous ; but if it went shining down the
stream, and continued to burn till entirely out of sight, tha
return of the beloved object was considered as certain.
Lalla Rookh, as they moved on, more than once looked
back, to observe how the young Hindoo's lamp proceeded ;
and, while she saw with pleasure that it was still unextin-
guished, she could not help fearing that all the hopes of this
life were no better than that feeble light upon the river.
The remainder of the journey was passed in silence. She
now, for the first time, felt that shade of melancholy, which
comes over the youthful maiden's heart, as sweet and tran-
sient as her own breath upon a mirror ; nor was it till she
heard the lute of Feramorz, touched lightly at the door of
her pavilion, that she waked from the reverie in which she
had been wandering. Instantly her eyes were lighted up
with pleasure, and, after a few unheard remarks from Fadla-
deen upon the indecorum of a poet seating himself in pre-
sence of a princess, everything was arranged as on the pre-
ceding evening, and all listened with eagerness, while the
story was thus continued :
THE VEILED PROPHET OF KIIOKASSAX. 41
Whose are the gilded tents that crowd the way,
Where all was waste and silent yesterday ?
This City of War which, in a few short hours,
Hath sprung up here, as if the magic powers
Of him who, in the twinkling of a star,
Built the high pillar'd halls of Chilminar,*
Had conjur'd up, far as the eye can see,
This world of tents and domes and sun-bright armory I-
Princely pavilions, screen'd by many a fold
Of crimson cloth, and topp'd with balls of gold ;
Steeds, with their housings of rich silver spun,
Their chains and poitrels glittering in the sun ; .
And camels, tufted o'er with Yemen's shells,
Shaking in every breeze their light-ton'd bells !
But yester-eve, so motionless around,
So mute was this wide plain, that not a sound
But the far torrent, or the locust-bird t
Hunting among the thickets, could be heard ;
Yet hark ! what discords now, of every kind,
Shouts, laughs*, and screams are revelling in the wind !
The neigh of cavalry ; the tinkling throngs
Of laden camels and their drivers' songs ;
"Ringing of arms, and flapping in the breeze
Of streamers from ten thousand canopies ;
War-music, bursting out from time to time
With gong and tymbalon's tremendous chime ;
Or, in the pause, when harsher sounds are mute,
The mellow breathings of some horn or flute,
That far off, broken by the eagle note
Of tk' Abyssinian trumpet,! swell and float !
Who leads this mighty army ? ask ye " who ?"
And mark ye not those banners of dark hue,
The Night and Shadow, over yonder tent ?
It is the Caliph's glorious armament.
Rous'd in his palace by the dread alarms,
That hourly came, of the false Prophet's arms
And of his host of infidels, who huii'd
* The edifices of Chilminar anil Balbec are supposed to have been built
ny the gonii, acting under the orders of Jan beu Jan, who governed the
world long before the time of Adam.
t A native of Khorasfinn, and allured southward by means of the water
of a fountain between Shiraz and Ispahan, called the Fountain of Kirds,
of which it is KO fond that it will follow wherever that water is carried.
t "This trumpet is often called in Abyssinia Nesser Cano, which signifies
the Note of the Eagle."
{ "The two black standards borne before the Caliphs of the House of
Abbas were called, allegorically, ' The Night and The Shadow.' "
42 LALLA ROOKH.
Defiance fierce at Islam* and the world;
Though worn with Grecian warfare, and behind
The veils of his bright palace calm reclin'd,
Yet brook'd he not such blasphemy should stain,
Thus unrevenged, the evening of his reign,
But, having sworn upon the Holy Gravet
To conquer or to perish, once more gave
His shadowy banners proudly to the breeze,
And with an army, nurs'd in victories,
Here stands to crush the rebels that o'er-run
His blest and beauteous Province of the Sun.
Ne'er did the march of Mahadi display
Such pomp before ; not ev'n when on his way
To Mecca's temple, when both land and sea
Were spoil'd to feed the pilgrim's luxury ;t
When round him, mid the burning sands, he s;iw
Fruits of the North in icy freshness thaw,
And cool'd his thirsty lip, beneath the glow
Of Mecca's sun, with itrns of Persian snow :
Nor e'er did armament more grand than that
Pour from the kingdoms of the Caliphat.
First, in the van, the People of the Rock,
On their light mountain steeds, of royal stock :H
Then, Chieftains of Damascus, proud to see
The flashing of their swords' rich marquetry ;**
Men, from the regions near the Volga's mouth,
Mix'd with the rude, black archers of the South ;
And Indian lancers, in white-turban'd ranks
From the far Sinde, or Attock's sacred banks.
With dusky legions from the Land of Myrrh. tt
And many a niace-arm'd Moor and Mid-Sea Islander.
Nor less in number, though more new and rude
In warfare's school, was the vast multitude
That, fir'd by zeal, or by oppression wrong'd,
Round the white standard of th.' Impostor throng'd.
* The Mohammedan religion.
t "The Persians swear by the Tomb of Shah Bcsade, who is buried at
Casbin; and when one desires another to asseverate a matter he will ask
him it' he dare swear by the Holy Grave."
J Mahadi, in a single pilgrimage to Mecca, expended six millions of
dinars of gold.
"The inhabitants of II ejaz or Arabia Petnea, called 'The People of
the Rock.' "
I! " Those horses called by the Arabians Kochlani, of whom a written
genealogy has been kept for 2000 years. They are said to derive their
origin from King Solomon's steeds."
** " Many of the figures on the blades of their swords are wrought in
gold or silver, or in marquetry with small gems."
it Azab or Saba.
THE VEILED PROPHET OF KHOKASSAN. 43
Beside his thousands of Believers, blind,
Burning and headlong as the Saniiel wind,
Many who felt, and more who fear'd to feel
The bloody Islamite's converting steel,
FJock'd to his banner ; Chiefs of the Uzbek race,
Waving their heron crests with martial grace ;*
Turkomans, coiintless as their flocks, led forth
From the aromatic pastures of the North ;
"\Vild warriors of the torquoise hills,t and those
Who dwell beyond the everlasting snows
Of Hindoo Kosh, in stormy freedom bred,
Their fort the rock, their camp the torrent's bed.
But none, of all who own'd the Chief's command
Rush'd to that battle-field with bolder hand,
Or sterner hate than Iran's outlaw'd men,
Her Worshippers of Fire I all panting then
For vengeance on the accursed Saracen ;
Vengeance at last for their dear country spurn'd,
Her throne usurp'd, and her bright shrines o'erturn'd.
From Yezd's eternal Mansion of the Fire,
Where aged saints in dreams of Heav'n expire ;
From Badku, and those fountains of blue flame
That burn into the Caspian,!! fierce they came,
Careless for what or whom the blow was sped,
So vengeance triumph'd, and their tyrants bled !
Such was the wild and miscellaneous host,
That high in air their motley banners tost
Around the Prophet-Chief all eyes still bent
Upon that glittering veil, where'er it went,
That beacon through the battle's stormy flood,
That rainbow of the field, whose showexs were blood !
Twice hath the sun upon their conflict set,
And ris'n again, and found them grappling yet ;
* "The chiefs of the Uzbek Tartars weai a plume of -white heron's
feathers in their tuvbans."
t " In the mountains of Nishaponr and Tous in Khorassan they find
turquoises."
I The Ghebers or Guebres, those original natives of Persia who adhered
to their ancient faith, the religion of Zoroaster, and who, after the conquest
of their country by the Arabs, were either persecuted at home or forced
to become wanderers abroad.
" Yczd, the chief residence of those ancient natives who worship the
Sun and the Fire, which latter they have carefully kept lighted, without
being once extinguished for a moment., above 3000 years, on a mountain
near Yczd, called Ater Quedah, signifying the House or Mansion of the
Fire. He is reckoned very unfortunate who dies off that mountain."
|| *\Vhen the weather is hazy, the springs of naphtha (on an island
neai Baku) boil up the higher, and the naphtha often takes fire on the
surface of the earth, and runs in a name into the sea to a distance almost
Itcredible,"
44 LALLA ROOKH.
While steams of carnage, in liis noon-tide blaze,
Smoke up to Heav'n hot as that crimson haze,
By which the prostrate caravan is aw'd,
In the red desert, when the wind's abroad !
" On, Swords of God !" the panting Caliph calls,
; ' Thrones for the living Heav'n for him who falls !"
" On, brave avengers, on," Mokanna cries,
" And Eblis blast the recreant slave that flies !"
- Now comes the brunt, the crisis of the day
They clash they strive the Caliph's troops give way !
Mokanna's self plucks the black banner down,
And now the orient world's imperial crown
Is just within his grasp when, hark, that shout !
Some hand hath check'd the flying Moslems' rout,
And now they turn they rally at their head
A warrior (like those angel youths, who led,
In glorious panoply of Heaven's own mail,
The Champions of the Faith through Beder's vale),*
Bold as if gifted with ten thousand lives,
Turns on the fierce pursuers' blades, and drives
At once the multitudinous torrent back,
While hope and courage kindle in his track,
And, at each step, his bloody falchion makes
Terrible vistas through which victory breaks !
In vain Mokanna, midst the general flight,
Stands, like the red moon, on some stormy night,
Among the fugitive clouds that, hurrying by,
Leave only her unshaken in the sky !
In vain he yells his desperate curses out,
Deals death promiscuously to all about,
To foes that charge and coward friends that fly,
And seems of all the Great Arch-enemy !
The panic spreads " a miracle !" throughout
'.The Moslem ranks, " a miracle !" they shout,
All gazing on that youth, whose coming seems
A light, a glory, such as breaks in dreams ;
And every sword, true as o'er billows dim
The needle tracks the load-star, following him !
Right tow'rds Mokanna now he cleaves his path,
Impatient cleaves, as though the bolt of wrath
He bears from Heav'n withheld its awful burst
From weaker heads, and souls but half-way curst,
To break o'er him, the mightiest and the worst!
But vain his speed though, in that hour of blood,
* "In the preat victory pained by Mohammed at Beder, he was assisted
tj three thousand angels, led by Gabriel mounted on his horse Hiazum."
TIIK VEILED PROPHET OF KHOKASSAN. 43
Had all God's seraphs round Mokanna stood,
With swords of fire, ready like fate to fall,
IV1 okanna's soul would have defied them all ;
Yet now, the rush of fugitives, too strong
For human force, hurries ev'n him along;
In vain he struggles 'mid the wedg'd array
Of flying thousands, he is borne away ;
And 'the sole joy his baffled spirit knows
In this forc'd flight is murdering, as he goes !
As a grim tiger, \vhom the torrent's might
Surprizes in some parch'd ravine at night,
Turns, ev'n in drowning, on the wretched flocks
Swept with him in that snow-flood from the rocks,
And, to the last, devouring on his way,
Bloodies the stream he hath not power to stay !
" Alia ilia Alia!" the glad shout renew
"Alia Akbar!"* the Caliph's in Merou.
Hang out your gilded tapestry in the streets,
And light your shrines and chaunt your ziraleets ;t
The Swords of God have triumph 'd on his throne
Your Caliph sits, and the Veil'd Chief hath flown.
Who does not envy that young warrior now,
To whom the Lord of Islam bends his brow,
In all the graceful gratitude of power,
For his throne's safety in that perilous hour ?
Who doth not wonder, when, amidst the' acclaim
Of thousands, Heralding to heaven his name
'Mid all those holier harmonies of fame,
Which sound along the path of virtuous souls,
Like music round a planet as it rolls!
He turns away, coldly, as if some gloom
Hung o'er his heart no triumphs can illume ;
Some sightless grief, upon whose blasted gaze
Though glory's light may play, in vain it plays!
Yes, wretched Azirn ! thine is such a grief,
Beyond all hope, all terror, all relief;
A dark, cold calm, which nothing now can break,
Or warm or brighten, like that Syrian Lake,*
Upon whose surface morn and summer shed
Their smiles in vain, for all beneath is dead !
Hearts there have been, o'er which this weight of woe
Came by long use of suffering, tame and slow ;
* The Tecbir, or cry of the Arabs. "Alia Acbar !" says Ockley, " means
God is most mighty."
t "The ziraleet is a kind of chorus which the women of the East sing
upon joyful occasions."
J Tho Dead Sea, which contains neither animal nor vegetable life.
LALLA ROOKH.
But thine, lost youth ! was sudden over thee
It broke at once, when all seem'd ecstasy ;
When Hope look'd up, and saw the gloomy past
Melt into splendour, and bliss dawn at last
'Twas then, ev'n then, o'er joys so freshly blown,
This mortal blight of misery came down ;
Ev'n then, the full, warm gushings of thy heart
Were check'd like the fount-drops, frozen as they start I
-And there, like them, cold, sunless relics hang,
Each fix'd and chill'd into a lasting pang !
One sole desire, one passion now remains,
To keep life's fever still within his veins,
Vengeance ! dire vengeance on the wretch who cast
O'er him and all he lov'd that ruinous blast.
For this, when rumours reach'd him in his flight
Far, far away, after that fatal night,
Rumours of armies, thronging to the' attack
Of the Veil'd Chief, for this he wing'd him back,
Fleet as the vulture speeds of flags unfuii'd,
And came when all seem'd lost, and wildly huii'd
Himself into the scale, and sav'd a world !
For this he still lives on, careless of all
The wreaths that glory on his path lets fall ;
For this alone exists like lightning-fire
To speed one bolt of vengeance, and expire 1
But safe as yet that spirit of evil lives ;
With a small band of desperate fugitives,
The last sole stubborn fragment, left unriven,
Of the proud host that late stood fronting Heaven,
He gain'd Merou breath'd a short curse of blood
O'er his Jost throne then pass'd the Jihon's flood,*
And gathering all, whose madness of belief
Still saw a saviour in their down -f all 'n Chief,
Rais'd the white banner within Neksheb's gates,t
And there, untam'd, th' aproaching conqueror waits.
Of all his Haram, all that busy hive,
With music and with sweets sparkling alive,
He took but one, the partner of his flight,
One, not for love not for her beauty's light
For Zelica stood withering midst the gay,
Wan as the blossom that fell yesterday
From the' Alma tree and dies, while overhead
To-day's young flower is springing in its stead !t
* The ancient Oxus. t A city of Transoxiania.
t " You never can cast your eyes on this tree but you meet there either
blossoms or fruit ; and as the blossom drops underneath on the ground
others come forth in their stead."
THE VEILED PROPHET OF KHORASSAN. 4?
No, not for love the deepest damn'd must bo
Touch'd with Heaven's glory, ere such fiends as he
Can feel one glimpse of love's divinity !
But no, she is his victim ; there lie all
Her charms for him charms that can never pall,
As long as Hell within his heart can stir,
Or one faint trace of Heaven is left in her,
To work an angel's ruin, to behold
As white a page as Virtue e'er unroll'd
Blacken, beneath his touch, into a scroll
Of damning sins, seal'd with a burning soul
This is his triumph ; this the joy accurst,
That ranks him among demons all but first !
This gives the victim, that before him liea
Blighted and lost, a glory in his eyes,
A light like that with which hell-fire illumes
The ghastly, writhing wretch whom it consumes !
But other tasks now wait him tasks that need
All the deep daringness of thought and deed
With which the Dives* have gifted him for mark,
Over yon plains, which night had else made dark,
Those lanterns, countless as the winged lights
That spangle India's fields on showery nights,!
Far as their formidable gleams they shed,
The mighty tents of the beleagurer spread,
Glimmering along th' horizon's dusky line,
And thence in nearer circles, till they shine
Among the founts and groves, o'er which the town
In all its arm'd magnificence looks down.
Yet, fearless, from his lofty battlements
Mokanna views that multitude of tents ;
Nay, smiles to think that, though entoil'd, beset,
Not less than myriads dare to front him yet ;
That friendless, throneless, he thus stands at bay,
Ev'n thus a match for myriads such as they !
" Oh ! for a sweep of that dark angel's wing,
Who brush'd the thousands of th' Assyrian king*
To darkness in a moment, that I might
People Hell's chambers with yon host to-night !
But come what may, let who will grasp the throne,
Caliph or Prophet, man alike shall groan ;
Let who will torture him. Priest Caliph King
Alike this loathsome world of his shall ring
With victims' shrieks and howliugs of the slave,
* The demons of the Persian mythology.
f Carreri mentions the tire-flies in India during the rainy
$ "Sennacherib, called by the orientals King of Moussal"
48 LALLA ROOKH.
Sounds, that shall glad me ev'n within my grave !"
Thus to himself but to the scanty train
Still left around him, a far different strain :
" Glorious defenders of the sacred Crown
I bear from Heav'n, whose light nor blood shall dro'-vn
Nor shadow of earth eclipse ; before whose gems
The paly pomp of this world's diadems,
The crown of Gerashid, the pillar'd throne
Of Parviz,* and the heron crest that shone,t
. Magnificent, o'er Ali's beauteous eyes,t
Fade like the stars when morn is in the skies :
Warriors rejoice the port, to which we've pass'd
O'er destiny's dark wave, beams out at last !
Victory's our own 'tis written in that Book
Upon whose leaves none but the angels look,
That Islam's sceptre shall beneath the power
Of her great foe fall broken in that hour,
When the moon's mighty orb, before all eyes,
From Neksheb's Holy Well portentuously shall rise !
Now turn and see!"
They turn'd, and, as he spoke,
A sudden splendour all around them broke,
And they beheld an orb, ample and bright,
Rise from the Holy Well, and cast its light
Round the rich city and the plain for miles,?
Flinging such radiance o'er the gilded tiles
Of many a dome and fair-roof d imaret,
As autumn suns shed round them when they set !
Instant from all who saw the' illusive sign
A murmur broke " Miraculous ! divine !"
The Gheber bow'd, thinking his idol Star
Had wak'd, and burst impatient through the bar
. Of midnight, to inflame him to the war !
While he of Moussa's creed saw, in that ray,
The glorious Light which, in his freedom's day,
Had rested on the Ark,ll and now again
Shone out to bless the breaking of his chain !
* Chosroes.
t "The crown of Gerashid is cloudy and tarnished before the heron
lufb of thy turban." From one of the elegies or songs in praise of Ali,
written in characters of gold round the gallery of Abbas's tomb.
t " The beauty of Ali's eyes was so remarkable that, whenever the Per-
sians would describe anything as very lovely, they say it is Ayn Hali, 01
the eyes of Ali."
11 amusa pendant deux mois le peuple de la ville de Nekhscheb en
fais.mt sortir toutes les nuita du fonds d'un puits un corps lumineux sem-
blafole a la Lune, qui portolt sa luniiere jusqu'h la distance de plusieurs
rnilles. D' Ilerbelot. Hence he was called Sazende'h man, or the Moon-
maker.
I The Shechinah. called Suktnat in the Koran. v. Sale.
THE VEILED PROPHET OF KHORASSAN. 49
" To victory !" is at once the cry of all
Nor stands Mokanna loitering at that call ;
But instant the huge gates are flung aside,
And forth, like a diminutive mountain-tide
Into the boundless sea, they speed their course
Eight on into the Moslem's mighty force.
The watchmen of the camp, who, in their rounds,
Had paus'd and ev'n forgot the punctual sounds
Of the small drum with which they count the night,*
To gaze upon that supernatural light,
Now sink beneath an unexpected arm,
And in a death-groan give their last alarm.
" On for the lamps, that light yon lofty screen,t
Nor blunt your blades with massacre so mean ;
There rests the Caliph speed one lucky lance
May now achieve mankind's deliverance !"
Desperate the die such as they only cast,
Who venture for a world, and stake their last.
But Fate's no longer with him blade for blade
Springs up to meet them through the glimmering shade.
And, as the clash is heard, new legions soon
Pour to the spot, like bees of Kauzeroont
To the shrill timbrel's summons, till, at length,
The mighty camp swarms out in all its strength,
And back to Neksheb's gates, covering the plain
With random slaughter, drives the adventurous train ;
Among the last of whom, the Silver Veil
Is seen, glittering at times, like the white sail
Of some toss'd vessel, on a stormy night,
Catching the tempest's momentary light !
And hath not this brought the proud spirit low ?
Nor dash'd his brow, nor check'd his daring ? No.
Though half the wretches, whom at night he led
To thrones and victory, lie disgrac'd and dead,
Yet morning hears him, with unshrinking crest,
Still vaunt of thrones, and victory to the rest ;
And they believe him ! oh, the lover may
Distrust that look which steals his soul away ;
The babe may cease to think that it can play
With Heaven's rainbow ; alchymists may doubt
The shining gold their crucible gives out,
* "The parts of the night are made known as well by instruments of
music as by the rounds of the watchmen with cries and small drums."
t " The Serrapurda, high screens of reel cloth stiffened with cane, used
to inclose a considerable space round the royal tents."
J " From the groves of orange trees at Kauzeroou the bees cull u cele-
brated honey."
LALL.A ROOKH.
But Faith, fanatic Faith, once wedded fast
To some dear falsehood, hugs it to the last.
And well th' Iinposter knew all lures and arts,
That Lucifer e'er taught to tangle hearts ;
Nor, mid these last, bold workings of his plot
Against men's souls, is Zelica forgot.
Ill-fated Zelica ! had reason been
Awake, through half the horrors thou hast seen,
Thou never couldst have borne it Death had como
At once, and taken thy wrung spirit home.
But 'twas not so a torpor, a suspense
Of thought, almost of life, came o'er th' intense
And passionate struggles of that fearful night,
When her last hope of peace and Heav'n took flight:
And though, at times, a gleam of frenzy broke,
As through some dull volcano's veil of smoke
Ominous flashings now and then will start,
Which show the fire's still busy at its heart ;
Yet was she mostly wrapp'd in sullen gloom,
Not such as Azim's, brooding o'er its doom,
And calm without, as is the brow of death,
While busy worms are gnawing underneath !
But in a blank and pulseless torpor, free
From thought or pain, a seal'd up apathy,
Which left her oft, with scarce one living thrill,
The cold, pale victim of her torturer's will.
Again, as in Merou, he had her deck'd
Gorgeously out, the Priestess of the sect ;
And led her glittering forth before the eyes
Of his rude train, as to a sacrifice ;
Pallid as she, the young, devoted Bride
Of the fierce Nile, when, deck'd in all the pride
Of nuptial pomp, she sinks into his tide !*
And while the wretched maid hung down her head,
And stood, as one just risen from the dead,
Amid that gazing crowd, the fiend would tell
His credulous slaves it was some charm or spell
Possess'd her now, and from that darken'd trance
Should dawn ere long their Faith's deliverance.
Or if, at times, goaded by guilty shame,
Her soul was rous'd, and words of wildness came,
Instant the bold blasphemer would translate
* A custom still subsisting at this day seems to me to prove that the
Egyptians formerly sacrificed a young virgin to the god of the Nile; foi
they now make a statue of earth in shape af a girl, to which they give
the name of the Betrothed Bride, and throw it into the river. Savory.
THE VEILED PROPHET OF KHORASSAN.
Her ravings into oracles of fate.
Would hail Heaven's signals in her flashing eyes,
And call her shrieks the language of the skies !
But vain at length his arts despair is seen
Gathering around ; and famine comes to glean
All that the sword had left unreap'd : in vain
At morn and eve across the northern plain
He looks impatient for the promis'd spears
Of the wild hords and Tartar mountaineers ;
They come not while his fierce beleaguerers pour
Engines of havoc in, unknown before,
And horrible as new ;* javelins, that fly
Enwreath'd with smoky flames through the dark sky,
And red-hot globes that, opening as they mount,
Discharge, as from a kindled naptlia fount,
Showers of consuming fire o'er all below ;
Looking, as through th' illumin'd night they go,
Like those wild birdst that by the Magians oft,
At festivals of fire, were sent aloft
Into the air, with blazing faggots tied
To their huge wings, scattering combustion wide !
All night, the groans of wretches who expire,
In agony, beneath these darts of fire,
Ring through the city while, descending o'er
Its shrines and domes and streets of sycamore ;
Its lone bazars, with their bright cloth of gold,
Since the last peaceful pageant left unrolled ;
Its beauteous marble baths, whose idle jets
Now gush with blood ; and its tall minarets,
That late have stood up in the evening glare
Of the red sun, unhallow'd by a prayer ;
O'er each, in turn, the terrible flame-bolts fall.
And death and conflagration throughout all
The desolate city hold high festival 1
Mokanna sees the world is his no more ;
One sting at parting, and his grasp is o'er.
" What ! drooping now ?" thus, with unblushing cheek,
He hails the few, who yet can hear him spoak,
Of all those famish'd slaves, around him lying
And by the light of blazing temples dying ;
* The Greek fire, which was occasionally lent by the Emperors to theii
allies.
t " At the great festival of Fire, called the Sheb Sez<5, they used to set
fire to large bunches of dry combustibles, fastened round wild beasts and
birds, which being then let loose, the air and earth appeared one great
Illumination ; and as these terrified creatures naturally fled to the wood
for shelter, it is easy to conceive the conflagrations they produced."
D
62 LALI.A ROOKH.
" What ! drooping now ? now, when at length we press
Home o'er the very threshold of success ;
When Alia from our ranks hath thinn'd away
Those grosser branches, that kept out his ray
Of favour from us, and we stand at length
Ueirs of his light and children of his strength,
The chosen few, who shall survive the fall
Of kings and thrones, triumphant over all !
Have you then lost, weak murmurers as you are,
All faith in him, who was your light, your star ?
Have you forgot the eye of glory, hid
Beneath this veil, the flashing of whose lid
Could, like a sun-stroke of the desert, wither
Millions of such as yonder chief brings hither ?
Long have its lightnings slept too long but now
All earth shall feel th' unveiling of this brow !
To-night yes. sainted men ! this very night,
I bid you all to a fair festal rite,
Where, having deep refresh 'd each weary limb
With viands, such as feast Heaven's cherubim,
And kindled up your souls, now sunk and dim,
With that pure wine the dark-ey'd Maids above
Keep, seal'd with precious musk, for those they love,*
I will myself uncurtain in your sight
The wonders of this brow's ineffable light ;
Then lead you forth, and with a wink disperse
Yon myriads, howling through the universe !"
Eager they listen while each accent darts
New life into their chill'd and hope-sick hearts ;
Such treacherous life as the cool draught supplies
To him upon the stake, who drinks and dies !
Wildly they point their lances to the light
Of the fast sinking sun, and shout " to-night !"
" To-night," their Chief re-echoes, in a voice
Of fiend-like mockery that bids Hell rejoice !
Deluded victims never hath this earth
Seen mourning half so mournful as their mirth !
Here, to the few, whose iron frames had stood
This racking waste of famine and of blood,
Faint, dying wretches clung, from whom the shout
Of triumph like a maniac's laugh broke out ;
There, others, lighted by the smouldering fire,
Danc'd, like wan ghosts about a funeral pyre,
Among the dead and dying, strew'd around ;
* The righteous shall be given to drink of pure wine, sealed; tlie seal
srliereof shall be musk. Koran, chap. Ixxxiii.
THE VEILED PROPHET OF KHORASSAN B3
While some pale wretch look'd on, and from his wound
Plucking the fiery dart hy which he bled,
In ghastly transport wav'd it o'er his head !
'Twas more than midnight now a fearful pause
Had follow'd the long shouts, the wild applause,
That lately from those Royal Gardens burst,
Where the veil'd demon held his feast accurst,
When Zelica alas, poor ruin'd heart,
In every horror doona'd to bear its part !
Was bidden to the banquet by a slave,
Who, while his quivering lip the summons gave,
Grew black, as though the shadows of the grave
Compass'd him round, and, ere he could repeat
His message through, fell lifeless at her feet !
Shuddering she went a soul-felt pang of fear,
A presage, that her own dark doom was near,
Rous'd every feeling, and brought reason back
Once more, to writhe her last upon the rack.
All round seem'd tranquil ev'n the foe had ceas'd,
As if aware of that demoniac feast,
His fiery bolts ; and though the heavens look'd red,
'Twas but some distant conflagration's spread.
But hark ! she stops she listens dreadful tone !
'Tis her Tormentor's laugh and now, a groan
A long death-groan comes with it can this be
The place of mirth, the bower of revelry ?
She enters Holy Alia, what a sight
Was there before her ! By the glimmering light
Of the pale dawn, mix'd with the flare of brands
That round lay burning, dropp'd from lifeless hands,
She saw the board, in splendid mockery spread,
Rich censers breathing garlands overhead,
The urns, the cups, from which they late had quaff' d,
All gold and gems, but what had been the draught ?
Oh ! who need ask, that saw those livid guests,
With their swoll'n heads sunk blackening on their breasts,
Or looking pale to Heav'n with glassy glare,
As if they sought but saw no mercy there ;
As if they felt, though poison rack'd them through,
Remorse the deadlier torment of the two !
While some, the bravest, hardiest in the train
Of their false Chief, who on the battle-plain
Would have met death with transport by his side,
Here mute and helpless gasp'd ; but as they died,
Look'd horrible vengeance with their eyes' last strain
And clench'd the slackening hand at him in vaih.
54 LALLA ROOKH.
Dreadful it was to see the ghastly stare,
The stony look of horror and despair,
Which some of these expiring victims cast
Upon their souls' tormentor to the last ;
Upon that mocking fiend, whose veil, now rais'd,
Show'd them, as in death's agony they gaz'd,
Not the long promis'd light, the brow, whose beaming
Was to come forth, all conquering, all redeeming,
But features horribler than Hell e'er trac'd
On its own brood ; no Demon of the Waste,*
No churchyard ghole, caught lingering in the light
Of the bless'd sun, e'er blasted human sight
With lineaments so foul, so fierce as those
Th' Imposter now, in grinning mockery, shows
" There, ye wise saints, behold your Light, your Star,
Ye would be dupes and victims, and ye are.
Is it enough ? or must I, while a thrill
Lives in your sapient bosoms, cheat you still ?
Swear that the burning death ye feel within,
Is but the trance, with which Heaven's joys begin ;
That this foul visage, foul as e'er disgrac'd
Ev'n monstrous man, is after God's own taste ;
And that but see ! ere I have half-way said
My greetings through, th' uncourteous souls are fled.
Farewell, sweet spirits ! not in vain ye die,
If Eblis loves you half so well as I.
Ha, my young bride ! 'tis well take thou thy seat ;
Nay come no shuddering did'st thou never meet
The dead before ? they grac'd our wedding, sweet ;
And these, my guests to-night, have brimm'd so true
Their parting cups, that thou shalt pledge one too.
But how is this ? all empty ? all drunk up ?
Hot lips have been before thee in the cup,
Young bride, yet stay one precious drop remains,
Enough to warm a gentle Priestess' veins ;
Here, drink and should thy lover's conquering arms
Speed hither, ere thy lip lose all its charms,
Give him but half this venom in thy kiss,
And I'll forgive my haughty rival's bliss !
" For me I too must die but not like these
Yile, rankling things, to fester in the breeze ;
To have this brow in ruffian triumph shown,
* "The Afghauns believe each of the numerous solitudes and deserts of
their country to be inhabited by a lonely demon whom they call the
Gholee Beeobau or Spirit of the Waste. They often illustrate the wild-
ness of any sequestered tribe by saying they are wild as the Demon of tha
Waste."
THE VEILED PROPHET OF KHORASSAN. 66
With all death's grimness added to its own,
And rot to dust beneath the taunting eyes
Of slaves, exclaiming ' There his Godship lies !'
No cursed race since first my soul drew breath,
They've been my dupes, and shall be, ev'n in death.
Thou see'st yon cistern in the shade, 'tis fill'd
With burning drugs, for this last hour distill'd ;
There will I plunge me, in that liquid flame
Fit bath to lave a dying Prophet's frame !
There perish, all ere pulse of thine shall fail
Nor leave one limb to tell mankind the tale.
So shall my votaries, wheresoe'er they rave,
Proclaim that Heav'n took back the Saint it gave ;
That I've but vanish'd from this earth awhile,
To come again, with bright, unshrouded smile !
So shall they build me altars in their zeal,
Where knaves shall minister, and fools shall kneel ;
Where Faith may mutter o'er her mystic spell,
Written in blood and Bigotry may swell
The sail he spreads for Heav'n with blasts from Hell !
So shall my banner, through long ages, be
The rallying sign of fraud and anarchy ;
Kings yet unborn shall rue Mokanna's name,
And, though I die, my spirit, still the same,
Shall walk abroad in all the stormy strife,
And guilt, and blood, that were its bliss in life !
But, hark ! their battering engine shakes the wall
Why, let it shake thus I can brave them all.
No trace of me shall greet them, when they come,
And I can trust thy faith, for thou'lt be dumb.
Now mark how readily a wretch like me,
In one bold plunge, commences Deity !"
He sprung and sunk, as the last words were said
Quick clos'd the burning waters o'er his head,
And Zelica was left within the ring
Of those wide walls the only living thing ;
The only wretched one, still curs'd with breath,
In all that frightful wilderness of death !
More like some bloodless ghost, such as, they tell,
In the lone Cities of the Silent* dwell,
And there, unseen of all but Alia, sit
Each by its own pale carcase, watching it.
* "They have all a great reverence for burial-grounds, which they
ometimes call by the poetical name of Cities of the Silent, anil which
they people with the ghosts of the departed, who sit each at the head of
his own grave, invisible to mortal eyes."
LALLA ROOKH.
But morn is up, and a fresh warfare stirs
Throughout the camp of the beleaguerers.
Their globes of fire (the dreai artillery, lent
By Greece to conquering Mahadi), are spent ;
And now the scorpion's shaft, the quarry sent
From high balistas, and the shielded throng
Of soldiers swinging the huge ram along,
All speak th* impatient Islamite's intent
To try, at length, if tower and battlement
And bastiou'd wall be not less hard to win,
Less tough to break down than the hearts within.
First in impatience and in toil is he,
The burning Azim oh ! could he but see
That monster once alive within his grasp,
Not the gaunt lion's hug, nor boa's clasp,
Could match that gripe of vengeance, or keep pace
With the fell heartiness of hate's embrace !
Loud rings the ponderous ram against the walls ;
Now shake the ramparts, now a buttress falls,
But still no breach " once more, one mighty swing
Of all your beams, together thundering !"
There the wall shakes the shouting troops exult
" Quick, quick discharge your weightiest catapult
Plight on that spot, and Neksheb is our own !"
'Tis done the battlements come crashing down
And the huge wall, by that stroke riv'n in two,
Yawning, like some old crater rent anew,
Shows the dim, desolate city smoking through !
But strange ! no signs of life nought living seen
Above, below what can this stillness mean '?
A minute's pause suspends all hearts and eyes
" In through the breach," impetuous Azim cries ;
But the cool Caliph, fearful of some wile
In this blank stillness, checks the troops awhile.
Just then, a figure, with slow step, advanc'd
Forth from the ruin'd walls ; and, as there glanced
A sunbeam over it, all eyes could see
The well-known Silver Veil ! " 'Tis he, 'tis he,
Mokanna, and alone !" they shout around ;
Young Azim from his steed springs to the ground
" Mine, Holy Caliph ! mine," he cries, " the task
To crufh yon daring wretch 'tis all I ask."
Eager ] ie darts to meet the demon foe,
Who still across wide heaps of ruin slow
And faltcringly comes, till they are near ;
Then, with a bound, rushes on Azim's spear
THE VEILED PROPHET OF KHOKASSAN. 57
And, casting off the veil in falling, shows
Oh ! 'tis his Zelica's life-blood that flows !
" I meant not, Azim," soothingly she said,
As on his trembling arm she lean'd her head,
And, looking in his face, saw anguish there
Beyond all wounds the quivering flesh can bear
"I meant not thou should'st have the pain of this ;
Though death, with thee thus tasted, is a bliss
Thou would'st not rob me of, did'st thou but know
How oft I've pray'd to God I might die so !
But the Fiend's venom was too scant and slow ;
To linger on were maddening and I thought
If once that veil nay, look not on it caught
The eyes of your fierce soldiery, i should be
Struck by a thousand death-darts instantly.
But this is sweeter oh ! believe me, yes
I would not change this sad, but dear caress,
This death within thy arms I would not give
For the most smiling life the happiest live !
All, that stood dark and drear before the eye
Of my stray'd soul, is passing swiftly by ;
A light comes o'er me from those looks of love,
Like the first dawn of mercy from above ;
And if thy lips but tell me I'm forgiven,
Angels will echo the blest words in Heaven !
But live, my Azim ; oh ! to call thee mine
Thus once again ! my Azim dream divine !
Live, if thou ever lov'dst me, if to meet
Thy Zelica hereafter would be sweet,
Oh live to pray for her to bend the knee
Morning and night before that Deity,
To whom pure lips and hearts without a stain,
As thine are, Azim, never breath'd in vain,
And pray that He may pardon her, may take
Compassion on her soul for thy dear sake,
And, nought remembering but her love to thee,
Make her all thine, all His, 'eternally !
Go to those happy fields where first we 'twin'd
Our youthful hearts together every wind
That meets thee there, fresh from the well-known flowers*
Will bring the sweetness of those innocent hours
Back to thy soul, and thou may'st feel again
For thy poor Zelica as thou did'st then.
60 shall thy orisons, like dew that flies
To Heav'n upon the morning's sunshine, rise
With all love's earliest ardour to the skies !
58 LALLA ROOKH.
And should they but alas ! my senses fail
Oh for one minute ! should thy prayers prevail
If pardon 'd souls may from that World of Bliss
Reveal their joy to those they love in this,
I'll come to thee in some sweet dream and tell
Oh Heaven I die dear love ! farewell, farewell ! "
Time fleeted years on years had pass'd away,
And few of those who, on that mournful day,
Had stood, with pity in their eyes, to see
The maiden's death, and the youth's agony,
Were living still when, by a rustic grave
Beside the swift Amoo's transparent wave,
An aged man, who had grown aged there
By that lone grave, morning and night in prayer,
For the last time knelt down and, though the shade
Of death hung darkening over him, there play'd
A gleam of rapture on his eye and cheek,
That brighten'd even death like the last streak
Of intense glory on the' horizon's brim,
When night o'er all the rest hangs chill and dim,
His soul had seen a vision, while he slept ;
She for whose spirit he had pray'd and wept
So many years, had come to him, all drest
In angel smiles, and told him she was blest !
For this the old man breath'd his thanks, and died.
And there, upon the banks of that lov'd tide,
He and his Zelica sleep side by side.
The story of the Veiled Prophet of Khorassan being ended,
they were now doomed to hear Fadladeen's criticisms upon
it. A series of disappointments and accidents had occurred
to this learned chamberlain during the journey. In the
first place, those couriers stationed, as in the reign of Shall
Jehan, between Delhi and the western coast of India, to se-
cure a constant supply of mangoes for the royal table, had,
by some cruel irregularity, failed in their duty ; and to eat
any mangoes but those of Mazagong was, of course, impossi-
ble. In the next place, the elephant, laden with his fine an-
tique porcelain,* had, in an unusual fit of liveliness, shattered
* This old porcelain is found in digging, and "if it is esteemed, it is not
because it has acquired any new degree of beauty in the earth, but because
it has retained its ancient beauty ; and this alone is of great importance
in China, where they give large sums for the smallest vessels which were
used under the Emperors Yan and Chun, who reigned many ages before
the dynasty of Tang, at which time porcelain began to be used by the
Emperors" (about the year 442). Dunn's Collection of Curious Observations,
&<;., a bad translation of some parts of the "LettresEdifiantesetCurieuses"
ol the Missionary Jesuits.
LALLA ROOKH. 69
the whole set to pieces an irreparable loss, as many of the
vessels were so exquisitely old as to have been used under
the Emperors Yan and Chun, who reigned many ages before
the dynasty of Tang. His Koran, too, supposed to be the
identical copy between the leaves of which Mohammed's fa-
vourite pigeon used to nestle, had been mislaid by his Koran-
bearer three whole days ; not without much spiritual alarm
to Fadladeen, who, though professing to hold, with other loyal
and orthodox Mussulmans, that salvation could oniy be found
in the Koran, was strongly suspected of believing in his
heart, that it could only be found in his own particular copy
of it. When to all these grievances is added the obstinacy
of the cooks, in putting the pepper of Canara into his dishes
instead of the cinnamon of Serendib, we may easily suppose
that he came to the task of criticism with, at least, a suffi-
cient degree of irritability for the purpose.
" In order," said he, importantly swinging about his chap-
let of pearls, " to convey with clearness my opinion of the
story this young man has related, it is necessary to take a
review of all the stories that have ever " My good
Fadladeen!" exclaimed the Princess, interrupting him, "we
really do not deserve that you should give yourself so much
trouble. Your opinion of the poem we have just heard, will,
I have no doubt, be abundantly edifying, without any further
waste of your valuable erudition." " If that be all," replied
the critic, evidently mortified at not being allowed to show
how much he knew about everything but the subject imme-
diately before him ; " if that be all that is required, the
matter is easily despatched." He then proceeded to analyse
the poem, in that strain (so well known to the unfortunate
bards of Delhi), whose censures were an infliction from which
few recovered, and whose very praises were like the honey
extracted from the bitter flowers of the aloe. The chief per-
sonages of the story were, if he rightly understood them, an
ill-favoured gentleman, with a veil over his face ; a young
lady, whose reason went and came according as it suited the
poet's convenience to be sensible or otherwise ; and a youth,
in one of those hideous Bucharian bonnets, who took the
aforesaid gentleman in a veil for a Divinity. " From such
materials," said he, "what can be expected? after rivalling
each other in long speeches and absurdities, through some
thousands of lines as indigestible as the filberds of Berdaa,
our friend in the veil jumps into a tub of aquafortis ; the
young lady dies in a set speech, whose only recommendation
is, that it is her last ; and the lover lives on to a good old age,
for the laudable purpose of seeing her ghost, which he at last
happily accomplishes and expires. This, you will allow, ia
LALLA ROOKH.
a fair summary of the story; and if Nasser, the Arabian
merchant, told no better, our Holy Prophet (to whom be all
honour and glory !) had no need to be jealous of his abilities
for story-telling." *
With respect to the style, it was worthy of the matter :
it had not even those politic contrivances of structure, which
make up for the commonness of the thoughts by the pecu-
liarity of the manner, nor that stately poetical phraseology
by which sentiments mean in themselves, like the black-
smith's apron t converted into a banner, are so easily gilt
and embroidered into consequence. Then, as to the versifi-
cation, it was, to say no worse of it, execrable ; it had neither
the copious flow of Ferdosi, the sweetness of Hafez, nor the
sententious march of Sadi ; but appeared to him, in the un-
easy heaviness of its movements, to have been modelled
upon the gait of a very tired dromedary. The licences, too,
in which it indulged were unpardonable ; for instance, this
line, and the poem abounded with such :
Like the faint, exquisite music of a dream.
" What critic that can count," said Fadladeen, " and haa
his full complement of fingers to count withal, would tolerate
for an instant such syllabic superfluities ?" He here looked
round, and discovered that most of his audience were asleep ;
while the glimmering lamps seemed inclined to follow their
example. It became necessary, therefore, however painful to
himself, to put an end to his valuable animadversions for the
present, and he accordingly concluded, with an air of dignified
candour, thus : " Notwithstanding the observations which I
have thought it my duty to make, it is by no means my wish
to discourage the young man ; so far from it, indeed, that
if he will but totally alter his style of writing and thinking,
I have very little doubt that I shall be vastly pleased with
him."
Some days elapsed, after this harangue of the Great
Chamberlain, before Lalla Kookh could venture to ask for
another story. The youth was still a welcome guest in the
pavilion, to one heart, perhaps, too dangerously welcome ;
but all mention of poetry was, as if by common consent,
avoided. Though none of the party had much respect for
Fadladeen, yet his censures, thus magisterially delivered,
* "La lecture de ces Fables plaisoit si fort aux Arabes, que, quand
Mahomet les entretenoit de I'llistoire de 1'Ancien Testament, ils les
me'prisoient, lui disant que celles que Nasser lour racontoient o'toient
beuucoup plus belles. Cette preference attira a Nasser la malediction de
Mahomet et de tons ses disciples."
t The blacksmith Gao, who successfully resisted the tyrant Zohak, and
whose apron became the royal standard of Persia.
LALLA ROOKH. 61
evidently made an impression on them all. The Poet him-
self, to whom criticism was quite a new operation (being
wholly unknown in that Paradise of the Indies Cashmere),
felt the shock as it is generally felt at first, till use has made
it more tolerable to the patient ; the ladies began to suspect
that they ought not to be pleased, and seemed to conclude
that there must have been much good sense in what Fadla-
deen said, from its having set them all so soundly to sleep ;
while the self-complacent chamberlain w r as left to triumph
in the idea of having, for the hundred and fiftieth time in
his life, extinguished a Poet. Lalla Eookh alone and Love
knew why persisted in being delighted with all she had
heard, and in resolving to hear more as speedily as possible.
Her manner, however, of first returning to the subject was
unlucky. It was while they rested during the heat of noon
near a fountain, on which some hand had rudely traced those
well-known words from the Garden of Sadi, " Many, like
me, have viewed this fountain, but they are gone, and their
eyes are closed for ever !" that she took occasion, from the
melancholy beauty of this passage, to dwell upon the charms
of poetry in general. " It is true," she said, " few poets can
imitate that sublime bird,* which flies always in the air, and
never touches the earth ; it is only once in many ages a
genius appears, whose words, like those on the Written
Mountain,t last for ever; but still there are some, as delight-
ful perhaps, though not so wonderful, who, if not stars over
our head, are at least flowers along our path, and whose
sweetness of the moment we ought gratefully to inhale, with-
out calling upon them for a brightness and a durability be-
yond their nature. In short," continued she, blushing, as if
conscious of being caught in an oration, " it is quite cruel
* The Huma, a bird peculiar to the East. It is supposed to fly con-
stantly in the air, and never touch the ground : it is looked upon as a bird
of happy omen; and that every head it overshades will in time wear a
crown. Richardson. In the terms of alliance made by Fuzzel Oola Khan
with Hyder in 17CO, one of the stipulations was, "that he should have the
distinction of two honorary attendants standing behind him, holding fans
composed of the feathers of the hum a, according to the practice of his
family." Wilks's South of India. He adds in a note: "The huma is a
fabulous bird. The head over which its shadow once passes will assuredly
be circled with a crown. The splendid little bird suspended over the
throne of Tippoo Sultaun, found at Seringapatam in 1799, was intended
to represent this poetical fancy."
t To the pilgrims to Mount Sinai we must attribute the inscriptions,
figures, <fcc., on those rocks, which have from thence acquired the name of
the Written Mountain. Volney. M. Gebelin and others have been at
much pains to attach some mysterious and important meaning to these
inscriptions; but Niebuhr, as well as Volney, thinks that they must have
been executed at idle hours by the travellers to Mount Sinai, " who were
satisfied with cutting the unpolished rock with any pointed instrument;
adding to their names and the date of their journeys some rude figures,
which bespeak the hand of a people but little skilled in the arts." Nitbukr
62 LALLA ROOKH.
that a poet cannot wander through his regions of enchant-
ment, without having a critic for ever, like the old Man of
the Sea (Sinhad), upon his hack ! " Fadladeen, it was plain,
took this last luckless allusion to himself, and would treasure
it up in his mind as a whetstone for his next criticism. A
sudden silence ensued ; and the Princess, glancing a look at
Feramorz, saw plainly she must wait for a more courageous
moment.
But the glories of Nature, and her wild, fragrant airs, play-
ing freshly over the current of youthful spirits, will soon heal
even deeper wounds than the dull Fadladeens of this world
can inflict. In an evening or two after, they came to the
small Valley of Gardens, which had heen planted by ordei
of the Emperor for his favourite sister Kochinara, during
their progress to Cashmere, some years before ; and never was
there a more sparkling assemblage of sweets, since the Gul-
zar-e-Irem, or Rose-bower of Irem. Every precious flower
was there to be found, that poetry, or love, or religion has
ever consecrated from the dark hyacinth, to which Hafez
compares his mistress's hair, to the Cdmalatd, by whose rosy
blossoms the Heaven of Indra is scented. As they sat in the
cool fragrance of this delicious spot, and Lalla Rookh re-
marked, that she could fancy it the abode of that flower-
loving nymph whom they worship in the temples of Kathay,
or of one of those Peris those beautiful creatures of the air,
who live upon perfumes, and to whom a place like this might
make some amends for the P&radise they have lost, the
young Poet, in whose eyes she appeared, while she spoke, to
be one of the bright spiritual creatures she was describing,
said, hesitatingly, that he remembered a story of a Peri, which,
if the Princess had no objection, he would venture to relate.
" It is," said he, with an appealing look to Fadladeen, " in
a lighter and humbler strain than the other ;" then, striking
a few careless but melancholy chords on his kitar, lie thua
PARADISE AND THE PERI,
ONE morn a Peri at tlie gate
Of Eden stood, disconsolate ;
And as she listen'd to the springs
Of life within, like music flowing,
And caught the light upon her wings
Through the half-open portal glowing,
She wept to think her recreant race
Should e'er have lost that glorious place I
" How happy," exclaim'd this child of air,
Are the holy spirits who wander there,
'Mid flowers that never shall fade or fall ;
Though mine are the gardens of earth and sea,
And the stars themselves have flowers for me,
One blossom of Heaven out-blooms them all !
Though sunny the lake of cool Cashmere,
"With its plane-tree Isle reflected clear,*
And sweetly the founts of that valley fall ;
Though bright are the waters of Sing-su-hay,
And the golden floods, that thitherward stray ,t
Yet oh 'tis only the blest can say
How the waters of Heaven outshine them all
Go, wing thy flight from star to star,
From world to luminous world, as far
As the universe spreads its flaming wall ;
Take all the pleasures of all the spheres,
And multiply each through endless years,
One minute of Heaven is worth them all !"
The glorious Angel, who was keeping
The Gates of Light, beheld her weeping ;
And, as he nearer drew and listen'd
To her sad song, a tear-drop glisten'd
"Within his eyelids, like the spray
From Eden's fountain, when it lies
* "Numerous small islands emerge from the Lake of Cashmere."
t The Altan Kol or Golden Kiver of Tibet has abundance of gold la
its sands. Pinkerton.
84 LALLA ROOKH,
On the blue flow'r, which Bramins say
Blooms no where but in Paradise I
" Nymph of a fair, but erring line !"
Gently he said " One hope is thine.
Tis written in the Book of Fate,
The Peri yet may be forgiven
Who brings to this eternal gate
The gift that is most dear to Heaven I
Go, seek it, and redeem thy sin ;
'Tis sweet to let the pardon'd in !"
Kapidly as comets run
To th' embraces of the sun :
Fleeter than the starry brands,
Flung at night from angel -hands*
At those dark and daring sprites,
Who would climb th' empyreal heights,
Down the blue vault the Peri flies,
And, lighted earthward by a glance
That just then broke from morning's eyes,
Hung hovering o'er our world's expanse.
But whither shall the Spirit go
To find this gift for Heav'n ? " I know
The wealth," she cries, " of every urn,
In which unnumber'd rubies burn,
Beneath the pillars of Chilminar ;t
I know where the Isles of Perfume are
Many a fathom down in the sea,
To the south of sun-bright Araby ;t
I know, too, where the Genii hid
The jewell'd cup of their king Jamshid,
With life's elixir sparkling high
But gifts like these are not for the sky.
Where was there ever a gem that shone
Like the steps of Alla's wonderful throne ?
And the drops of life- oh! what would they be
In the boundless deep of eternity ?"
While thus she mus'd, her pinions fann'd
The air of that sweet Indian land,
* "The Mohammedans suppose that falling stars are the firebrandswhere-
with the good angels drive away the bad when they approach too near
the empyreum or verge of the Heavens."
t " The Forty Pillars ; so the Persians call the ruins of Persepolis. It
Is imagined by them that this palace and the edifices at Balbec were built
by Genii, for the pin-pose of hiding in their subterraneous caverns immense
treasures, which still remain there."
J The Isles of Panchaia,
"The cup of Jamshid, discovered, they say, when digging for the
foundations of Persepolis,"
< Boot of
ll':i
Par at! i-
PARADISE AND THE PERI. 68
Whose air is balm ; whose ocean spreads
O'er coral banks and amber beds ;
Whose mountains, pregnant by the beam
Of the warm sun, with diamonds teem ;
Whose rivulets are like rich brides,
Lovely, with gold beneath their tides ;
Whose sandal groves and bowers of spice
Might be a Peri's Paradise !
But crimson now her rivers ran
With human blood the smell of death
Came reeking from those spicy bowers,
And man, the sacrifice of man,
Mingled his taint with every breath
Upwafted from the innocent flowers !
Land of the Sun ! what foot invades
Thy pagods and thy pillar'd shades
Thy cavern shrines, and idol stones,
Thy monarchs and their thousand thrones?
'Tis he of Gazna* fierce in wrath
He comes, and India's diadems
Lie scatter'd in his ruinous path.
His blood-hounds he adorns with genis,
Torn from the violated necks
Of many a young and lov'd Sultana ;t
Maidens, within their pure Zenana,
Priests in the very fane he slaughters,
And choaks up with the glittering wrecks
Of golden shrines the sacred waters !
Downward the Peri turns her gaze,
And, through the war-field's bloody haze
Beholds a youthful warrior stand,
Alone, beside his native river,
The red blade broken in his hand
And the last arrow in his quiver.
" Live," said the Conqueror, " live to share
The trophies and the crowns I bear!"
Silent that youthful warrior stood
Silent he pointed to the flood
All crimson with his country's blood,
Then sent his last remaining dart,
For answer, to the' invader's heart.
* "Mahmood of Gazna, or Ghizni, who conquered India In the begin*
ning of the eleventh century."
t "It is reported that the hunting equipage of the Sultan Mahmond
was so magnificent that he kept four hundred greyhounds and blood-
hounds, each of which wore a collar set with jewels, and a covering edged
with gold and pearls "
0*{ LALLA B.OOKH.
False flew the shaft, though pointed well ;
The tyrant liv'd, the hero fell !
Yet mark'd the Peri where he lay,
And when the rush of war was past,
Swiftly descending on a ray
Of morning light, she caught the last
Last glorious drop his heart had shed,
Before its free-born spirit fled !
" Be this," she cried, as she wing'd her flight,
" My welcome gift at the Gates of Light.
Though foul are the drops that oft distil
On the field of warfare, blood like this,
For Liberty shed, so holy is,
It would not stain the purest rill,
That sparkles among the bowers of bless !
Oh ! if there be, on this earthly sphere,
A boon, an offering Heaven holds dear,
'Tis the last libation Liberty draws
From the heart that bleeds and breaks in her cause !"
" Sweet," said the Angel, as she gave
The gift into his radiant hand,
" Sweet is our welcome of the brave
Who die thus for their native land.
But see alas ! the crystal bar
Of Eden "moves not holier far
Than ev'n this drop the boon must be,
That opes the gates of Heav'n for thee ! "
Her first fond hope of Eden blighted,
Now among Afric's Lunar Mountains,*
Far to the south, the Peri lighted ;
And sleek'd her plumage at the fountaini
Of that Egyptian tide, whose birth
Is hidden from the sons of earth,
Deep in those solitary woods,
Where oft the Genii of the Floods
Dance round the cradle of their Nile,
And hail the new-born Giant's smile ! t
Thence, over Egypt's palmy groves,
Her grots, and sepulchres of kings t
The exil'd Spirit sighing roves ;
* "The Mountains of the Moon, or the Monies Lunce of antiquity, at the
foot of which the Kile is supposed to arise."
t "The Nile, which the Abyssinians know by the names of Abey and
Alawy, or the Giant."
% Vide Perry's "View of the Levant," for an account of the sepulchres
in Upper Thebes, and the numberless grots, covered all over with hiero-
glyphics, in the mountains of Upper Egypt.
PARADISE AND THE PERI. T
And now hangs listening to the doves
In warm Rosetta's vale* now loves
To watch the moonlight on the wings
Of the white pelicans that break
The azure calm of Mreris Lake.t
'Twas a fair scene a land more bright
Never did mortal eye behold !
"Who could have thought, that saw this night
Those valleys and their fruits of gold
Basking in Heaven's serenest light ;
Those groups of lovely date-trees bending
Languidly their leaf-crown'd heads,
Like youthful maids, when sleep descending
Warns them to their silken beds ;t
Those virgin lilies, all the night
Bathing their beauties in the lake,
That they may rise more fresh and bright,
When their beloved Sun's awake ;
Those ruin'd shrines and towers that seem
The relics of a splendid dream ;
Amid whose fairy loneliness
Nought but the lapwing's cry is heard,
Nought seen but (when the shadows, flitting
Fast from the moon, unsheath its gleam)
Some purple-wing'd Sultana sitting
Upon a column, motionless
And glittering, like an idol bird !
Who could have thought, that there, ev'n there,
Amid those scenes so still and fair,
The Demon of the Plague hath cast
From his hot wing a deadlier blast,
More mortal far than ever came
From the red desert's sands of flame !
So quick, that every living thing
Of human shape, touch'd by his wing,
Like plants, where the simoom hath past,
At once falls black and withering !
The sun went down on many a brow,
Which, full of bloom and freshness then,
Is rankling in the pesthouse now,
And ne'er will feel that sun again !
And oh ! to see th' unburied heaps
* "The orchards of Rosette are filled with turtle-doves."
t Savary mentions the pelicans upon Lake Moeris.
t "The superb date tree, whose head languidly reclines, like that of a
handsome woman overcome with sleep."
" That beautiful bird, which, from the statelinoss of its port, aa well
as the brilliancy of its colours, has obtained the title of Sultana,"
63 LALLA EOOKH.
On wliich the lonely moonlight sleeps
The very vultures turn away,
And sicken at so foul a prey !
Only the fierce hyaena stalks*
Throughout the city's desolate walks
At midnight, and his carnage plies
Woe to the half-dead wretch, who meets
The glaring of those large blue eyes
Amid the darkness of the streets !
"Poor race of men !" said the pitying Spirit,
Dearly ye pay for your primal fall
Some flow'rets of Eden ye still inherit,
But the trail of the Serpent is over them all !"
She wept the air grew pure and clear
Around her, as the bright drops ran ;
For there's a magic in each tear,
Such kindly spirits weep for man !
Just then, beneath some orange trees,
Whose fruit and blossoms in the breeze
Were wantoning together, free,
Like age at play with infancy
Beneath that fresh and springing bower,
Close by the lake, she heard the moan
Of one who, at this silent hour,
Had thither stol'n to die alone.
One who in life, where'er he mov'd,
Drew after him the hearts of many ;
Yet now, as though he ne'er were lov'd,
Dies here, unseen, unwept by any !
None to watch near him none to slake
The fire that in his bosom lies,
With ev'n a sprinkle from that lake,
Which shines so cool before his eyes.
No voice, well-known through many a day,
To speak the last, the parting word,
Which, when all other sounds decay,
Is still like distant music heard.
That tender farewell on the shore
Of this rude world, when all is o'er,
Which cheers the spirit, ere its bark
Puts off into the unknown dark.
Deserted youth ! one thought alone
Shed joy around his soul in death
* Jack? on, speaking of the plague that occurred in West Barbary when
ho was there, says, "The birds of the air fled away from the abodes ol
caon. The hysenas, on the contrary, visited the cemeteries," &c.
PARADISE AND THE PEtll. 9
That slie, whom he for years had known,
And lov'd, and might have call'd his own,
Was safe from this foul midnight's breath ;
Safe in her father's princely halls,
Where the cool air from fountains falls,
Freshly perfum'd by many a brand
Of the sweet wood from India's land,
Were pure as she whose brow they fann'd.
But see, who yonder comes by stealth,
This melancholy bower to seek,
Like a young envoy, sent by Health,
With rosy gifts upon her check?
'Tis she far off, through moonlight dim,
He knew his own betrothed bride,
She, who would rather die with him,
Than live to gain the world beside !
Her arms are round her lover now,
His livid cheek to hers she presses,
And dips, to bind his burning brow,
In the cool lake her loosen'd tresses.
Ah ! once, how little did he think,
An hour would come, when he should shrink
With horror from that dear embrace,
Those gentle arms, that were to him
Holy as is the cradling place
Of Eden's infant cherubim !
And now he yields now turns away,
Shuddering as if the venom lay
All in those proffer'd lips alone
Those lips that, then so fearless grown,
Never until that instant came
Near his unask'd, or without shame.
" Oh ! let me only breathe the air,
The blessed air, that's breath'd by thee,
And, whether on its wings it bear
Healing or death, 'tis sweet to me !
There, drink my tears, while yet they fall,
Would that my bosom's blood were balm,
And, well thou know'st, I'd shed it all,
To give thy brow one minute's calm.
Nay, turn not from me that dear face
Am I not thine thy own lov'd bride
The one, the chosen one, whose place
In life or death is by thy side !
Think'st thou that she, whose only light,
In this dim world, from thee hath shone,
70 LALLA ROOKH.
Could bear the long, the cheerless night,
That must be hers, when thou art gone ?
That I can live, and let thee go,
Who art my life itself ? No, no
When the stem dies, the leaf that grew
Out of its heart must perish too !
Then turn to me, my own love, turn,
Before like thee I fade and burn ;
Cling to these yet cool lips, and share
The last pure life that lingers there !"
She fails she sinks as dies the lamp
In charnel airs or cavern-damp,
So quickly do his baleful sighs
Quench all the sweet light of her eyes !
One struggle and his pain is past-
Her lover is no longer living !
One kiss the maiden gives, one last,
Long kiss, which she expires in giving !
" Sleep.." said the Peri, as softly she stole
The farewell sigh of that vanishing soul,
As true as e'er warm'd a woman's breast-
" Sleep on, in visions of odour rest,
In balmier airs than ever yet stirr'd
Th' enchanted pile of that holy bird,
Who sings at the last his own death lay,*
And in music and perfume dies away !"
Thus saying, from her lips she spread
Unearthly breathings through the place,
And shook her sparkling wreath, and shed
Such lustre o'er each paly face,
That like two lovely saints they seem'd
Upon the eve of doomsday taken
From their dim graves, in odour sleeping ;
While that benevolent Peri beara'd
Like their good angel, calmly keeping
Watch o'er them, till their souls would waken !
But morn is blushing in the sky ;
Again the Peri soars above,
Bearing to Heav'n that precious sigh
Of pure, self-sacrificing love.
* " In the East they suppose the Phoenix to have fifty orifices in his
bill, which are continued to his tail ; and that, after living one thousand
years, he builds himself a funeral pile, sings a melodious air of different
harmonies through his fifty organ pipes, flaps his wings with a velocity
wfcich sets fire to the wood, and consumes himselC'
PARADISE AND THE PERT. 71
High throbb'd her heart, with hope elate,
The Elysian palm she soon shall win.
For the bright Spirit at the gate
Smil'd as she gave that offering in ;
And she already hears the trees
Of Eden, with their crystal bells
Einging in that ambrosial breeze
That from the throne of Alia swells ;
And she can see the starry bowls
That lie around that lucid lake,
Upon whose banks admitted souls
Their first sweet draught of glory take !*
But ah ! ev'n Peris' hopes are vain
Again the Fates forbade, again
The' immortal barrier clos'd " not yet,"
The Angel said, as, with regret,
He shut from her that glimpse of glory
" True was the maiden, and her story,
Written in light o'er Alla's head,
By seraph eyes shall long be read.
But, Peri, see the crystal bar
Of Eden moves not holier far
Than ev'n this sigh the boon must be
That opes the Gates of Heaven for thee."
Now, upon Syria's land of roses t
Softly the light of Eve reposes,
And, like a glory, the broad sun
Hangs over tainted Lebanon ;
Whose head in wintry grandeur towers,
And whitens with eternal sleet,
While summer, in a vale of flowers,
Is sleeping rosy at his feet.
To one, who look'd from upper air
O'er all the' enchanted regions there,
How beauteous must have been the glow,
The life, how sparkling from below !
Fair gardens, shining streams, with ranks
Of golden melons on their banks,
More golden where the sun-light falls ;
* On the shores of a quadrangular lake stand a thousand goblets, made
of stars, out of which souls predestined to enjoy felicity drink the crystal
wave. From Chateaubriand's "Mohammedan Paradise," in his Beauties
of Christianity.
t Richardson thinks that Syria had its name from Sun, a beautiful
and delicate species of rose for which that country has been always
famous ; hence, Suristan, the Land of Roses.
72 LALLA ROOKH.
Gay lizards, glittering on the walls*
Of ruin'd shrines, busy and bright
As they were all alive with light ;
And, yet more splendid, numerous flocks
Of pigeons, settling on the rocks,
With their rich restless wings, that gleam
Variously in the crimson beam
Of the warm west, as if inlaid
With brilliants from the mine, or made
Of tearless rainbows, such as span
The' unclouded skies of Peristan !
And then, the mingling sounds that come,
Of shepherd's ancient reed,t with hum
Of the wild bees of Palestine,
Eanquetting through the flowery vales ;
And, Jordan, those sweet banks of thine,
And woods, so full of nightingales !
But nought can charm the luckless Peri ;
Her soul is sad her wings are weary
Joyless she sees the sun look down
On that great temple, once his own,t
Whose lonely columns stand sublime,
Flinging their shadows from on high,
Like dials, which the wizard, Time,
Had rais'd to count his ages by !
Yet haply there may lie conceal'd
Beneath those Chambers of the Sun,
Some amulet of gems, anneal'd
In upper fires, some tablet seal'd
With the great name of Solomon,
Which, spell'd by her illumin'd eyes,
May teach her where, beneath the moon,
In earth or' ocean lies the boon,
The charm, that can restore so soon,
An erring Spirit to the skies
Cheer'd by this hope she bends her thither ;
Still laughs the radiant eye of Heaven,
Nor have the golden bowers of even
In the rich west begun to wither ;
When, o'er the vale of Balbec winging
Slowly, she sees a child at play,
* The number of lizards I saw one day in the great court of the Temple
of the Sun at Baalbec, amounted to many thousands ; the ground, the
walls, and stones of the ruined buildings, were covered with them.
Bruce.
t "The. syrinx, or Pan's pipe, is still a pastoral Instimnent in Syria."
j The Temple of the Sun at l>lbec.
PAIJADISE AND THE PERI.
Among the rosy wild-flowers singing,
As rosy and as wild as they ;
Chasing, with eager hands and eyes,
The beautiful blue damsel-flies,*
That flutter'd round the jasmine stems,
Like winged flowers or flying gems :
And, near the boy, who, tir'd with play,
Now nestling 'mid the roses lay,
She saw a wearied man dismount
From his hot steed, and on the brink
Of a small imaret's rustic fount
Impatient fling him down to drink.
Then swift his haggard brow he turn ci
To the fair child, who fearless sat,
Though never yet hath day-beam burn'd
Upon a brow more fierce than that,
Sullenly fierce a mixture dire,
Like thunder-clouds, of gloom and fire !
In which the Peri's eye could read
Dark tales of many a ruthless deed ;
The ruin'd maid the shrine profaned
Oaths broken and the threshold stain M
"With blood of guests ! there written, all,
Black as the damning drops that fall
From the denouncing Angel's pen,
Ere Mercy weeps them out again !
Yet tranquil now that man of crime
(As if the balmy evening time
Soften'd his spirit), look'd and lay,
Watching the rosy infant's play :
Though still, whene'er his eye by chance
Fell on the boy's, its lurid glance
Met that unclouded, joyous gaze,
As torches, that have burned all night
Through some impure and godless rite,
Encounter morning's glorious rays.
But hark ! the vesper call to prayer,
As slow the orb of day-light sets,
Is rising sweetly on the air,
From Syria's thousand minarets !
The boy has started from the bed
Of flowers, where he had laid his head,
* "You behold there a considerable number of a remarkable species of
beautiful insects, the elegance of whose appearance and their attire pro-
cuiwl for them the name of Damsels."
'4 LALLA TCOOKH.
And down upon the fragrant sod
Kneels, with his forehead to the south,
Lisping the eternal name of God
From purity's own cherub mouth,
And looking, while his hands and eyes
Are lifted to the glowing skies,
Like a stray babe of Paradise,
Just lighted on that flowery plain,
And seeking for its home again !
Oh 'twas a sight that Heav'n that child
A scene, which might have well beguil'd
Ev'n haughty Eblis of a sigh
For glories lost and peace gone by !
And how felt he, the wretched man
Reclining there while memory ran
O'er many a year of guilt and strife,
Flew o'er the dark flood of his life,
Nor found one sunny resting-place,
Nor brought him back one branch of grace !
" There was a time," he said, in mild,
Heart-humbled tones " thou blessed child !
When young and haply pure as thou,
I look'd and pray'd like thee but now "
He hung his head each nobler aim
And hope and feeling, which had slept
From boyhood's hour, that instant came
Fresh o'er him, and he wept he wept !
Blest tears of soul-felt penitence !
In whose benign, redeeming flow
Is felt the first, the only sense
Of guiltless joy that guilt can know.
"There's a drop," said the Peri, "that down from the
Falls through the withering airs of June [moon
Upon Egypt's land,* of so healing a power,
So balmy a virtue, that ev'n in the hour
That drop descends, contagion dies,
And health reanimates earth and sides !
Oh, is it not thus, thou man of sin,
The precious tears of repentance fall ?
Though foul thy fiery plagues within,
One heavenly drop hath dispell'd them all !"
And now behold him kneeling there
* The Nucta, or Miraculous Drop, which falls in Egypt precisely on
St John's Day, in June, and is supposed to have the effect of stopping the
plague.
PARADISE AND THE PERI. 78
By tlie child's side, in humble prayer,
AYhile the same sun-beam shines upon
The guilty and the guiltless one,
And hymns of joy proclaim through Heaven
The triumph of a Soul Forgiven !
'Twas when the golden orb had set,
"While on their knees they linger'd yet,
There fell a light, more lovely far
Than ever came from sun or star,
Upon the tear that, warm and meek,
Dew'd that repentant sinner's cheek :
To mortal eye this light might seem
A northern flash or meteor beam
But well the' enraptur'd Peri knew
'Twas a bright smile the Angel threw
From Heaven's gate, to hail that tear
Her harbinger of glory near 1
" Joy, joy for ever ! my task is done
The Gates are pass'd, and Heaven is won !
Oh ! am 1 not happy ? I am, I am
To thee, sweet Eden ! how dark and sad
Are the diamond turrets of Shadukiam,*
And the fragrant bowers of Amberabad !
" Farewell, ye odours of earth, that die,
Passing away like a lover's sigh ;
My feast is now of the Tooba tree,t
Whose scent is the breath of Eternity !
" Farewell, ye vanishing flowers, that shone
In my fairy wreath, so bright and brief,
Oh ! what are the brightest that e'er have blown,
To the lote-tree, spring by Alla's throne,?
Whose flowers have a soul in every leaf !
Joy, joy for ever ! my task is done
The gates are pass'd, and Heav'n is won !"
* The Country of Delight, the name of a province in the kingdom of
Jinnistan or Fairy Land, the capital of which is called "The City of
Jewels." Amberabad is another of the cities of Jinnistan.
f "The tree Tooba, that stands in Paradise, in the palace of Mohammed."
Touba signifies eternal happiness.
I Mohammed is described, in the fifty-third chapter of the Koran, as
having seen the angel Gabriel " by the lote-tree, beyond which there is
no passing: near it is the Garden of Eternal Abode." This tree, say the
commentators, stands in the seventh heaven, on the right hand of the
throne of God.
7 6 LALLA ROOKH.
" And this," said the Great Chamberlain, "is poetry! this
flimsy manufacture of the brain, which, in comparison with
the lofty and durable monuments' of genius, is as the gold
filigree-work of Zamara beside the eternal architecture of
Egypt!" After this gorgeous sentence, which, with a few
jnore of the same kind, Fadladeen kept by him for rare and
important occasions, he proceeded to the anatomy of the short
poem just recited. The lax and easy kind of metre in which
it was written ought to be denounced, he said, as one of the
leading causes of the alarming growth of poetry in our times.
If some check were not given to this lawless facility, we
should soon be overrun by a race of bards as numerous and
as shallow as the hundred and twenty thousand streams of
Basra.* They who succeeded in this style deserved chastise-
ment for their very success ; as warriors have been punish-
ed, even after gaining a victory, because they had taken the
liberty of gaining it in an irregular or unestablished manner.
What, then, was to be said to those who failed? to those who
presumed, as in the present lamentable instance, to imitate
the license and ease of the bolder sons of song, without any
of that grace or vigour which gave a dignity even to negli-
gence ; who, like them, flung the jereedt carelessly, but not
like them, to the mark ; " and who," said he, raising his
voice to excite a proper degree of wakefulness in his hearers,
" contrive to appear heavy and constrained in the midst of
all the latitude they have allowed themselves, like one of
those young pagans that dance before the Princess, who has
the ingenuity to move as if her limbs were fettered, in a pair
of the lightest and loosest drawers of Masulipatam !"
It was but little suitable, he continued, to the grave march
of criticism to follow this fantastical Peri, of whom they had
just heard, through all her flights and adventures between
earth and heaven, but he could not help adverting to the
puerile conceitedness of the Three Gifts which she is supposed
to carry to the sides, a drop of blood, forsooth, a sigh, and a
tear ! How the first of these articles was delivered into the
Angel's " radiant hand " he professed himself at a loss to dis-
cover; and as to the safe carriage of the sigh and the tear, such
Peris and such poets were beings by far too incomprehensible
for him even to guess how they managed such matters. " But,
in short," said he, " it is a waste of time and patience to
dwell longer upon a thing so incurably frivolous, puny even
* "It is said that the rivers or streams of Basra were reckoned in the
time of Belal ben Abi Bonleh, and amounted to the number of one hun-
dred and twenty thousand streams."
f "The name of the javelin with which the Easterns exerci",."
LALLA ROOKH. 77
among its own puny race, and such as only the Banyan
Hospital for Sick Insects should undertake."
In vain did Lalla Rookh try to soften this inexorable critic;
in vain did she resort to her most eloquent common-places,
reminding him that poets were a timid and sensitive race,
whose sweetness was not to he drawn forth, like that of the
fragrant grass near the Ganges, by crushing and trampling
upon them ; that severity often destroyed every chance of the
perfection which it demanded ; and that, after all, perfection
was like the Mountain of the Talisman, no one had eves
yet reached its summit.* Neither these gentle axioms, nor
the still gentler looks with which they were inculcated, could
lower for one instance the elevation of Fadladeen's eyebrows,
or charm him into anything like encouragement or even
toleration of her poet. Toleration, indeed, was not among
the weaknesses of Fadladeen ; he carried the same spirit
into matters of poetry and of religion, and, though little
versed in the beauties or sublimities of either, was a perfect
master of the art of persecution in both. His zeal, too, was
1 he same in either pursuit ; whether the game before him
was pagans or poetasters, worshippers of cows, or writers
of epics.
They had now arrived at the splendid city of Lahore, whose
mausoleums and shrines, magnificent and numberless, where
death seemed to share equal honours with Heaven, would
have powerfully affected the heart and imagination of Lalla
Kookh, if feelings more of this earth had not taken entire
possession of her already. She was here met by messengers,
despatched from Cashmere, who informed her that the King
had arrived in the valley, and was himself superintending
the sumptuous preparations that were making in the saloons
of the Shalimar for her reception. The chill she felt on re-
ceiving this intelligence, which to a bride whose heart was
free and light would have brought only images of affection
and pleasure, convinced her that her peace was gone for
ever, and that she was in love irretrievably in love with
young Feramorz. The veil, which this passion wears at
first, had fallen off, and to know that she loved was now as
painful as to love without knowing it had been delicious.
Feramorz too, what misery would be his, if the sweet hours
of intercourse so imprudently allowed them should have
stolen into his heart the same fatal fascination as into hers ;
if, notwithstanding her rank, and the modest homage he
always paid to it, even lie should have yielded to the in-
* " Near this is a curious hill, called Koh Talism, the ' Mountain of the
Talisman,' because, iu cording to the traditions of the country, no person
ever succeeded in gaining its summit."
78 LALLA ROOKH.
fluence of those long and happy interviews, where music,
poetry, the delightful scenes of nature, all tended to bring
their hearts close together, and to waken, by every means,
that too ready passion, which often, like the young of the
desert-bird, is warmed into life by the eyes alone !* She
saw but one way to preserve herself from being culpable as
well as unhappy, and this, however painful, she was resolved
to adopt. Feramorz must no more be admitted to her pre-
sence. To have strayed so far into the dangerous labyrinth
'was wrong, but to linger in it, while the clew was yet in her
hand, would be criminal. Though the heart she had to offer
to the King of Bucharia might be cold and broken, it should
at least be pure ; and she must only try to forget the short
vision of happiness she had enjoyed, like that Arabian
shepherd, who, in wandering into the wilderness, caught a
glimpse of the Gardens of Irim, and then lost them again for
ever ! t
The arrival of the young Bride at Lahore was celebrated
in the most enthusiastic manner. The Eajas and Omras in
her train, who had kept at a certain distance during the
journey, had never encamped nearer to the Princess than was
strictly necessary for her safeguard, here rode in splendid
cavalcade through the city, and distributed the most costly
presents to the crowd. Engines were erected in all the
squares, which cast forth showers of confectionery among
the people ; while the artisans, in chariots adorned with
tinsel and flying streamers, exhibited the badges of their re-
pective trades through the streets. Such brilliant displays
of life and pageantry among the palaces, and domes, and
gilded minarets of Lahore, made the city altogether like a
place of enchantment particularly on the day when Lalla
Rookh set out again upon her journey, when she was accom-
panied to the gate by all the fairest and richest of the no-
bility, and rode along between ranks of beautiful boys and
girls, who waved plates of gold and silver flowers over their
heads* as they went, and then threw them to be gathered by
the populace.
For many days after their departure from Lahore, a con-
siderable degree of gloom hung over the whole party. Lalla
Eookh, who had intended to make illness her excuse foi
not admitting the young minstrel, as usual, to the pavilion,
soon found that to feign indisposition was unnecessary.
Fadladeen felt the loss of the good road they had hitherto
travelled, and was very near cursing Jehan-Guire (of blessed
* " The Arabians believe that, the ostriches hatch their young by only
looking at them."
f Vide Sale's Koran t note, vol. ii. p. 484. $ Feribhto.
LALLA ROOKH. 70
memory !) for not having continued Iris delectable alley of
trees,* at least as far as the mountains of Cashmere ; while
the ladies, who had nothing now to do all clay but to be
fanned by peacock's feathers and listen to Fadladeen, seemed
heartily weary of the life they led, and, in spite of all the
Great Chamberlain's criticisms, were tasteless enough to
wish for the poet again. One evening, as they were pro-
ceeding to their place of rest for the night, the Princess, who,
for the freer enjoyment of the air, had mounted her favourite
Arabian palfrey, in passing by a small grove heard the notes
of a lute from within its leaves, and a voice, which she but
too well knew, singing the following words :
Tell me not of joys above,
If that world can give no bliss,
Truer, happier than the love
Which enslaves our souls in this !
Tell me not of Houris* eyes ;
Far from me their dangerous glow,
If those looks that light the skies
Wound like some that burn below !
Who that feels what love is here,
All its falsehood all its pain
Would, for ev'n Elysium's sphere,
Risk the fatal dream again ?
Who, that midst a desert's heat
Sees the waters fade away,
Would not rather die than meet
Streams again as false as they ?
The tone of melancholy defiance in which these words were
uttered, went to Lalla Eookh's heart ; and, as she reluct-
antly rode on, she could not help feeling it as a sad but
sweet certainty, that Feramorz was to the full as enamoured
and miserable as herself.
The place where they encamped that evening was the
first delightful spot they had come to since they left Lahore.
On one side of them was a grove full of small Hindoo tem-
ples, and planted with the most graceful trees of the East ;
where the tamarind, the cassia, and the silken plantains of
Ceylon were mingled in rich contrast with the high fan-like
foliage of the Palmyra, that favourite tree of the luxurious
bird that lights up the chambers of its nest with fire-flies.t
In the middle of the lawn where the pavilion stood, there
was a tank surrounded by small mangoe-trees, on the clear
* The fine road made by the Emperor Jehan-Guire from Agra to Lahore,
planted with trivs on each side.
t "The baya. or Indian gross-beak."
LALLA ROOKH.
cold waters of wliicli floated multitudes of the beautiful red
lotus ; while at a distance stood the ruins of a strange and
awful-looking tower, which seemed old enough to have been
the temple of some religion no longer known, and which
spoke the voice of desolation in the midst of all that bloom
and loveliness. This singular ruin excited the wonder and
conjectures of all. Lalla Kookh guessed in vain, and the
all-pretending Fadladeen, who had never till this journey
been beyond the precincts of Delhi, was proceeding most
learnedly to show that he knew nothing whatever about the
matter, when one of the ladies suggested, that perhaps Fera-
morz could satisfy their curiosity. They were now approach-
ing his native mountains, and this tower might be a relic of
some of those dark superstitions, which had prevailed in that
country before the light of Islam had dawned upon it. The
Chamberlain, who usually preferred his own ignorance to
the best knowledge that any one else could give him, was
by no means pleased with this officious reference ; and the
Princess, too, was about to interpose a faint word of objec-
tion, but, before either of them could speak, a slave was des-
patched for Feramorz, who, in a very few minutes, appeared
before them, looking so pale and unhappy in Lalla Rookh's
eyes, that she already repented of her cruelty in having so
long excluded him.
That venerable tower, he told them, was the remains of an
ancient Fire-Temple, built by those Ghebers or Persians of
the old religion, who, many hundred years since, had fled
hither from their Arab conquerors, preferring liberty and
their altars in a foreign land to the alternative of apostacy
or persecution in their own. It was impossible, he added,
not to feel interested in the many glorious but unsuccessful
struggles which had been made by these original natives of
Persia to cast off the yoke of their bigoted conquerors. Like
their own fire in the Burning Field at Bakou, when sup-
pressed in one place, they had but broken out with fresh
flame in another ; and, as a native of Cashmere, of that fair
and holy valley, which had in the same manner become the
prey of strangers, and seen her ancient shrines and native
princes swept away before the march of her intolerent in-
vaders, he felt a sympathy, he owned, with the sufferings of
the persecuted Ghebers, which every monument like this be-
fore them but tended more powerfully to awaken.
It was the first time that Feramorz had ever ventured
upon so much prose before Fadladeen, and it may easily be
conceived what effect such prose as this must have produced
upon that most orthodox and most pagan-hating personage.
He sat for some minutes aghast, ejaculating only at intervals
THE FIRE- WORSHIPPERS. 81
" Bigoted conquerors! sympathy with Fire- Worshippers!"
while Feramorz, happy to take advantage of this almost
speechless horror of the Chamberlain, proceeded to say that
he knew a melancholy story, connected with the events of
one of those brave struggles of the Fire- Worshippers of Per-
sia against their Arab masters, which, if the evening was
not too far advanced, he should have much pleasure in being
allowed to relate to the Princess. It was impossible for
Lalla Kookh to refuse ; he had never before looked half so
animated, and when he spoke of the Holy Valley his eyes
had sparkled, she thought, like the talismanic characters on
the scimitar of Solomon. Her consent was therefore most
readily granted, and while Fadladeen sat in unspeakable
dismay, expecting treason and abomination in every line,
the poet thus began his story of the Fire- Worshippers.
THE FIRE -WORSHIPPERS,
Tis moonlight over Oman's sea ;*
Her banks of pearl and palmy isles
Bask in the night-beam beauteously,
And her blue waters sleep in smiles.
'Tis moonlight in Harmozia'st walls,
And through her Emir's porphyry halls,
Where, some hours since, was heard the swell
Of trumpet and the clash of zel,t
Bidding the bright-eyed sun farewell ;
The peaceful sun, whom better suits
The music of the bulbul's nest,
Or the light touch of lovers' lutes,
To sing him to his golden rest !
All hush'd there's not a breeze in motion ;
The shore is silent as the ocean.
If zephyrs come, so light they come,
Nor loaf is stirr'd nor wave is driven ;
The wind-tower on the Emir's dome
Can hardly win a breath from heaven.
* The Persian Gulf.
f Gombaroon, a town on tlie Persian side of the Gult
j A Moorish instrument of music.
" At Gombaroon and other places in Persia they have towers for the
purpose of catching the wind, and cooling the houses."
82 LALLA RCOKH.
Ev'n ho, that tyrant Arab, sleeps
Calm, while a nation round him weeps ;
While curses load the air he breathes,
And falchions from unnumber'd sheaths
Are starting to avenge the shame
His race hath brought on Iran's* name,
Hard, heartless Chief, immov'd alike
Mid eyes that weep and swords that strike ;
One of that saintly, murderous brood,
To carnage and the Koran given,
Who think through unbelievers' blood
Lies their directest path to Heaven.
One, who will pause and kneel unshod
In the warm blood his hand hath pour'd,
To mutter o'er some text of God
Engraven on his reeking sword ;t
Nay, who can coolly point the line,
The letter of those words divine,
To which his blade, with searching art,
Had sunk into its victim's heart !
Just Alia ! what must be thy look,
When such a wretch before thee stands
Unblushing, with thy sacred book,
Turning the leaves with blood-stain'd hands,
And wresting from its page sublime
His creed of lust and hate and crime ?
Ev'n as those bees of Trebizond,
Which from the sunniest flowers that glad
With their pure smile the gardens round,
Draw venom forth that drives men mad It
Never did fierce Arabia send
A satrap forth more direly great ;
Never was Iran doom'd to bend
Beneath a yoke of deadlier weight.
Her throne had fall'n her pride was crush'd
Her sons were willing slaves, nor blush'd,
In their own land, no more 'their own,
To crouch beneath a stranger's throne.
Her towers, where Mithra once had burn'd,
To Moslem shrines oh shame ! were turn'd,
Where slaves, converted by the sword,
Their mean, apostate worship pour'd,
* Iran is the true general name for the empire of Persia."
t " On the blades of their scimitars some verse from the Koran is usually
inscribed."
J " There is a kind of Rhododendros about Trebizond, whose flowers the
bee feeds upon, and the honey theace drives people mad."
THE FTRE-WORSHIITrRS. 83
And curs'd the faith their sires ador'd.
Yet has she hearts, mid all this ill,
O'er all this wreck high buoyant still
With hope and vengeance ; hearts that yet,
Like gems, in darkness issuing rays
They've treasur'd from the sun that's set,
Beam all the light of long-lost days !
And swords she hath, nor weak nor slow
To second all such hearts can dare ;
As he shall know, well, dearly know,
Who sleeps in moonlight luxury there,
Tranquil as if his spirit lay
Becalm'd in Heaven's approving ray I
Sleep on for purer eyes than thine
Those waves are hush'd, those planets shine.
Sleep on, and be thy rest unmov'd
By the white moonlight's dazzling power;
None but the loving and the lov'd
Should be awake at this sweet hour.
And see where, high above those rocks
That o'er the deep their shadows fling,
Yon turret stands ; where ebon locks,
As glossy as a heron's wing
Upon the turban of a king,*
Hang from the lattice, long and wild,
'Tis she, that Emir's blooming child,
All truth and tenderness and grace,
Though born of such ungentle race ;
An image of youth's fairy fountain
Springing in a desolate mountain !t
Oh what a pure and sacred thing
Is Beauty, curtain'd from the sight
Of the gross world, illumining
One only mansion with her light !
Unseen by man's disturbing eye,
The flower, that blooms beneath the sea
Too deep for sunbeams, doth not lie
Hid in more chaste obscurity !
So, Hinda, have thy face and mind,
Like holy mysteries, lain enshrin'd.
And oh, what transport for a lover
To lift the veil that shades them o'er, !
* " Their kings wear plumes of black herons' feathers upon the right
side, as a badge of sovereignty."
t " The Fountain of Youth, by a Mohammedan tradition, is situated in
some dark region of the East"
LALLA ROOKH.
Like those who, all at once, discover
In the lone deep some fairy shore,
"Where mortal never trod before,
And sleep and wake in scented airs
No lip had ever breath'd but theirs !
Beautiful are the maids that glide,
On summer-eves, through Yemen's* dales,
And bright the glancing looks they hide
Behind their litters' roseate veils ;
And brides, as delicate and fair
As the white jasmine flowers they wear,
Hath Yemen in her blissful clime,
Who, lull'd in cool kiosk or bower,
Before their mirrors count the time,
And grow etill lovelier every hour.
But never yet hath bride or maid
In Araby's gay Harams smil'd,
Whose boasted brightness would not fade
Before Al Hassan's blooming child.
Light as the angel shapes that bless
An infant's dream, yet not the less
Rich in all woman's loveliness ;
With eyes so pure, that from their ray
Dark Vice would turn abash'd away,
Blinded like serpents, when they gaze
Upon the emerald's virgin blaze ! t
Yet, fill'd with all youth's sweet desires,
Mingling the meek and vestal fires
Of other worlds with all the bliss,
The fond, weak tenderness of this i
A soul, too, more than half divine,
Where, through some shades of earthly feeling,
Religion's soften'd glories shine,
Like light through summer foliage stealing,
Shedding a glow of such mild hue,
So warm, and yet so shadowy too,
As makes the very darkness there
More beautful than light elsewhere !
Such is the maid who, at this hour,
Hath risen from her restless sleep,
And sits alone in that high bower,
Watching the still and moonlight deep.
Ah ! 'twas not thus, with tearful eyes
* Arabia Felix.
t " They say that if a snake or serpent fix his eyes on the lustre ol
emeralds he immediately becomes blind."
THE FIRE-WORSHIPPERS. 35
And beating heart, she used to gaze
On the magnificent earth and skies,
In her own land, in happier days.
"Why looks she now so anxious down
Among those rocks, whose rugged frown
Blackens the mirror of the deep ?
"Whom waits she all this lonely night ?
Too rough the rocks, too bold the steep,
For man to scale that turret's height !
So deem'd at least her thoughtful sire,
When high, to catch the cool night-air,
After the day-beam's withering fire*
He built her bower of freshness there,
And had it deck'd with costliest skill,
And fondly thought it safe as fair :
Think, reverend dreamer ! think so still,
Nor wake to learn what Love can dare
Love, all-defying Love, who sees
No charm in trophies won with ease ;
"Whose rarest, dearest fruits of bliss
Are pluck'd on danger's precipice !
Bolder than they, who dare not dive
For pearls, but when the sea's at rest,
Love, in the tempest most alive,
Hath ever held that pearl the best
He finds beneath the stormiest water !
Yes Araby's unrivall'd daughter,
Though high that tower, that rock-way nide,
There's one who, but to kiss thy cheek,
Would climb th' untrodden solitude
Of Ararat's tremendous peak,
And think its steeps, though dark and dread,
Heaven's path-ways, if to thee they led !
Ev'n now thou seest the flashing spray,
That lights his oar's impatient way ;
Ev'n now thou hear'st the sudden shock
Of his swift bark against the rock,
And stretchest down thy arms of snow,
As if to lift him from below !
Like her to whom, at dead of night,
The bridegroom, with his locics of light,
Came, in the flush of love and pride,
And scal'd the terrace of his bride ;
When, as she saw him rashly spring,
* At Gombaroon and the Isle of Ormus it is sometimes so not that the
people tire obliged to lie all day in the water. Marco Polo.
89 LALLA ROOKH.
And mid-way up in clanger cling,
She flung him down her long black hair,
Exclaiming, breathless, " There, love, there I"
And scarce did manlier nerve uphold
The hero Zal in that fond hour,
Than wings the youth who fleet and bold
Now climbs the rocks to Hinda's bower.
See light as up their granite steeps
The rock-goats of Arabia clamber,*
Fearless from crag to crag he leaps,
And now is at the maiden's chamber.
She loves but knows not whom she loves,
Nor what his race, nor whence he came ;
Like one who meets, in Indian groves,
Some beauteous bird, without a name,
Brought by the last ambrosial breeze,
From isles in the' undiscover'd seas,
To show his plumage for a day
To wondering eyes, and wing away !
Will he thus fly her nameless lover ?
Alia forbid ! 'twas by a moon
As fair as this, while singing over
Some ditty to her soft Kanoon,t
Alone, at this same witching hour,
She first beheld his radiant eyes
Gleam through the lattice of the bower,
"Where nightly now they mix their sighs ;
And thought some spirit of the air
(For what could waft a mortal there ?)
Was pausing on his moonlight way
To listen to her lonely lay !
This fancy ne'er hath left her mind :
And though, when terror's swoon had past,
She saw a youth, of mortal kind,
Before her in obeisance cast,
Tet often since, when he has spoken
Strange, awful words, and gleams have broken
From his dark eyes, too bright to bear,
Oh ! she hath fear'd her soul was given
To some unhallow'd child of air,
Some erring spirit, cast from Heav'n,
Like those angelic youths of old,
"Who burn'd for maids of mortal mould,
* On the lofty hills of Arabia Petraa arc rock-goats. Niebtrfir.
t Canun, espece de psalterion, avcc des cordcs de boyaux , les damei
en touchent clans le sen-ail, avec des de'cailles arinees de poiutes de coco.
Toderini, translated by De Cournand.
THE FIRE-WORSHIPPERS. 87
Bewilder'd left the glorious sides,
And lost their Heaven for woman's eyes !
Fond girl ! nor fiend nor angel he,
Who woos thy young simplicity ;
But one of earth's impassioned sons,
As warm in love, as fierce in ire
As the best heart whose current runs
Full of the Day-God's living fire !
But quench'd to-night that ardour seems,
And pale his cheek, and sunk his brow ;
Never before, but in her dreams,
Had she beheld him pale as now :
And those were dreams of troubled sleep,
From which 'twas joy to wake and weep ;
Visions, that will not be forgot,
But sadden every waking scene,
Like warning ghosts, that leave the spot
All wither 'd where they once have been I
" How sweetly," said the trembling maid,
Of her own gentle voice afraid,
So long had they in silence stood,
Looking upon that moonlight flood
" How sweetly does the moonbeam smile
To-night upon yon leafy isle !
Oft, in my fancy's wanderings,
I've wished that little isle had wings,
And we, within its fairy bowers,
Were wafted off to seas unknown,
Where not a pulse should beat but ours,
And we might live, love, die alone !
Far from the cruel and the cold,
Where the bright eyes of angels only
Should come around us, to behold
A Paradise so pure and lonely !
Would this be world enough for thee ?"-
Playful she turn'd, that he might see
The passing smile her cheek put on ;
But when she marked how mournfully
His eyes met hers, that smile was gone ;
And, bursting into heart-felt tears,
" Yes, yes," she cried, " my hourly fears,
My dreams have boded all too right
We part foi ever part to-night 1
I knew, I knew it could nof lust
'Twas bright, 'twas heavenly, but 'tis past
Oil ! ever thus, from childhood's hour,
LALLA ROOKH.
I've seen my fondest hopes decay ;
I never lov'd a tree or flower,
But 'twas tho first to fade away.
I never nurs'd a dear gazelle,
To glad me with its soft black eye,
But when it came to know me well,
And love me, it was sure to die !
Now too the joy most like divine
Of all I ever dreamt or knew,
To see thee, hear thee, call thee mine,
Oh misery ! must I lose that too ?
Yet go- on peril's brink we meet ;
Those frightful rocks that treacherous sea
No, never come again though sweet,
Though Heaven, it may be death to thee.
Farewell and blessings on thy way,
Where'er thou go'st, beloved stranger !
Better to sit and watch that ray,
And think thee safe, though far away,
Than have thee near me, and in danger !"
" Danger ! oh, tempt me not to boast "
The youth exclaim'd " thou little know'st
What he can brave, who, born and nurst
In danger's paths, has dar'd her worst !
Upon whose ear the signal-word
Of strife and death is hourly breaking ;
Who sleeps with head upon the sword
His fever'd hand must grasp in waking !
Danger ! "
" Say on thou fear'st not thea,
And we may meet oft meet again ?"
" Oh ! look not so, beneath the skies
I now fear nothing but those eyes.
If aught on earth could charm or force
My spirit from its destin'd course,
If aught could make this soul forget
The bond to which its seal is set,
'Twould be those eyes ; they, only they,
Could melt that sacred seal away!
But no 'tis fix'd my awful doom
Is fix'd on this side of the tomb
We meet no more why, why did Heavon
Mingle two souls that earth has riven,
Has rent asunder wide as ours?
Oh, Arab maid ! as soon the powers
Of light and darkness may combine,
THE FIRE-WORSHIPPER*.
As I be linked with thee or thine !
Thy Father "
" Holy Alia save
His grey head from that lightning glance !
Thou know'st him not he loves the brave ;
Nor lives there under Heaven's expanse
One who would prize, would worship thee,
And thy bold spirit, more than he.
Oft when, in childhood, I have play'd
With the bright falchion by his side,
I've heard him swear his lisping maid
In time should be a warrior's bride.
And still, whene'er, at Haram hours,
I take him cool sherbets and flowers,
He tells me, when in playful mood,
A hero shall my bridegroom be,
Since maids are best in battle woo'd,
And won with shouts of victory !
Nay, turn not from me thou alone
Art form'd to make both hearts thy own.
Go join his sacred ranks thou know'st
Th' unholy strife these Persians wage :
Good Heav'n, that frown ! ev'n now thou glow'et
With more than mortal warrior's rage.
Haste to the camp by morning's light,
And, when that sword is rais'd in fight,
Oh still remember love and I
Beneath its shadow trembling lie !
One victory o'er those Slaves of Fire,
Those impious Ghebers, whom my sire
Abhors "
" Hold, hold thy words are death"
The stranger cried, as wild he flung
His mantle back, and show'd beneath
The Gheber belt that round him clung.*
" Here, maiden, look weep blush to se.e
All that thy sire abhors in me !
Yes / am of that impious race,
Those Slaves of Fire who, morn and even,
Hail their Creator's dwelling-place
Among the living lights of Heaven ! t
Yes / am of that outcast few,
To Iran and to vengeance true,
* "They (the Ghebere) lay so much stress on their cushee or girdle, as
bot to dare to be an instant without it."
t " They suppose the throne of the Almighty is seated in the sun, and
I&RUG tkeir worship of that luminary."
LALLA ROOKH.
Who curse the hour your Arabs came
To desolate our shrines of flame,
And swear, before God's burning eye,
To break our country's chains, or die !
Thy bigot sire nay, tremble not-
He, who gave birth to those dear eyes,
"With me is sacred as the spot
From which our fires of worship rise !
But know 'twas he I sought that night,
When, from my watch-boat on the sea,
I caught this turret's glimmering light,
And up the rude rocks desperately
Rush'd to my prey thou know'st the rest
I climb'd the gory vulture's nest,
And found a trembling dove within ;
Thine, thine the victory thine the sin
If Love has made one thought his own,
That Vengeance claims first last alone !
Oh ! had we never, never met,
Or could this heart ev'n now forget
How link'd, how bless'd we might have been,
Had fate not frown'd so dark between !
Hadst thou been born a Persian maid,
In neighbouring valleys had we dwelt,
Through the same fields in childhood play'd,
At the same kindling altar knelt,
Then, then, while all those nameless ties,
In which the charm of country lies,
Had round our hearts been hourly spun,
Till Iran's cause and thine were one ;-
While in thy lute's awakening sigh
I heard the voice of days gone by,
And saw in every smile of thine
Returning hours of glory shine !
While the wrong'd spirit of our land
Liv'd, look'd. and spoke her wrongs through thao,
God ! who could then this sword withstand ?
Its very flash were victory !
But now estrang'd, divorc'd for ever,
Far as the grasp of Fate can sever ;
Our only ties what love has wove,
Faith, friends, and country, sunder'd wide ;
And then, then only, true to love,
When false to all that's dear beside !
Thy father Iran's deadliest foe
Thyself, perhaps, ev'n now but no
Hate never look'd so lovely yet !
THE FIRE-WORSHIPPERS. 81
No sacred to thy soul will be
The land of him who could forget
All but that bleeding land for thee !
Whun other eyes shall see, unmov'd,
Her widows mourn, her warriors fall,
Thou'lt think how well one Gheber lov'd,
And for his sake thou'lt weep for all!
But look "
With sudden start he turn'd
And pointed to the distant wave,
Where lights, like charnel meteors, burn'd
Bluely, as o'er some seaman's grave ;
And fiery darts, at intervals,*
Flew up all sparkling from the main,
As if each star that nightly falls,
Were shooting back to heaven again.
" My signal lights ! I must away
Both, both are ruin'd, if I stay.
Farewell sweet life ! thou cling'st in vain
Now vengeance ! I am thine again."
Fiercely he broke away, nor stopp'd,
Nor look'd but from the lattice dropp'd
Down mid the pointed crags beneath,
As if he fled from love to death.
While pale and mute young Hinda stood,
Nor mov'd, till in the silent flood
A momentary plunge below
Startled her from her trance of woe ;
Shrieking she to the lattice flew,
" I come I come if in that tide
Thou sleep'st to-night I'll sleep there too,
In death's cold wedlock by thy side.
Oh ! I would ask no happier bed
Than the chill wave my love lies under ;
Sweeter to rest together dead,
Far sweeter, than to live asunder !"
But no their hour is not yet come
Again she sees his pinnace fly,
Wafting him fleetly to his home,
Where'er that ill-starr'd home may lie ;
And calm and smooth it seem'd to win
Its moonlight way before the wind,
As if it bore all peace within,
Nor left one breaking heart behind !
* "The Mameluks that were in the other boat, when it was dark, used
to shoot lip a sort of fiery arrows into the air, which, in some measure,
resembled lightning or failing stars."
92 LALI.A KOOKH.
The Princess, whose heart was sad enough already, could
have wished that Feramorz had chosen a less melancholy
story ; as it is only to the happy that tears are a luxury.
Her ladies, however, were by no means sorry that love was
once more the poet's theme ; for, when he spoke of love,
they said, his voice was as sweet as if he had chewed the
leaves of that enchanted tree, which grows over the tomb of
the musician, Tan-Sein.
Their road all the morning had lain through a very dreary
country through valleys, covered with a low bushy jun-
gle, where, in more than one place, the awful signal of the
bamboo staff, with the white flag at its top, reminded the
traveller that in that very spot the tiger had made some hu-
man creature his victim. It was therefore with much plea-
sure that they arrived at sunset in a safe and lovely glen,
and encamped under one of those holy trees, whose smooth
columns and spreading roofs seem to destine them for natu-
ral temples of religion. Beneath the shade, some pious
hands had erected pillars, ornamented with the most beauti-
ful porcelain, which now supplied the use of mirrors to the
young maidens, as they adjusted their hair in descending
from the palankeens. Here while, as usual, the Princess sat
listening anxiously, with Fadladeen in one of his loftiest
moods of criticism by her side, the young poet, leaning
against a branch of the tree, thus continued his story :
The morn has risen clear and calm,
And o'er the Green Sea* palely shines,
Revealing Bahrein's groves of palm,
And lighting Kishma'st amber vines.
Fresh smell the shores of Araby,
While breezes from the Indian Sea
Blow round Selama'st sainted cape,
And curl the shining flood beneath,
Whose waves are rich with many a grape,
And cocoa-nut and flowery wreath,
Which pious seamen, as they pass'd,
Have tow'rd that holy headland cast
Oblations to the Genii there
For gentle skies and breezes fair !
The nightingale now bends her liight
From the high trees, where all the ni^lit
She sung so sweet, with none to listen ;
* The Persian Gulf. t Islands in the Gulf.
} Or Selemeh, the ffpnuine name of the headland at the entrance of the !
Gulf, commonly called Cape Musseldoiu.
THE FIRE-WORSHIPPERS. 93
And hides her from the morning star
Where thickets of pomegranate glisten
In the clear dawn, bespangled o'er
With dew, whose night-drops would not stain
The best and brightest scimitar*
That ever youthful sultan wore
On the first morning of his reign !
And see the sun himself! on wiugs
Of glory up the East he springs.
Angel of light ! who from the time
Those Heavens began their march sublime,
Has first of all the starry choir
Trod in his Maker's steps of fire !
Where are the days, thou wondrous sphere,
When Iran, like a sun-flower, turn'd
To meet that eye where'er it burn'd ?
When, from the banks of Bendemeer
To the nut-groves of Samarcand
Thy temples flam'd o'er all the land?
Where are they? ask the shades of them
Who, on Cadessia'st bloody plains,
Saw fierce invaders pluck the gem
From Iran's broken diadem,
And bind her ancient faith in chains :
Ask the poor exile, cast alone
On foreign shores, unlov'd, unknown,
Beyond the 'Caspian's Iron Gates,t
Or on the snowy Mossian Mountains,
Far from his beauteous land of dates,
Her jasmine bowers and sunny fountains !
Yet happier so than if he trod
His own belov'd but blighted sod,
Beneath a despot stranger's nod !
Oh ! he would rather houseless roam
Where Freedom and his God may lead,
Than be the sleekest slave at home
That crouches to the conqueror's creed !
Is Iran's pride then gone for ever,
Quench'd with the flame in Mithra's caves ?
No she has sons that never never
Will stoop to be the Moslem's slaves,
* In speaking of the climate of Shiraz, Francklin says, "The dew is of
such a pure nature that, if the brio-litest scimitar should be exposed to it
all nipht, it would not receive the least rust"
t The place where the Persians were finally defeated by the Arabs, an<i
Mieir ancient monarchy destroyed.
t Derbend. " Les Turcs appellcnt cette ville Demir Capi, Porte de Fer;
ce sont les Caspioe Portae ties anciens."
64 LALLA ROOKH.
While Heav'n lias light or earth has graves.
Spirits of fire, that brood not long,
But flash resentment back for wrong ;
And hearts where, slow but deep, the seeds
Of vengeance ripen into deeds,
Till, in some treacherous hour of calm,
They burst, like Zeilan's giant palm,*
Whose buds fly open with a sound
That shakes the pigmy forests round !
Yes, Emir ! he, who scal'd that tower,
And could he reach thy slumbering breast,
Would teach thee, in a Gheber's power
How safe ev'n tyrant heads may rest
Is one of many, brave as he,
Who loathe thy haughty race and thee ;
Who, though they know the strife is vain,
Who, though they know the riven chain
Snaps but to enter -in the heart
Of him who rends its links apart,
Yet dare the issue, blest to be
Ev'n for one bleeding moment free,
And die in pangs of liberty !
Thou know'st them well 'tis some moons since
Thy turban'd troops and blood-red flags,
Thou satrap of a bigot Prince !
Have swarm'd among these Green Sea crags ;
Yet here, even here, a sacred band,
Aye, in the portal of that land
Thou, Arab, dar'st to call thy own,
Their spears across thy path have thrown ;
Here ere the winds half wing'd thee o'er
Eebellion brav'd thee from the shore.
Rebellion ! foul, dishonouring word,
Whose wrongful blight so oft has stain'd
The holiest cause that tongue or sword
Of mortal ever lost or gain'd.
How many a spirit, born to bless,
Has sunk beneath that withering name,
Whom but a day's, an hour's success
Had wafted to eternal fame !
As exhalations, when they burst
From the warm earth, if chill'd at first,
If check'd in soaring from the plain,
* The Talpot or Talipot Palm Tree. The sheath which envelopes the
flower is very large, and, when it bursts, makes an explosion like the
report of a cannon. Tliunberg,
THE FIRE-WORSHIPPERS.
Darken to fogs, and sink again ;
But, if they once triumphant spread
Their wings above the mountain-head,
Become enthron'd in upper air,
And turn to sun-bright glories there !
And who is he, that wields the might
Of Freedom on the Green Sea brink,
Before whose sabre's dazzling light
The eyes of Yemen's warriors wink ?
Who comes embower'd in the spears
Of Kerman's hardy mountaineers ?
Those mountaineers that truest, last,
Cling to their country's ancient rites,
As if that God, whose eyelids cast
Their closing gleam on Iran's heights,
Among her snowy mountains threw
The last light of his worship too !
'Tis Hafed name of fear, whose sound
Chills like the muttering of a charm ;
Shout but that awful name around,
And palsy shakes the manliest arm.
"Tis Hafed, most accurst and dire
(So rank'd by Moslem hate and ire)
Of all the rebel Sons of Fire I
Of whose malign, tremendous power
The Arabs, at their mid-watch hour,
Such tales of fearful wonder tell,
That each affrighted sentinel
Pulls down his cowl upon his eyes,
Lest Hafed in the midst should rise !
A man, they say, of monstrous birth,
A mingled race of flame and earth,
Sprung from those old, enchanted kings,*
Who in their fairy helms, of yore,
A feather from the mystic wings
Of the Simoorgh resistless wore ;
And gifted by the fiends of fire,
Who groan'd to see their shrines expire,
With charms that, all in vain withstood,
Would drown the Koran's light in blood !
Such were the tales, that won belief,
* Tahmuras, and other ancient kings of Persia ; whose adventures in
Fairy Land, among the Peris and Dives, may be found in Richardson's
Dissertation. The griffin Simoorgh, they say, took some feathers from her
breast for Tahmuras, with which he adorned his helmet^ aud transmitted
them afterwards to his descendants.
B6 LALLA ROOKH.
And such the colouring Fancy gave
To a young, warm and dauntless Chief,
One who, no more than mortal brave,
Fought for the land his soul ador'd,
For happy homes and altars free,
His only talisman, the sword,
His only spell-word, Liberty !
One of that ancient hero line,
Along whose glorious current shine
Names, that have sanctified their blood ;
As Lebanon's small mountain-flood
Is render'd holy by the ranks
Of sainted cedars on its banks ! *
'Twas not for him to crouch the knee
Tamely to Moslem tyranny ;
'Twas not for him, whose soul was cast
In the bright mould of ages past,
Whose melancholy spirit, fed
With all the glories of the dead,
Though fram'd for Iran's happiest years,
Was born among her chains and tears !
'Twas not for him to swell the crowd
Of slavish heads, that shrinking bow'd
Before the Moslem, as he pass'd,
Like shrubs beneath the poison-blast
No far he fled indignant fled
The pageant of his country's shame ;
While every tear her children shed
Fell on his soul, like drops of flame ;
And, as a lover hails the dawn
Of a first smile, so welcom'd he
The sparkle of the first sword drawn
For vengeance and for liberty !
But vain was valour vain the flower
Of Kerman, in that deathful hour,
Against Al Hassan's whelming power.
In vain they met him, helm to helm,
Upon the threshold of that realm
He came in bigot pomp to sway,
And with their corpses block'd his way
In vain for every lance they rais'd,
Thousands around the conqueror blaz'd ;
For every arm that lined their shore,
Myriads of slaves were wafted o'er,
* " This rivulet," says Dandini, " is called the Holy River, from the
'cedar-saints' among which it rises."
THE FIRE-WORSHIPPERS. 9T
A bloody, bold, and countless crowd,
Before whose swarm as fast they bow'd
As dates beneath the locust-cloud !
There stood but one short league away
From old Harmozia's sultry bay
A rocky mountain, o'er the Sea
Of Oman beetling awfully.
A last and solitary link
Of those stupendous chains that reach
From the broad Caspian's reedy brink
Down winding to the Green Sea beach.
Around its base the bare rocks stood,
Like naked giants, in the flood,
As if to guard the gulf across ;
While, on its peak, that brav'd the sky,
A ruin'd temple tower'd, so high
That oft the sleeping albatross*
Struck the wild ruins with her wing,
And from her cloud-rock'd slumbering
Started to find man's dwelling there
In her own silent fields of air !
Beneath, terrific caverns gave
Dark welcome to each stormy wave
That dash'd, like midnight revellers, ic ;
And such the strange, mysterious din
At times throughout those caverns roll'd,
And such the fearful wonders told
Of restless sprites imprison 'd there,
That bold were Moslem, who would dare,
At twilight hour, to steer his skiff
Beneath the Gheber's lonely cliff.
On the land side, those towers sublime,
That seem'd above the grasp of Time,
Were sever'd from the haunts of men
By a wide, deep, and wizard glen,
So fathomless, so full of gloom,
No eye could pierce the void between ;
It seem'd a place where gholes might come-
With their foul banquets from the tomb,
And in its caverns feed unseen.
Like distant thunder, from below,
The sound of many torrents came ;
Too deep for eye or ear to know
If 'twere the sea's imprisoned flow,
*These birds sleep in the air. They arc most common about the Cape
of Good Hope.
LALLA ROOKH.
Or floods of ever restless flame.
For each ravine, each rocky spire
Of that vast mountain stood -on fire ;*
And, though for ever past the days,
When God was worshipped in the blaze
That from its lofty altar shone,
Though fled the priests, the votaries gone,
Still did the mighty flame burji on
Through chance and change, through good and ill,
Like its own God's eternal will,
Deep, constant, bright, unquenchable !
Thither the vanquish'd Hafed led
His little army's last remains ;
" Welcome, terrific glen !" he said,
Thy gloom, that Eblis' self might dread,
Is Heav'n to him who flies from chains !"
O'er a dark, narrow bridge-way, known
To him and to his chiefs alone,
They cross'd the chasm and gain'd the towers ;
" This home," he cried, " at least is ours
Here we may bleed, unmock'd by hymns
Of Moslem triumph o'er our head ;
Here we may fall, nor leave our limbs
To quiver to the Moslem's tread. '
Stretch'd on this rock, while vultures' beaks
Are whetted on our yet warm cheeks,
Here, happy that no tyrant's eye
Gloats on our torments we may die !"
'Twas night when to those towers they came,
And gloomily the fitful flame,
That from the ruin'd altar broke,
Glar'd on his features, as he spoke :
" 'Tis o'er what men could do, we've done
If Iran will look tamely on,
And see her priests, her warriors driven
Before a sensual bigot's nod,
A wretch, who takes his lusts to Heaven,
And makes a pander of his God !
If her proud sons, her high-born souls,
Men, in whose veins oh last disgrace !
The blood of Zal and Rustamt rolls,
If they will court this upstart race,
And turn from Mithra's ancient ray,
* The Ghebers generally built their temples over subterraneous fires,
t Ancient heroes of Persia, " Among the Ghebers there are some who
boast their descent from Rustam."
THE FIRE-WORSHIPPERS.
To kneel at shrines of yesterday !
If they will crouch to Iran's foes,
Why, let them till the land's despa-r
Cries out to Heaven, and bondage grows
Too vile for ev'n the vile to bear !
Till shame at last, long hidden, burns
Their inmost core, and conscience turns
Each coward tear the slave lets fall
Back on his heart in drops of gall !
But here, at least, are arms unchain 'd,
And souls that thraldom never stain'd ;
This spot, at least, no foot of slave
Or satrap ever yet profan'd ;
And, though but few tho^^gh fast the wave
Of life is ebbing from our veins,
Enough for vengeance still remains.
As panthers, after set of sun,
Kush from the roots of Lebanon
Across the dark sea-robber's way,
We'll bound upon our startled prey ;
And when some hearts that proudest swell
Have felt our falchion's last farewell ;
When Hope's expiring throb is o'er,
And ev'n Despair can prompt no more,
This spot shall be the sacred grave
Of the last few who, vainly brave,
Die for the land they cannot save 1"
His chiefs stood round each shining blade
Upon the broken altar laid
And though so wild and desolate
Those courts, where once the mighty sate ;
Nor longer on those mouldering towers
Was seen the feast of fruits and flowers,
With which of old the Magi fed
The wandering spirits of their dead ;*
Though neither priest nor rites were there,
Nor charmed leaf of pure pomegranate ;t
Nor hymn, nor censer's fragrant air,
Nor symbol of their worshipp'd planet ;t
* "Among other ceremonies the Magi used to place iipon the tops o|
high towers various kinds of rich viands, upon which it was supposed the
Peris and the spirits of their departed heroes regaled themselves."
t In the ceremonies of the Ghebers round their fire, as described by
Lord, " the Daroo," he says, " giveth them water to drink, and a pome-
granate leaf to chew in the mouth, to cleanse them from inward unclean-
ness."
J " Early in the morning, they (the Parsees or Ghebers at Oulam) go
in crowds to pay their devotions to the sun, to whom upon all the altars
G
LALLA ROOKH.
Yet the same God that heard their sires
Heard them, while on that altar's ikes
They swore the latest, holiest deed
Of the few hearts, still left to bleed,
Should be, in Iran's injured name,
To die upon that mount of flame
The last of all her patriot line,
Before her last untrampled shrine I
Brave, suffering souls! they little knew
How many a tear their injuries drew
From one meek heart, one gentle foe,
Whom Love first touch'd with others' woe
Whose life, as free from thought as sin,
Slept like a lake, till Love threw in
His talisman, and woke the tide,
And spread its trembling circles wid
Once, Emir ! thy unheeding child,
Mid all this havoc, bloom 'd and smil'd,
Tranquil as on some battle-plain
The Persian lily shines and towers,
Before the combat's reddening stain
Hath fall'n upon her golden flowers.
Light-hearted maid, unaw'd, unmov'd,
While Heav'n but spar'd the sire she lov'd,
Once at thy evening tales of blood
Unlistening and aloof she stood
And oft, when thou hast pac'd along
Thy Haram halls with furious heat,
Hast thou not curs'd her cheerful song,
That came across thee, calm and sweet,
Like lutes of angels, touch'd so near
Hell's confines, that the damn'd can hear !
Far other feelings love has brought
Her soul all flame, her brow all sadness,
She now has but the one dear thought,
And thinks that o'er, almost to madness 1
Oft doth her sinking heart recal
His words " for my sake weep for all ;"
And bitterly, as day on day
Of rebel carnage fast succeeds,
She weeps a lover snatch 'd away
In every Gheber wretch that bleeds.
There's not a sabre meets her eye,
there are spheres consecrated, made by magic, resembling the circles of
the sun, and when the sun rises, these orbs seem to be inflamed, and to
turn round with a great noise. They have every one a censer in theii
hands, and offer incense to the sun."
THE FIRE- WORSHIPPERS. 101
But with his life-blood seems to swiin ;
There's not an arrow wings the sky,
But fancy turns its point to him.
No more she brings with footstep light
Al Hassan's falchion for the fight ;
And, had he look'd with clearer sight,
Had not the mists, that ever rise
From a foul spirit, dimm'd his eyes
He would have mark'd her shuddering frame
When from the field of blood he came,
The faltering speech the look estrang'd
Voice, step, and life, and beauty changed
He would have mark'd all this, and known
Such change is wrought by love alone !
Ah ! not the love, that should have bless'd
So young, so innocent a breast ;
Not the pure, open, prosperous love,
That, pledg'd on earth and seal'd above,
Grows in the world's approving eyes,
In frendship's smile and home's caress.
Collecting all the heart's sweet ties
Into one knot of happiness !
No, Hinda, no thy fatal flame
Is nurs'd in silence, sorrow, shame.
A passion, without hope or pleasure,
In thy soul's darkness buried deep,
It lies, like some ill-gotten treasure,
Some idol, without shrine or name,
O'er which its pale-ey'd votaries keep
Unholy watch, while others sleep !
Seven nights have darken 'd Oman's Sea,
Since last, beneath the moonlight ray,
She saw his light oar rapidly
Hurry her Gheber's bark away,
And still she goes, at midnight hour,
To weep alone in that high bower,
And watch, and look along the deep
For him whose smiles first made her weep
But watching, weeping, all was vain,
She never saw that bark again.
The owlet's solitary cry,
The night-hawk, flitting darkly by,
And oft the hateful carrion-bird,
Heavily flapping his clogg'd wing, 4
"Which reek'd with that day's banquetting
"Was all she saw, was all she heard.
102 L ALL A ROOK H.
'Tis the eighth morn Al Hassan's brow
Is brighten'd with unusual joy
What mighty mischief glads. him now,
Who never smiles but to destroy ?
The sparkle upon Herkend's Sea,
When tost at midnight furiously,*
Tells not of wreck and ruin nigh,
More surely than that smiling eye !
" Up, daughter, up the Kerna'st breath
Has blown a blast would waken Death,
And yet thou sleep'st up, child, and see
This blessed day for Heaven and me,
A day more rich in Pagan blood
Than ever flash'd o'er Oman's flood.
Before another dawn shall shine,
His head heart limbs will all be mine ;
This very night his blood shall steep
These hands all over ere I sleep !"
" His blood !" she faintly scream'd her mind
Still singling one from all mankind
" Yes spite of his ravines and towers,
Hafed, my child, this night is ours.
Thanks to all-conquering treachery,
Without whose aid the links accurst,
That bind these impious slaves, would bo
Too strong for Alla's self to burst !
That rebel fiend, whose blade has spread
My path with piles of Moslem dead,
Whose baffling spells had almost driven
Back from their course the swords of Heaven,
This night, with all his band, shall know
How deep an Arab's steel can go,
When God and vengeance speed the blow.
And Prophet ! by that holy wreath
Thou wor'st on Ohod's field of deathJ
I swear, for every sob that parts
In anguish fronTthese heathen hearts,
A gem from Persia's plunder'd mines
Shall glitter on thy shrine of shrines.
But ha ! she sinks that look so wild-
Those livid lips my child, my child,
* " It is observed, with respect to the Sea of Ilerl end, that when it is
tossed by tempestuous winds it sparkles like fire."
f " A kind of trumpet ; it " was that used by Tan erlane, the sound of
which is so loud as to be heard at the distance of sev ;ral miles."
J " Mohammed had two helmets, an interior and ex ;erior one ; the latter
of which, called Al Mawashah, the wreathed garland he wore at the battle
of Ohod."
THE FIRE-WORSHIPPERS. 103
This life of blood befits not thee,
And thou must back to Araby.
Ne'er had I risk'd thy timid sex
In scenes that man himself might dread,
Had I not hop'd our every tread
Would be on prostrate Persian necks
Curst race, they offer swords instead !
But cheer thee, maid, the wind that now
Is blowing o'er thy feverish brow,
To-day shall waft thee from the shore ;
And, ere a drop of this night's gore
Have time to chill in yonder towers,
Thou'lt see thy own sweet Arab bowers !"
His bloody boast was all too true
There lurk'd one wretch among the few
Whom Hafed's eagle eye could count
Around him on that fiery mount,
One miscreant, who for gold betray'd
The path-way through the valley's shade
To those high towers where Freedom stood
In her last hold of 'name and blood.
Left on the field last dreadful night,
When, sallying from their sacred height,
The Ghebers fought hope's farewell fight,
He lay but died not with the brave ;
That sun, which should have gilt his grave,
Saw him a traitor and a slave ;
And, while the few, who thence return'd
To their high rocky fortress, mourn'd
For him among the matchless dead
They left behind on glory's bed,
He liv'd, and, in the face of morn,
Laugh'd them and Faith and Heaven to scorn !
Oh for a tongue to curse the slave.
Whose treason, like a deadly blight,
Comes o'er the councils of the brave,
And blasts them in their hour of might !
May life's unblessed cup for him
Be drugg'd with treacheries to the brim,
With hopes, that but allure to fly,
With joys, that vanish while he sips,
Like Dead-Sea fruits, that tempt the eye,
But turn to ashes on the lips !
His country's curse, his children's shame,
Outcast of virtue, peace, and fame,
May he, at last, with lips of flame
104 LALLA ROOKH.
On the parcli'd desert thirsting die,
While lakes that shone in mockery nigh
Are fading oft, untouch'd, untasted,
Like the once glorious hopes he blasted !
And, when from earth his spirit flies,
Just Prophet, let the damn'd-one dwell
Full in the sight of Paradise,
Beholding Heaven, and feeling Hell.!
Lalla Eookh had had a dream the night before, which, in
spite of the impending fate of poor Hafed, made her heart
more than usually cheerful during the morning, and gave
her cheeks all the freshened animation of a flower that the
Bid-musk has just passed over. She fancied that she was
sailing on that Eastern Ocean, where the sea-gipsies, who
live for ever on the water, enjoy a perpetual summer in
wandering from isle to isle, when she saw a small gilded
bark approaching her. It was like one of those boats which
the Maldivian islanders annually send adrift, at the mercy
of winds and waves, loaded with perfumes, flowers, and
odoriferous wood, as an offering to the Spirit whom they
call King of the Sea. At first, this little bark appeared to
be empty, but, on coming nearer
She had proceeded thus far in relating the dream to her
ladies, when Feramorz appeared at the door of the pavilion.
In his presence, of course, everything else was forgotten,
and the continuance of the story was instantly requested by
all. Fresh wood of aloes was set to burn in the cassolets ;
the violet sherbets were hastily handed round, and, after a
short prelude on his lute, in the pathetic measure of Nava,
which is always used to express the lamentations of absent
lovers, the poet thus continued :
The day is lowering stilly black
Sleeps the grim wave, while heaven's rack,
Dispers'd and wild, 'twixt earth and sky
Hangs like a shatter'd canopy !
There's not a cloud in that blue plain
But tells of storm to come or past ;
Here, flying loosely as the mane
Of a young war-horse in the blast ;
There, roll'd in masses dark and swelling,
As proud to be the thunder's dwelling !
While some, already burst and riven,
Seem melting down the verge of Heaven ;
As though the infant storm had rent
The mighty womb that gave him birth.
THE FiRE-woRsrnrr; us. 105
And, having swept the firmament,
Was now in fierce career for earth.
On earth 'twas yet all calm around,
A pulseless silence, dread, profound,
More awful than the tempest's sound.
The diver steer'd for Grams' bowers,
And moor'd his skiff till calmer hours ;
The sea-birds, with portentous screech,
Flew fast to land ; upon the beech
The pilot oft had paus'd, with glance
Turn'd upward to that wild expanse ;
And all was boding, drear, and dark
As her own soul, when Hinda's bark
Went slowly from the Persian shore-
No music tim'd her parting oar,*
Nor friends upon the lessening strand
Linger'd, to wave the unseen hand,
Or speak the farewell, heard no more
But lone, unheeded, from the bay
The vessel takes its mournful way,
Like some ill-destin'd bark that steers
In silence through the Gate of Tears.t
And where was stern Al Hassan then ?
Could not that saintly scourge of mcu
From bloodshed and devotion spare
One minute for a farewell there ?
No close within, in changeful fits
Of cursing and of prayer, he sits
In savage loneliness to brood
Upon the coming night of blood,
With that keen, second-scent of deatn,
By which the vulture snuffs his food
In the still warm and living breath !t
While o'er the wave his weeping daughter
Is wafted from these scenes of slaughter,
As a young bird of Babylon,
Let loose to tell of victory won,
Flies home, with wing, ah ! not unstain'd
By the red hands that held her chain'd.
* "The Easterns used to set out on their longer voyages with music."
t "The Gate of Tears, the straits or passage into the Red Sea, called
BabelmandeL It received this name from the danger of the navigation
and the number of shipwrecks by which it was distinguished; which in-
duced them to consider as dead all who had the boldness to hazard the
passage through it into the Ethiopic ocean."
J "I have been told that, whensoever an animal falls down dead, one
or more vultures, unseen before, instantly appear."
106 LALLA ROOKH.
And does the long-left home she seeks
Light up no gladness on her. cheeks ?
The flowers she nurs'd the well known groves,
Where oft in dreams her spirit roves
Once more to see her dear gazelles
Come bounding with their silver bells ;
Her birds' new plumage to behold,
And the gay, gleaming fishes count,
She left, all filletted with gold,
Shooting around their jasper fount.*
Her little garden mosque to see,
And once again, at evening hour,
To tell her ruby rosary
In her own sweet acacia bower.
Can these delights, that wait her now,
Call up no sunshine on her brow ?
No silent, from her train apart,
As if even now she felt at heart
The chill of her approaching doom,
She sits, all lovely in her gloom
As a pale angel of the grave ;
And o'er the wide, tempestuous wave,
Looks, with a shudder, to those towers,
Where, in a few short awful hours,
Blood, blood, in steaming tides shall run,
Foul incense for to-morrow's sun !
" Where art thou, glorious stranger ! tliou,
So lov'd, so lost, where art thou now ?
Foe Gheber infidel whate'er
Th' unhallow'd name thou'rt doorn'd to bear,
Still glorious still to this fond heart
Dear as its blood, whate'er thou art !
Yes Alia, dreadful Alia ! yes
If there be wrong, be crime in this,
Let the black waves, that round us roll,
Whelm me this instant, ere my soul,
Forgetting faith, home, father, all
Before its earthly idol fall,
Nor worship ev'n thyself above him.
For oh ! so wildly do I love him,
Thy Paradise itself were dim
And joyless, if not shar'd with him !"
Her hands were clasp'd her eyes upturn'd,
Dropping their tears like moonlight rain ;
* " The Empress of Jehan-Guire used to divert herself with feeding
tame fish in her canals, some of which were many years a terwanls know.i
by fillets of gold which she caused to be put round them.**
t'c MI txccaei
' -; <> !' til i ' '
" I
107
And, though her lip, fond raver ! burn'ci
With words of passion, bold, profane,
Yet was there light around her brow,
A holiness in those dark eyes,
Which show'd though wandering earthward now,
Her spirit's home was in the skies.
Yes for a spirit, pure as hers,
Is always pure,, ev'n while it errs ;
As sunshine, broken in the rill,
Though turn'd astray, is sunshine still!
So wholly had her mind forgot
All thoughts but one, she heeded not
The rising storm the wave that cast
A moment's midnight, as it pass'd
Nor heard the frequent shout, the tread
Of gathering tumult o'er her head
Clash'd swords, and tongues that seem'd to vie
With the rude riot of the sky.
But hark ! that war-whoop on the deck
That crash, as if each engine there,
Masts, sails, and all, were gone to wreck,
Mid yells and stampings of despair !
Merciful Heav'n ! what can it be ?
'Tis not the storm, though fearfully
The ship has shuddered as she rode-
O'er mountain waves " Forgive me, God !
Forgive me" shriek'd the maid, and knelt,
Trembling all over, for she felt
As if her judgment-hour was near ;
While crouching round, half dead with fear,
Her handmaids clung, nor breath'd, nor stirrd
When, hark ! a second crash a third
And now, as if a bolt of thunder
Had riv'n the labouring planks asunder,
The deck falls in what horrors then !
Blood, waves, and tackle, swords and men
Come niix'd together through the chasm ;
Some wretches in their dying spasm
Still fighting on and some that call
" For God and Iran !" as they fall !
Whose was the hand that turn'd away
The perils of th' infuriate fray,
And snatch'd her breathless from beneath
This wilderment of wreck and death ?
She knew not for a faintness came
Chill o'er her, and her sinking frame
108 LALLA KOOKH.
Amid the ruins of that hour
Lay, like a pale and scorched flower,
Beneath the red volcano's shower !
But oh ! the sights and sounds of dread
That shock'd her, ere her senses fled !
The yawning deck the crowd that strove
Upon the tottering planks above
The sail, whose fragments, shivering o'er
The stragglers' heads, all dash'd with gore,
Flutter'd like bloody flags the clash
Of sabres, and the lightning's flash
Upon their blades, high toss'd about
Like meteor brands * as if throughout
The elements one fury ran,
One general rage, that left a doubt
Which was the fiercer, Heav'n or Man !
Once too but no it could not be
: Twas fancy all yet once she thought,
While yet her fading eyes could see,
High on the ruin'd deck she caught
A glimpse of that unearthly form,
That glory of her soul, ev'n then,
Amid the whirl of wreck and storm,
Shining above his fellow-men,
As, on some black and troublous night.
The star of Egypt,* whose proud light
Never has beam'd on those who rest
In the White Islands of the West
Burns through the storm with looks of fin ma
That put Heaven's cloudier eyes to shanm !
But no 'twas but the minute's dream
A fantasy and ere the scream
Had half-way pass'd her pallid lips,
A death-like swoon, a chill eclipse
Of soul and sense its darkness spread
Around her, and she sunk, as dead !
How calm, how beautiful comes on
The stilly hour, when storms are gone :
When warring winds have died away,
And clouds, beneath the glancing ray,
Melt off, and leave the land and sea
Sleeping in bright tranquillity,
Fresh as if day again were born,
Again upon the lap of Morn !
* The meteors that Pliny calls " Faces "
t "The brilliant Canopus, unseen in European climates."
THE FIRE-WORSHIPPERS. 109
When the light blossoms, rudely torn
And scatter'd at the whirlwind's will,
Hang floating in the pure air still,
Filling it all with precious balm,
In gratitude for this sweet calm ;
And every drop the thunder showers
Have left upon the grass and flowers
Sparkles, as 'twere that lightning-gem *
Whose liquid flame is born of them !
When, 'stead of one unchanging breczo.
There blow a thousand gentle airs,
And each a different perfume bears,
As if the loveliest plants and trees
Had vassal breezes of their own
To watch and wait on them alone,
And waft no other breath than theirs !
When the blue waters rise and fall,
In sleepy sunshine mantling all ;
And ev'n that swell the tempest leaves
Is like the full and silent heaves
Of lovers' hearts, when newly blest,
Too newly to be quite at rest !
Such was the golden hour, that broke
Upon the world, when Hinda woke
From her long trance, and heard around
No motion but the water's sound
Rippling against the vessel's side,
As slow it mounted o'er the tide.
But where is she ? her eyes are dark,
Are wilder'd still is this the bark,
The same, that from Harmozia's bay
Bore her at morn whose bloody way
The sea-dog tracks ? no strange and new
Is all that meets her wondering view.
Upon a galliot's deck she lies,
Beneath no rich pavilion's shade,
No plumes to fan her sleeping eyes,
Nor jasmine on her pillow laid.
But the rude litter, roughly spread
With war-cloaks, is her homely bed,
And shawl and sash, on javelins hung,
For awning o'er her head are flung.
Shuddering she look'd around there lay
* A precious stone of the Indies, called by the ancients Ceraunium,
because it was supposed to be found in places where thunder had fallen.
Tertullian says it has a glittering appearance, as if there had been fire in
't ; and others suppose it to be the opal
110 LALLA ROOKH.
A group of warriors in the sun
Resting their limbs, as for that day
Their ministry of death were 'done.
Some gazing on the drowsy sea,
Lost in unconscious reverie ;
And some, who seem'd but ill to brook
That sluggish calm, with many a look
To the slack sail impatient cast,
As loose it flagg'd around the mast.
Blest Alia ! who shall save her now ?
There's not in all that warrior-band
One Arab sword, one turban'd brow
From her own faithful Moslem land.
Their garb the leathern belt, that wraps
Each yellow vest * that rebel hue
The Tartar fleece upon their caps t
Yes yes her fears are all too true,
And Heav'n hath, in this dreadful hour,
Abandon'd her to Hafed's power ;
Hafed, the Gheber ! at the thought
Her very heart's-blood chills within ;
He, whom her soul was hourly taught
To loathe, as some foul fiend of sin,
Some minister, whom Hell had sent
To spread her blast, where'er he went,
And fling, as o'er our earth he trod,
His shadow betwixt man and God !
And she is now his captive, thrown
In his fierce hands, alive, alone ;
His the infuriate band she sees,
All infidels all enemies !
What was the daring hope that then
Cross'd her like lightning, as again,
With boldness that despair had lent,
She darted through that armed crowd
A look so searching, so intent,
That ev'n the sternest warrior bow'd
Abash'd, when he her glances caught,
As if he guess'd whose form they sought.
But no she sees him not 'tis gone,
The vision, that before her shone
Through all the maze of blood and storm,
Is fled 'twas but a phantom form
* "The Ghebers are known by a dark yellow colour which the men
affect in their clothes."
f " The Kolah, or cap, worn by the Persians, is made of the skin of the
sheep of Tai'tary."
THE FIRE-WORSHIPPERS. Ill
One of those passing rainbow dreams,
Half light, half shade, which Fancy's beams
Paint on the fleeting mists that roll
In trance or slumber round the soul !
But now the bark, with livelier bound,
Scales the blue wave the crew's in motion-
The oars are out, and with light sound
Break the bright mirror of the ocean,
Scattering its brilliant fragments round.
And now she sees with horror sees
Their .course is tow'rd that mountain hold,
Those towers, that make her life-blood freeze,
Where Mecca's godless enemies
Lie, like beleaguer'd scorpions, roll'd
In their last deadly, venomous fold 1
Amid th' illumin'd land and flood
Sunless that mighty mountain stood ;
Save where, above its awful head,
There shone a flaming cloud, blood-red,
As 'twere the flag of destiny
Hung out to mark where death would be !
Had her bewilder'd mind the power
Of thought in this terrific hour,
She well might marvel where or how
Man's foot could scale that mountain's brow ;
Since ne'er had Arab heard or known
Of path but through the glen alone.
But every thought is lost in fear,
When, as their bounding bark drew near
The craggy base, she felt the waves
Hurry them tow'rd those dismal caves
That from the deep in windings pass
Beneath that mount's volcanic mass
And loud a voice on deck commands
To lower the mast and light the brands !
Instantly o'er the dashing tide
Within a cavern's mouth they glide,
Gloomy as that eternal porch,
Through which departed spirits go ;
Not ev'n the flare of brand and torch
Its flickering light could further throw
Than the thick flood that boil'd below.
Silent they floated as if each
Sat breathless, and too aw'd for speech
In that dark chasm, where even sound
Seem'd dark, so sullenly around
i!2 LAI, LA ROOKH.
The goblin echoes of the cave
Mutter'd it o'er the long black wave,
As 'twere some secret of the' grave I
But soft they pause the current turns
Beneath them from its onward track ;
Some mighty, unseen barrier spurns
The vexed tide, all foaming, back,
And scarce the oar's redoubled force
Can stem the eddy's whirling force ;
When, hark ! some desperate foot has sprung
Among the rocks the chain is flung
The oars are up the grapple clings,
And the toss'd bark in moorings swings.
Just then, a day-beam through the shade
Broke tremulous but, ere the maid
Can see from whence the brightness steals,
Upon her brow she shuddering feels
A viewless hand, that promptly ties
A bandage round her burning eyes ;
While the rude litter where she lies,
Uplifted by the warrior throng,
O'er the steep rocks is borne along.
Blest power of sunshine ! genial Day,
What balm, what life is in thy ray !
To feel thee is such real bliss,
That had the world no joy but this,
To sit in sunshine calm and sweet,
It were a world too exquisite
For man to leave it for the gloom,
The deep, cold shadow of the tomb !
Ev'n Hinda, though she saw not where
Or whither wound the perilous road,
Yet knew by that awakening air,
Which suddenly around her glow'd,
That they had ris'n from darkness then,
And breath'd the sunny world again !
But soon this balmy freshness fled
For now the steepy labyrinth led
Through damp and gloom 'mid crash of boiighs,
And fall of loosen'd crags that rouse
The leopard from his hungry sleep,
Who, starting, thinks each crag a prey,
And long is heard from steep to steep,
Chasing them down their thundering way !
The jackal's cry the distant moan
Of the hyaena, fierce and lone ;
THE FIRl'J-WOKSHU'l'KRS. 1J3
Anil that eternal, saddening sound
Of torrents in the glen beneath,
As 'twere the ever-dark Profound
That rolls beneath the Bridge of Death !
All. all is fearful ev'n to see,
To gaze on those terrific things
She now but blindly hears, would be
Belief to her imaginings !
Since never yet was shape so dread,
But Fancy, thus in darkness thrown,
And by such sounds of horror fed,
Could frame more dreadful of her own.
But does she dream ? has fear again
Perplex'd the workings of her brain,
Or did a voice, all music, then
Come from the gloom, low whispering near
" Tremble not, love, thy Gheber's here ?"
She does not dream all sense, all ear,
She drinks the words, " Thy Gheber's here."
'Twas his own voice she could not err
Throughout the breathing world's extent
There was but one such voice for her,
So kind, so soft, so eloquent !
Oh ! sooner shall the rose of May
Mistake her own sweet nightingale,
And to some meaner minstrel's lay
Open her bosom's glowing veil,*
Than Love shall ever doubt a tone,
A breath of the beloved one !
Though blest, 'mid all her ills, to think
She has that one beloved near,
Whose smile, though met on ruin's brink,
Has power to make ev'n ruin dear,
Yet soon this gleam of rapture, crost
By fears for him, is chilled and lost.
How shall the ruthless Hafed brook
That one of Gheber blood should look,
With aught but curses in his eye,
On her a maid of Araby
A Moslem maid the child of him,
Whose bloody banners dire success
Has left their altars cold and dim,
And their fair land a wilderness !
And, worse than all, that night of blood
* "A frequent Image among the oriental poets. 'The nightingales
warbled their enchanting notes, and rent the thin veils of the rose-bud
and the rose.'"
LAT.LA ROOKH.
Which comes so fast oh ! who shall stay
The sword, that once has tasted food
Of Persian hearts, or turn its way ?
What arm shall then the victim cover,
Or from her father shield her lover ?
. " Save him, my God!" she inly cries
" Save him this night and if thine eyes
Have ever welcom'd with delight
The sinner's tears, the sacrifice
Of sinners' hearts guard him this night,
And here, before Thy throne, I swear
From my heart's inmost core to tear
Love, hope, remembrance, though they be
Link'd with each quivering life-string there,
And give it bleeding all to Thee !
Let him but live, the burning tear,
The sighs, so sinful yet so dear,
Which have been all too much his own,
Shall from this hour be Heaven's alone.
Youth pass'd in penitence, and age
In long and painful pilgrimage,
Shall leave no traces of the flame
That wastes me now nor shall his name
E'er bless my lips, but when I pray
For his dear spirit, that away
Casting from its angelic ray
Th' eclipse of earth, he too may shine
Redeem'd, all glorious and all Thine !
Think think what victory to win
One radiant soul like his from sin ;
One wandering star of virtue back
To its own native, heaven-ward track !
Let him but live, and both are Thine,
Together Thine for, blest or crost,
Living or dead, his doom is, mine,
And if he perish, both are lost !"
The next evening Lalla Rookh was entreated by hoi
ladies to continue the relation of her wonderful dream ; but
the fearful interest that hung round the fate of Hinda and
her lover had completely removed every trace of it from her
mind much to the disappointment of a fair seer or two in
her train, who prided themselves on their skill in interpreting
visions, and. who had already remarked, as an unlucky omen,
that the Princess, on the very morning after the dream, had
worn a silk, dyed with the blossoms of the sorrowful tree
Nilica,
THE FIRE-WORSHIPPERS. 115
Fadladeen, whose wrath had more than once broken out
during the recital of some parts of this most heterodox poem,
seemed at length to have made up his mind to the infliction ;
and took his seat this evening with all the patience of a
martyr, while the poet continued his profane and seditious
story thus :
To tearless eyes and hearts at ease
The leafy shores and sun-bright seas,
That lay beneath that mountain's height,
Had been a fair, enchanting sight.
'Twas one of those ambrosial eves
A day of storm so often leaves
At its calm setting when the "West
Opens her golden bowers of rest,
And a moist radiance from the skies
Shoots trembling down, as from the eyes
Of some meek penitent, whose last,
Bright hours atone for dark ones past,
And whose sweet tears, o'er wrong forgiven,
Shine, as they fall, with light from Heaven !
'Twas stillness all the winds that late
Had rush'd through Kerman's almond groves,
And shaken from her bowers of date
That cooling feast the traveller loves,*
Now, lull'd to languor, scarcely curl
The Green Sea wave, whose waters gleam
Limpid, as if her mines of pearl
Were melted all to form the stream.
And her fair islets, small and bright,
With their green shores reflected there,
Look* like those Peri isles of light,
That hang by spell-work in the air.
But vainly did those glories burst
On Hinda's dazzled eyes, when first
The bandage from her brow was taken,
And pale and aw'd as those who waken
In their dark tombs when, scowling near,
The searchers of the grave* appear,
She, shuddering, turn'd to read her fate
In the fierce eyes that flashed around ;
And saw those towers all desolate,
That o'er her head terrific frown'd,
* " In parts of Kerman, whatever dates are shaken from the trees by
the wind, they leave for those who have not any, or for travellers."
f "The two terrible angels, Monkir and Nakir, who are called 'The
Searchers of the Grave.' "
II
110 LALLA ROOKH.
As if defying ev'ii tho smile
Of that soft Heaven to gild their pile.
In vain, with mingled hope and fear,
She looks for him whose voice so dear
Had come, like music, to her ear
Strange, mocking dream ! again 'tis fled.
And oh ! the shoots, the pangs of dread
That through her inmost bosom run,
When voices from without proclaim
" Hafed, the Chief " and, one by one,
The warriors shout that fearful name !
He comes the rock resounds his tread
How shall she dare to lift her head,
Or meet those eyes, whose scorching glare
Not Yemen's boldest sons can bear ?
In whose red beam, the Moslem tells,
Such rank and deadly lustre dwells,
As in those hellish fires that light
The mandrake s charnel leaves at night ! *
How shall she bear that voice's tone,
At whose loud battle-cry alone
Whole squadrons oft in panic ran,
Scatter'd, like some vast caravan,
When, stretch'd at evening round the well,
They hear the thirsting tiger's yell !
Breathless she stands, with eyes cast down,
Shrinking beneath the fiery frown,
Which, fancy tells her, from that brow
Is flashing o'er her fiercely now ;
And shuddering, as she hears the tread
Of his retiring warrior band.
Never was pause so full of dread ;
Till Hafed, with a trembling hand,
Took hers, and, leaning o'er her, said,
"Hinda!" that word was all he spoke,
And 'twas enough tho shriek that broke
From her full bosom told the rest
Breathless with terror, joy, surprise,
The maid but lifts her wondering eyes,
To hide them on her Gheber's breast !
'Tis he, 'tis he the man of blood,
The fellest of the Fire-Fiend's brood,
Hafed, the demon of the fight,
Whose voice unnerves, whose glances blight
* "The Arabians call the mandrake 'The Devil's Candle,' on account
of its shining appearance in the night."
"1
THE FIRE-WORSHIPPERS. 117
Is her own loved Glieber, mild
And glorious as when first he smil'd
Jn her lone tower, and left such beams
Of his pure eye to light her dreams,
That she believed her bower had given
Eest to some habitant of Heaven 1
Moments there are, and this was one,
Snatch'd like a minute's gleam of sun
Amid the black Simoon's eclipse
Or like those verdant spots that bloom
Around the crater's burning lips,
Sweetening the very edge of doom !
The past the future all that Fate
Can bring of dark or desperate
Around such hours, but makes them cast
Intenser radiance while they last !
Ev'n he, this youth though dimm'd and gone
Each star of hope that cheer'd him on
His glories lost his cause betray'd
Iran, his dear-lov'd country, made
A land of carcases and slaves,
One dreary waste of chains and graves !
Himself but lingering, dead at heart,
To see the last, long-struggling breath
Of Liberty's great soul depart,
Then lay him down, and share her death
Ev'n he, so sunk in wretchedness,
With doom still darker gathering o'er him,
Yet, in this moment's pure caress,
In the mild eyes that shone before him,
Beaming that blest assurance, worth
All other transports known on earth,
That he was lov'd well, warmly lov'd
Oh ! in this precious hour he prov'd
How deep, how thorough-felt the glow
Of rapture, kindling out of woe ;
How exquisite one single drop
Of bless, thus sparkling to the top
Of misery's cup how keenly quafFd,
Though death must follow on the draught !
She too, while gazing on those eyes
That sink into her soul so deep,
Forgets all fears, all miseries,
Or feels them like the wretch in sleep,
"Whom fancy cheats into a smile,
118 LALLA KOOKH.
Who dreams of joy, and sobs the while !
The mighty ruins where they stood,
Upon the mount's high, rocky verge,
Lay open tow'rds the ocean flood,
Where lightly o'er th' illumin'd surge
Many a fair bark that, all the day,
Had lurk'd in sheltering creek or bay,
Now bounded on and gave their sails,
Yet dripping, to the evening gales ;
Like eagles, when the storm is done,
Spreading their wet wings in the sun.
The beauteous clouds, though daylight's star
Had sunk behind the hills of Lar,
Where still with lingering glories bright,
As if, to grace the gorgeous west,
The Spirit of departing light
That eve had left his sunny vest
Behind him, ere he wing'd his flight.
Never was scene so form'd for love !
Beneath them, waves of crystal move
In silent swell Heav'n glows above,
And their pure hearts, to transport given,
Swell like the wave, and glow like Heav'n !
But ah 1 too soon that dream is past
Again, again her fear returns ;
Night, dreadful night, is gathering fast,
More faintly the horizon burns,
And every rosy tint that lay
On the smooth sea has died away.
Hastily to the darkening skies
A glance she casts then wildly cries
" At night, he said and, look, 'tis near
Fly, fly if yet thou lov'st me, fly
Soon will his murderous band be here,
And I shall see thee bleed and die.
Hush ! heard'st thou not the tramp of men
Sounding from yonder fearful glen ?
Perhaps ev'n now they climb the wood
Fly, fly though still the west is bright,
He'll come oh ! yes he wants thy blood
I know him he'll not wait for night !"
In terrors ev'n to agony
She clings around the wondering Chief ;
" Alas, poor wilder'd maid ! to me
Thou ow'st this raving trance of grief.
Lost as I am, nought ever grew
THE FIRE-WORSHIPPERS. 119
Beneath my shade but perish'd too
My doom is like the Dead Sea air,
And nothing lives that enters there !
"Why were our barks together driven
Beneath this morning's furious Heaven ?
Why, when I saw the prize that chance
Had thrown into my desperate arms,
When, casting but a single glance
Upon thy pale and prostrate charms,
1 vow'd (though watching viewless o'er
Thy safety through that hour's alarms)
To meet the' unmanning sight no more
Why have I broke that heart-rung vow ?
Why weakly, madly met thee now ?
Start not that noise is but the shock
Of torrents through yon valley hurl'd
Dread nothing here upon this rock
We stand above the jarring world,
Alike beyond its hope- its dread
In gloomy safety, like the dead !
Or, could ev'n earth and hell unite
In league to storm this sacred height,
Fear nothing thou mj^self, to-night,
And each o'erlooking star that dwells
Near God will be thy sentinels ;
And, ere to morrow's dawn shall glow,
Back to thy sire "
" To-morrow ! no "
The maiden scream'd " thou'lt never see
To-morrow's sun death, death will be
The night-cry through each reeking tower,
Unless we fly, ay, fly this hour !
Thou art betray'd some wretch who knew
That dreadful glen's mysterious clew
Nay, doubt not by yon stars, 'tis true
Hath sold thee to my vengeful sire ;
This morning, with that smile so dire
He wears in joy, he told me all,
And stamp'd in triumph through our hall,
As though thy heart already beat
Its last life-throb beneath his feet !
Good Heav'n, how little dream'd I then
His victim was my own lov'd youth !
Fly send let some one watch the glen
By all my hopes of Heaven 'tis truth !"
Oh ! colder than the wind that freezes
Founts, that but now in sunshine play'd.
120 LALLA ROOKH.
Is that congealing pang which seizes
The trusting bosom, when betray'd.
He felt it deeply felt and stood,
As if the tale had froz'n his blood,
So maz'd and motionless was he ;
Like one whom sudden spells enchant,
Or some mute, marble habitant
Of the still halls of Ishmonie !*
But soon the painful chill was o'er,
And his great soul, herself once more,
Look'd from his brow in all the rays
Of her best, happiest, grandest days !
Never, in a moment most elate,
Did that high spirit loftier rise ;
While bright, serene, determinate,
His looks are lifted to the skies,
As if the signal-lights of Fate
Were shining in those awful eyes 3
"Tis come his hour of martyrdom
In Iran's sacred cause is come ;
And, though his life has pass'd away
Like lightning on a stormy day,
Yet shall his death-hour leave a track
Of glory, permanent and bright,
To which the brave of after-times,
The suffering brave, shall long look back
With proud regret, and by its light
Watch through the hours of slavery's night
For vengeance on the oppressor's crimes !
This rock, his monument aloft,
Shall speak the tale to many an age ;
And hither bards and heroes oft
Shall come in secret pilgrimage,
And bring their warrior sons, and tell
The wondering boys where Hafed fell,
And swear them on those lone remains
Of their lost country's ancient fanes,
Never while breath of life shall live
Within them never to forgive
The' accursed race, whose ruthless chain
Has left on Iran's neck a stain
Blood, blood alone can cleanse again !
Such are the swelling thoughts that now
* For an account of Ishmonie, the petrified city in Upper Egypt-, where
it is said there nre many statues of men, women, <fcc., to be seen to this
day, vide Perry's " View of the Levant"
THE FIRE-WORSHIPPERS. 121
Enthrone themselves on Hafed's brow ;
And ne'er did saint of Issa* gaze
On the red wreath, for martyrs twin'd,
More proudly than the youth surveys
That pile, which through the gloom behind,
Half lighted by the altar's fire,
Glimmers, his destin'd funeral pyre !
Heap'd by his own, his comrades' hands,
Of every wood of odorous breath,
There, by the Fire-God's shrine it stands,
Eeady to fold in radiant death
The few still left of those who swore
To perish there, when hope was o'er
The few, to whom that couch of flame,
Which rescues them from bonds and shame,
Is sweet and welcome as the bed
For their own infant Prophet spread,
When pitying Heav'n to roses turn'd
The death-flames that beneath him burn'd !f
With watchfulness the maid attends
His rapid glance, where'er it bends
Why shoot his eyes such awful beams ?
What plans he now ? what thinks or dreams ?
Alas ! why stands he musing here,
When every moment teems with fear?
" Hafed, my own beloved lord,"
She kneeling cries " first, last ador'd !
If in that soul thou'st ever felt
Half what thy lips impassion'd swore,
Here, on my knees that never knelt
To any but their God before,
I pray thee, as thou lov'st me, fly
Now, now ere yet their blades are nigh.
Oh haste the bark that bore me hither
Can waft us o'er yon darkening sea
East west alas, I care not whither,
So thou art safe, and I with thee !
Go where we will, this hand in thine,
Those eyes before me smiling thus,
Through good and ill, through storm and ehriin-;,
The world's a world of love for us !
On some calm, blessed shore we'll dwell,
Where 'tis no crime to love too well ;
* Jesus.
t "The Ghebers s;iy that when Abraham, their ffreat prophet, vs.*
rhrown into the fire, by order of Nimrod, the flume turned instant 13- iaio
> bud of roses, where the child sweetly reposed.' "
122 LALLA ROOKH.
"Where thus to worship tenderly
An erring child of light like thee
Will not be sin or, if it be,
Where we may weep our faults away,
Together kneeling, night and day,
Thou, for my sake, at Alla's shrine,
And I at any God's, for thine !"
Wildly these passionate words she spoke
Then hung her head, and wept for shame ;
Sobbing, as if a heart-string broke
With every deep-heav'd sob that came.
While he, young, warm oh ! wonder not
If, for a moment, pride and fame,
His oath his cause that shrine of flame,
And Iran's self are all forgot
For her whom at his feet he sees,
Kneeling in speechless agonies.
No, blame him not, if Hope awhile
Dawn'd in his soul, and threw her smile
O'er hours to come o'er days and nights
Wing'd with those precious, pure delights
Which she, who bends all beauteous there,
Was born to kindle and to share !
A tear or two, which, as he bow'd
To raise the suppliant, trembling stole,
First warn'd him of this dangerous cloud
Of softness passing o'er his soul.
Starting, he brush'd the drops away,
Unworthy o'er that cheek to stray ;
Like one who, on the morn of fight,
Shakes from his sword the dew of night,
That had but dimm'd, not stain'd its light.
Yet, though subdued th' unnerving thrill,
Its warmth, its weakness linger'd still
So touching in each look and tone,
That the fond, fearing, hoping maid
Half counted on the flight she pray'd,
Half thought the hero's soul was grown
As soft, as yielding as her own,
And smil'd and bless'd him, while he said,
" Yes if there be some happier sphere,
Where fadeless truth like ours is dear ;
If there be any land of rest
For those who love and ne'er forget,
Oh ! comfort thee for safe and blest
We'll meet in that calm region yet !"
THE FIRE-WORSHIPPERS. 123
Scarce had she time to ask her heart
If good or ill these words impart,
"When the rous'd youth impatient flew
To the tower-wall, where, high in view,
A ponderous sea-horn* hung, and blew
A signal, deep and dread as those
The Storm-Fiend at his rising blows.
Full well his chieftains, sworn and true
Through life and death, that signal knew ;
For 'twas th' appointed warning-blast,
Th' alarm, to tell when hope was past,
And the tremendous death-die cast !
And there, upon the mouldering tower,
Has hung his sea-horn many an hour,
Ready to sound o'er land and sea
That dirge-note of the brave and free.
They came his chieftains at the call
Came slowly round, and with them all
Alas, how few ! the worn remains
Of those who late o'er Kerman's plains
Went gaily prancing to the clash
Of Moorish zel and tymbalon,
Catching new hope from every flash
Of their long lances in the sun
And, as their coursers charg'd the wind,
And the white ox-tails stream'd bchind,t
Looking, as if the steeds they rode
Were wing'd, and every chief a god !
How fall'n, how alter'd now ! how wan
Each scarr'd and faded visage shone,
As round the burning shrine they came ;
How deadly was the glare it cast,
As mute they paus'd before the flame
To light their torches as they pass VI !
'Twas silence all the youth had plann'd
The duties of his soldier-band ;
And each determin'd brow declares
His faithful chieftains well know theirs.
But minutes speed night gems the skies
And oh how soon, ye blessed eyes,
That look from Heaven, ye may behold
* " The shell called Siiankos, common to India, Africa, and the Medi-
terranean, and still used in many parts as a trumpet for blowing alarms
or giving signals: it sends forth a deep and hollow sound."
t "The finest ornament for the horses is made of six large flying tassols
of long white hair, taken out of the tails of wild oxen that are to be found
in some places of the Indies."
124 LALLA ROOKH.
Sights that will turn your star-fires cold !
Breathless with awe, impatience, hope,
The maiden sees the veteran group
Her litter silently prepare,
And lay it at her trembling feet ;
And now the youth, with gentle care,
Has plac'd her in the shelter'd seat,
And press'd her hand that lingering press
Of hands, that for the last time sever ;
Of hearts, whose pulse of happiness,
"When that hold breaks, is dead for ever.
And yet to her this sad caress
Gives hope so fondly hope can err !
'Twas joy, she thought, joy's mute excess
Their happy flight's dear harbinger ;
'Twas warmth assurance tenderness
'Twas anything but leaving her.
"Haste, haste!" she cried, "the clouds grow dark,
But still, ere night, we'll reach the bark ;
And, by to-morrow's dawn oh bliss !
With theo upon the sunbright deep,
Far off, I'll but remember this,
As some dark vanish'd dream of sleep !
And thou " But ha ! he answers not
Good Heav'n ! and does she go alone ?
She now has reach'd that dismal spot,
Where, some hours since, his voice's tone
Had come to sooth her fears and ills,
Sweet as the angel IsranTs*
When every leaf on Eden's tree
Is trembling to his minstrelsy
Yet now oh now, he is not nigh
" Hafed ! my Hafed ! if it be
Thy will, thy doom this night to die,
Let me but stay to die with thee,
And I will bless thy loved name,
'Till the last life-breath leave this frame.
Oh t let our lips, our cheeks be laid
But near each other while they fade ;
Let us but mix our parting breaths,
And I can die ten thousands deaths !
You too, who hurry me away
So cruelly, one moment stay
Oh ! stay one moment is not much
* The aiifrel Israfil, who lias the most melodious voice of all Gui'i
erc: urcs. Sate.
THE FIRE- WORSHIPPERS. 125
He yet may come for him I pray
Hafed ! dear Hafed ! ." All the way
In wild lamentings, that would touch
A heart of stone, she shriek'cl his name
To the dark woods no Hafed came :
No hapless pair you've looked your last ;
Your hearts should both have broken then :
The dream is o'er your doom is cast
You'll never meet on earth again !
Alas for him, who hears her cries !
Still half-way down the steep he stands,
Watching with fix'd and feverish eyes
The glimmer of those burning brands,
That down the rocks, with mournful ray,
Light all he loves on earth away 1
Hopeless as they who, far at sea,
By the cold moon have just consign'd
The corse of one, lov'd tenderly,
To the bleak flood they leave behind ;
And on the deck still lingering stay,
And long look back, with sad delay,
To watch the moonlight on the wave,
That ripples o'er that cheerless grave.
But see he starts what heard he then ?
That dreadfid shout ! across the glen
From the land side it conies, and loud
Rings through the chasm ; as if the crowd
Of fearful things, that haunt that dell,
Its gholes and dives, and shapes of hell,
Had all in one dread howl broke out,
So loud, so terrible that shout !
" They come the Moslems come !" lie cries,
His proud soul mounting to his eyes,
" Now, spirits of the brave, who roam
Eiifranchis'd through yon starry dome,
Rejoice for souls of kindred fire
Are on the wing to join your choir !"
He said and, light as bridegrooms bound
To their young loves, re-climb'd the steep
And gain'd the shrine his chiefs stood round
Their swords, as with instinctive leap,
Together, at that cry accurst,
Had from their sheaths, like sunbeams, burst.
And hark! again again it rings;
Near and more near its echoings
Peal through the chasm oh ! who that then
1 26 LALLA ROOKH.
Had seen those listening warrior-men,
With their swords grasp'd, their eyes of flame
Turn'd on their chief could doubt the shame,
Th' indignant shame with which they thrill
To hear those shouts and yet stand still ?
He read their thoughts they were his own
" What ! while our arms can wield these blades,
Shall we die tamely ? die alone ?
Without one victim to our shades,
One Moslem heart where, buried deep,
The sabre from its toil may sleep ?]
No God of Iran's burning skies!
Thou scorn'st th' inglorious sacrifice.
No though of all earth's hope bereft,
Life, swords, and vengeance still are left.
We'll make yon valley's reeking caves
Live in the awe-struck minds of men,
'Till tyrants shudder, when their slaves
Tell of the Ghebers' bloody glen.
Follow, brave hearts ! this pile remains
Our refuge still from life and chains ;
But his the best, the holiest bed,
Who sinks entomb'd in Moslem dead !"
Down the precipitous rocks they sprung,
While vigour, more than human, strung
Each arm and heart. Th' exulting foe
Still through the dark defiles below,
Track'd by his torches' lurid fire,
Wound slow, as through Golconda's vale
The mighty serpent, in his ire,
Glides on witli glittering, deadly trail.
No torch the Ghebers need so well
They know each mystery of the dell,
So oft have, in their wanderings,
Cross'd the wild race that round them dwell,
The very tigers from their delves
Look out, and let them pass, as things
Untam'd and fearless like themselves !
There was a deep ravine, that lay
Yet darkling in the Moslem's way ;
Fit spot to make invaders rue
The many fall'n before the few.
The torrents from that morning's sky
Had fill'd the narrow chasm breast-high,
And. on each side, aloft and wild,
THE FIRE-WORSHIPPERS. 127
Huge cliffs and toppling crags were pil'cl,
The guards, with which young Freedom lines
The pathways to her mountain shrines.
Here, at this pass, the scanty band
Of Iran's last avengers stand ;
Here wait, in silence like the dead,
And listen for the Moslem's tread
So anxiously, the carrion-bird
Above them flaps his wing unheard !
They come that plunge into the water
Gives signal for the work of slaughter.
Now, Ghebers, now if e'er your blades
Had point or prowess, prove them now
Woe to the file that foremost wades !
They come a falchion greets each brow,
And, as they tumble, trunk on trunk,
Beneath the gory waters sunk,
Still o'er their drowning bodies press
New victims quick and numberless ;
Till scarce an arm in Hafed's band,
So fierce their toil, hath power to stir,
But listless from each crimson hand
The sword hangs, clogg'd with massacre.
Never was horde of tyrants met
With bloodier welcome never yet
To patriot vengeance hath the sword
More terrible libations pour'd !
All up the dreary, long ravine,
By the red, murky glimmer seen
Of half-quench'd brands, that o'er the flood
Lie scatter'd round and burn in blood,
What ruin glares ! what carnage swims !
Heads, blazing turbans, quivering limbs,
Lost swords that, dropp'd from many a hand,
In that thick pool of slaughter stand ;
Wretches who wading, half on fire
From the toss'd brands that round them fly,
'Twixt flood and flame in shrieks expire ;
And some who, grasp'd by those that die,
Sink woundless with them, smother'd o'er
In their dead brethren's gushing gore 1
But vainly hundreds, thousands bleed,
Still hundreds, thousands more succeed ;
Countless as tow'rds some flame at night
The North's dark insects wing their flight,
And quench or perish in its light
128 LAT.LA noOKH.
To tliis terrific spot they pour-
Till, bridg'd with Moslem bodies o'er,
It bears aloft their slippery tread,
And o'er the dying and the dead.
Tremendous causeway ! on they pass.
Then, hapless Ghebers, then, alas,
What hope was left for you ? for you,
"Whose yet warm pile of sacrifice
Is smoking in their vengeful eyes
"Whose swords how keen, how fierce they knew,
And burn with shame to find how few.
Crush'd down by that vast multitude,
Some found their graves where first they stood ;
While some with harder struggle died,
And still fought on by Hafed's side,
Who, fronting to the foe, trod back
Tow'rds the high towers his gory track ;
And, as a lion, swept away
By sudden swell of Jordan's pride
From the wild covert where he lay, *
Long battles with th' o'erwhelming tide,
So fought he back with fierce delay,
And kept both foes and fate at bay !
But whither now ? their track is lost,
Their prey escap'd guide, torches gone
By torrent-beds and labyrinths crost,
The scatter'd crowd rush blindly on
" Curse on those tardy lights that wind,"
The panting cry, " so far behind
" Oh for a bloodhound's precious scent,
To track the way the Gheber went I"
Vain wish confusedly along
They rush, more desperate as more wrong :
Till, wilder'd by the far-off lights,
Yet glittering up those gloomy heights,
Their footing, maz'd and lost, they miss,
And down the darkling precipice
Are dash'd into the deep abyss ;
Or midway hang, impal'd on rocks,
A banquet, yet alive, for flocks
Of ravening vultures, while the dell
Re-echoes with each horrible yell.
* In this thicket, upon the banks of the Jordan, wild beasts are wont to
harbour, whose being washed out of the covert by the overflowings of the
river gave occasion to that allusion of Jeremiah, "7/e shall come up like a
lion from the swelling of Jordan." MaundrelVs Aleppo,
THE FIRE-WORSHIPPERS. 129
Those sounds the last, to vengeance dear,
That e'er shall ring in Hafed's ear,
Now reach'd him, as aloft, alone,
Upon the steep way hreathless thrown,
He lay beside his reeking blade,
Kesign'd, as if life's task were o'er,
Its last blood-offering amply paid,
And Iran's self could claim no more.
One only thought, one lingering beam
Now broke across his dizzy dream
Of pain and weariness 'twas she
His heart's pure planet, shining yet
Above the waste of memory,
When all life's other lights were set.
And never to his mind before
Her image such enchantment wore.
It seem'd as if each thought that stain'd,
Each fear that chill'd their loves was past,
And not one cloud of earth remain'd
Between him and her glory cast
As if to charms, before so bright,
New grace from other worlds was given,
And his soul saw her by the light
Now breaking o'er itself from Heaven !
A voice spoke near him 'twas the tone
Of a lov'd friend, the only one
Of all his warriors, left with life
From that short night's tremendous strife.
" And must we then, my Chief, die here ?
Foes round us, and the Shrine so near!"
These words have rous'd the last remains
Of life within him " What ! not yet
Beyond the reach of Moslem chains!"
The thought could make ev'n Death forget
His icy bondage with a bound
He springs, all bleeding, from the ground,
And grasps his comrade's arm, now grown
Ev'n feebler, heavier than his own,
And up the painful pathway leads,
Death gaining on each step he treads.
Speed them, thou God, who heard'st their vow !
They mount they bleed oh save them now
The crags are red they've clamber'd o'er,
The rock-weed's dripping with their gore
Thy blade too, Hafcd, false at length,
Now breaks beneath thy tottering strength
Haste, haste the voices of the foe
130 LJLLLA ftOOKH..
Come near and nearer from below
One effort more thank Heav'n ! 'tis past,
They've gain'd the topmost steep at last.
And now they touch the temple's walls,
Now Hafed sees the Fire divine
When, lo ! his weak, worn comrade falls
Dead on the threshold of the Shrine.
" Alas, brave soul, too quickly fled !
And must I leave thee withering here,
The sport of every ruffian's tread,
The mark for every coward's spear ?
No, by yon altar's sacred beams !"
He cries, and, with a strength that seems
Not of this world, uplifts the frame
Of the fall'n chief, and tow'rds the flame
Bears him along ; with death-damp hand
The corpse upon the pyre he lays,
Then lights the consecrated brand,
And fires the pile, whose sudden blaze
Like lightning bursts o'er Oman's Sea.
" Now, Freedom's God! I come to Thee,"
The youth exclaims, and with a smile
Of triumph vaulting on the pile,
In that last effort, ere the fires
Have harm'd one glorious limb, expires !
What shriek was that on Oman's tide?
It came from yonder drifting bark,
That just has caught upon her side
The death -light and again is dark.
It is the boat ah, why delay 'd?
That bears the wretch'd Moslem maid ;
Confided to the watchful care
Of a small veteran band, with whom
Their generous Chieftain would not share
The secret of his final doom ;
But hop'd when Hinda, safe and free,
Was render'd to her father's eyes,
Their pardon, full and prompt, would be
The ransom of so dear a prize.
Unconscious, thus, of Hafed's fate,
And proud to guard their beauteous freight,
Scarce had they clear'd the surfy waves
That foam around those frightful caves,
When the curst war-whoops, known so well,
Came echoing from the distant dell
Sudden each oar, upheld and still,
Hung dripping o'er the vessel's side,
THE FIRE-WORSHIPPERS. 131
And, driving at the current's will,
They rock'd along the whispering tide,
While every eye, in mute dismay,
Was tow'rd that fatal mountain turn'd,
Where the dim altar's quivering ray
As yet all lone and tranquil burn'd.
Oh ! 'tis not, Hinda, in the power
Of fancy's most terrific touch
To paint thy pangs in that dread hour
Thy silent agony 'twas such
As those who feel could paint too well,
But none e'er felt and liv'd to tell !
'Twas not alone the dreary state
Of a lorn spirit, crush 'd by fate,
When, though no more remains to dread,
The panic chill will not depart ;
When, though the inmate Hope be dead,
Her ghost still haunts the mouldering heart.
No pleasures, hopes, affections gone,
The wretch may bear, and yet live on,
Like things, within the cold rock found
Alive, when all's congeal'd around.
But there's a blank repose in this,
A calm stagnation, that were bliss
To the keen, burning, harrowing pain,
Now felt through all thy breast and brain
That spasm of terror, mute, intense,
That breathless, agoniz'd suspense,
From whose hot throb, whose deadly aching
The heart hath no relief but breaking !
Calm is the wave Heaven's brilliant lights,
Reflected, dance beneath the prow ;
Time was when, on such lovely nights,
She who is there, so desolate now,
Could sit all cheerful, though alone,
And ask no happier joy than seeing
That star-light o'er the waters thrown
No joy but that to make her blest,
And the fresh, buoyant sense of Being
That bounds in youth's yet careless breast,-
Itself a star, not borrowing light,
But in its own glad essence bright.
How different now ! but, hark, again
The yell of havoc rings brave men !
tn vain, with beating hearts, ye stand
i
182 LALLA ROOKH.
On the bark's edge in vain each hand
Half draws the falchion from its sheath ;
All's o'er in rust your blades may lie ;
He. at whose word they've scatter'd death,
Ev'n now, this night, himself must die !
"Well may he look to yon dim tower,
And ask, and wondering guess what means
The battle-cry at this dead hour
Ah ! she could tell you she, who leans
Unheeded there, pale, sunk, aghast,
"With brow against the dew-cold mast
Too well she knows her more than life,
Her soul's first idol and its last,
Lies bleeding in that murderous strife.
But see what moves upon the height ?
Some signal ! 'tis a torch's light.
"What bodes its solitary glare ?
In gasping silence tow'rd the shrine
All eyes are turn'd thine, Hinda, thine
Fix their last failing life-beams there.
'Twas but a moment fierce and high
The death-pile blaz'd into the sky,
And far away o'er rock and flood
Its melancholy radiance sent ;
"While Hafed, like a vision, stood
Keveal'd before the burning pyre,
Tall, shadowy, like a Spirit of Fire
Shrin'd in its own grand element [
" 'Tis he !" the shuddering maid exclaims,
But, while she speaks, he's seen no more ;
High burst in air the funeral flames,
And Iran's hopes and her's are o'er !
One wild, heart-broken shriek she gave
Then sprung, as if to reach that blaze,
"Where still she fix'd her dying gaze,
And, gazing, sunk into the wave,
Deep, deep, where never care or pain
Shall reach her innocent heart again !
Farewell farewell to thee, Araby's daughter !
(Thus warbled a Peri beneath the dark sea)
No pearl ever lay, under Oman's green water,
More pure in its shell than thy spirit in thee.
THE FIRE-WORSHIPPERS.
Oh ! fair as the sea-flower close to thee growing,
How light was thy heart 'till love's witchery came,
Like the wind of the south* o'er a summer lute blowing,
And hush'd all its music and wither'd its frame !
But long, upon Araby's green sunny highlands,
Shall maids and their lovers remember the doom
Of her, who lies sleeping among the Pearl Islands,
With nought but the sea-starf to light up her tomb.
And still, when the merry date-season is burning,
And calls to the palm-groves the young and the old,
The happiest there, from their pastime returning,
At sunset, will weep when thy story is told.
The young village maid, when with flowers she dressea
Her dark flowing hair for some festival day,
Will think of thy fate till, neglecting her tresses,
She mournfully turns from the mirror away.
Nor shall Iran, belov'd of her Hero ! forget thee,
Though tyrants watch over her tears as they start,
Close, close by the side of that Hero she'll set thee,
Embalm'd in the innermost shrine of her heart.
Farewell be it ours to embellish thy pillow
With everything beauteous that grows in the deep ;
Each flower of the rock and each gem of the billow
Shall sweeten thy bed and illumine thy sleep.
Around thee shall glisten the loveliest amber
That ever the sorrowing sea-bird has wept ;J
With many a shell, in whose hollow-wreath 'd chamber,
We, Peris of Ocean, by moonlight have slept.
We'll dive where the gardens of coral lie darkling,
And plant all the rosiest stems at thy head ;
We'll seek where the sands of the Caspian are sparkling,
And gather their gold to strew over thy bed.
Farewell farewell until Pity's sweet fountain
Is lost in the hearts of the fair and the brave,
They'll weep for the Chieftain who died on that mountain,
They'll weep fur the Maiden who sleeps in this wave.
* "This wind (the Sanioor) so softens the strings of lutes, that they can
never be tuned while it lasts."
f " The star-fish. It is circular, and at night very luminous, resembling
the full moon surrounded by rays."
J " Some naturalists have imagined that amber is a concretion of the
tears of birds."
" The bay Kiesclarke, which is otherwise called the Golden Bay, the
wind whereof shines as tire,"
J34 I, ALL A SOOKH.
The singular placidity with which Fadladeen had listen-
ed, during the latter part of this obnoxious story, surprised
the Princess and Feramorz exceedingly ; and even inclined
towards him the hearts of these unsuspicious young persons,
who little knew the source of a complacency so marvellous.
The truth was, he had been organizing for the last few days,
a most notable plan of persecution against the poet, in con-
sequence of some passages that had fallen from him on the
second evening of recital, which appeared to this worthy
Chamberlain, to contain language and principles, for which
nothing short of the summary criticism of the chabuk*
would be advisable. It was his intention, therefore, imme-
diately on their arrival at Cashmere, to give information to
the King of Bucharia of the very dangerous sentiments of
his minstrel ; and if, unfortunately, that monarch did not act
with suitable vigour on the occasion (that is, if he did not
give the chabuk to Feramorz, and a place to Fadladeen),
there would be an end, he feared, of all legitimate govern-
ment in Bucharia. He could not help, however, auguring
better both for himself and the cause of potentates in general ;
and it was the pleasure arising from these mingled anticipa-
tions that diffused such unusual satisfaction throughhis fea-
tures, and made his eyes shine out, like poppies of the desert,
over the wide and lifeless wilderness of that countenance.
Having decided upon the Poet's chastisement in this man-
ner, he thought it but humanity to spare him the minoi
tortiires of criticism. Accordingly, when they assembled
next evening in the pavilion, and Lalla Kookh expected to
see all the beauties of her bard melt away, one by one, in
the acidity of criticism, like pearls in the cup of the Egypt
ian Queen, he agreeably disappointed her by merely say-
ing, with an ironical smile, that the merits of such a poem
deserved to be tried at a much higher tribunal ; and then
suddenly passing off into a panegyric upon all Mussulman
sovereigns, more particularly his august and Imperial master
Aurungzebe, the wisest and best of the descendants of
Timur, who, among other great things he had done for
mankind, had given to him, Fadladeen, the very profitable
posts of Betel-carrier and Taster of Sherbets to the Em-
peror, Chief Holder of the Girdle of Beautiful Forms,! and
Grand Nazir, or Chamberlain of the Haram.
* "The application of whips or rods."
t His business was, at stated periods, to measure the ladies of the Haram
by a sort of regulation-girdle, whose limits it was not thought graceful to
exceed. If any of them outgrew this standard of shape, they were reduced
by abstinence till they came within its bounds.
LALLA ROOKII.
They were now not far from that forbidden river,* be-
yond which no pure Hindoo can pass ; and were reposing
for a time in the rich valley of Hussuu Abdaul, which bad
always been a favourite resting-place of the Emperors in
their annual migrations to Cashmere. Here often had the
Light of the Faith, Jehan-Guire, wandered with his beloved
and beautiful Nourmahal ; and here would Lalla Rookh
have been happy to remain for ever, giving up the throne
of Bucharia and the world, for Feramorz and love in this
sweet lonely valley. The time was now fast approaching
when she must see him no longer, or see him with eyes
whose every look belonged to another; and there was a
melancholy preciousness in these last moments, which
made her heart cling to them as it would to life. During
the latter part of the journey, indeed, she had sunk into
a deep sadness, from which nothing but the presence of
the young minstrel could awake her. Like those lamps
in tombs, which only light up when the air is admitted,
it was only at his approach that her eyes became smil-
ing and animated. But here, in this dear valley, every
moment was an age of pleasure; she saw him all day,
and was, therefore, all day happy, resembling, she often
thought, that people of Zinge, who attribute the unfading
cheerfulness they enjoy to one genial star that rises nightl r
over their heads.*
The whole party, indeed, seemed in their liveliest mood
during the few days they passed in this delightful solitude.
The young attendants of the Princess, who where here
allowed a freer range than they could safely be indulged
with in a less sequestered place, ran wild among the gar
dens and bounded through the meadows, lightly as young
roes over the romantic plains of Tibet. While Fadladeen,
beside the spiritual comfort he derived from a pilgrimage
to the tomb of the Saint from whom the valley is named,
had opportunities of gratifying, in a small way, his taste
for victims, by putting to death some hundreds of those
unfortunate little lizards, which all pious Mussulmans make
it a point to kill ; taking for granted, that the manner
in which the creature hangs its head is meant as a mimicry
of the attitude in which the Faithful say their prayers !
About two miles from Husson Abdaul were those Royal
Gardens, which had grown beautiful under the care of* so
many lovely eyes, and were beautiful still, though those eyes
could see them no longer. This place, with its flowers and
iis holy silence, interrupted only by the dipping of the wings
of birds in its marble basons tilled with the pure water of
* The Attock. t Tiie star Soheil or Canopus.
136 LAI.LA ROOKH.
those hills, was to Lalla Rookh all that her heart could fancy
of fragrance, coolness, and almost heavenly tranquillity. As
the Prophet said of Damascus, " it was too delicious ;" and
here, in listening to the sweet voice of Feramorz, or reading
in his eyes what yet he never dared to tell her, the most ex-
quisite moments of her whole life were passed. One evening
when they had been talking of the Sultana Nourmahal,
the Light of the Haram,* who had so often wandered among
these flowers, and fed with her own hands, in those marble
basons, the small shining fishes of which she was so fond,
the youth, in order to delay the moment of separation pro-
posed to recite a short story, or rather rhapsody, of which
this adored Sultana was the heroine. It related, he said, to
the reconcilement of a sort of lovers' quarrel, which took
place between her and the Emperor during a Feast of Roses
at Cashmere ; and would remind the Princess of that differ-
ence between Haroun-al-Raschidand his fair mistress Marida,
which was so happily made up by the sweet strains of the
musician Moussali. As the story was chiefly to be told in
song, and Feramorz had unluckily forgotten his own lute
in the valley, he borrowed the vina of Lalla Rookh's little
Persian slave, and thus began :
THE LIGHT OF THE HARAM,
Who has not heard of the Vale of Cashmere,
With its roses the brightest that earth ever gave,t
Its temples, and grottos, and fountains as clear
As the love-lighted eyes that hang over their wave ?
Oh ! to see it at sunset, when warm o'er the Lake
Its splendour at parting a summer eve throws,
Like a bride, full of blushes, when ling'ring to take
A last look of her mirror at night ere she goes !
When the shrines through the foliage are gleaming half shown,
And each hallows the hour by some rites of its own.
Here the music of pray'r from a minaret swells,
Here the Magian his urn full of perfume is swinging,
And here, at the altar, a zone of sweet bells
* Nourmahal signifies Light of the Haram. She was afterwards called
Nourjchan or the Light of the World.
t "The rose of Cashmere, for its brilliancy and delicacy of odour has
long been proverbial in the East."
L
r~
THE LIGHT OF THE HARAM. 137
Bound the waist of some fair Indian dancer is ringing,
Or to see it by moonlight, when mellowly shines
The light o'er its palaces, gardens, and shrines ;
When the waterfalls gleam like a quick fall of stars,
And the nightingale's hymn from the Isle of Chenars
Is broken by laughs and light echoes of feet
From the cool shining walks, where the young people meet,
Or at morn, when the magic of daylight awakes
A new wonder each minute, as slowly it breaks,
Hills, cupolas, fountains, called forth every one
Out of darkness, as they were just born of the Sun.
When the spirit of Fragrance is up with the day,
From his Haram of night-flowers stealing away ;
And the wind, full of wantonness, woos like a lover
The young aspen trees till they tremble all over.
When the East is as warm as the light of first hopes,
And day, with its banner of radiance unfurl'd,
Shines in through the mountainous portal* that opes,
Sublime, from that valley of bliss to the world !
But never yet, by night or day,
In dew of spring or summer's ray,
Did the sweet valley shine so gay
As now it shines all love and light,
Visions by day and feasts by night !
A happier smile illumes each brow,
With quicker spread each heart uncloses,
And all is ecstasy, for now
The valley holds its Feast of Roses.t
That joyous time, when pleasures pour
Profusely round, and in their shower
Hearts open, like the season's rose,
The flow'ret of a hundred leaves,
Expanding while the dew-fall flows,
And every leaf its balm receives
Twas when the hour of evening came
Upon the Lake, serene and cool,
When Day had hid his sultry flame
Behind the palms of Baramoule.
When maids began to lift their heads,
Refresh'd, from their embroider'd beds,
Where they had slept the sun away,
And wak'd to moonlight and to play.
All were abroad the busiest hive
* "The Tuckt Suliman, the name bestowed by the Mohammedans on
this hill, forms one side of a grand portal to the lake."
f "The Feast of Roses continues the whole time of their renuuniug m
bloom."
LALT.A ROOKH.
On Bela's* hills is less alive
When saffron beds are full in flower,"
Than look'd the valley in that hour.
A thousand restless torches play'd
Through every grove and island shade ;
A thousand sparkling lamps were set
On every dome and minaret ;
And fields and pathways, far and near,
Were lighted by a blaze so clear,
That you could see, in wandering round.
The smallest rose-leaf on the ground.
Yet did the maids and matrons leave
Their veils at home, that brilliant eve ;
And there were glancing eyes about,
And cheeks, that would not dare shine out
In open day, but thought they might
Look lovely then, because 'twas night !
And all were free, and wandering,
And all exclaim'd to all they met
That never did the summer bring
So gay a Feast of Eoses yet ;
The moon had never shed a light
So clear as that which bless'd them there ;
The roses ne'er shone half so bright,
Nor they themselves look'd half so fair.
And what a wilderness of flowers !
It seem'd as though from all the bowers
And fairest fields of all the year,
The mingled spoil were scatter'd here.
The lake, too, like a garden breathes,
With the rich buds that o'er it lie,
As if a shower of fair)* wreaths
Had fall'n upon it from the sky!
And then the sounds of joy, the beat
Of tabors and of dancing feet ;
The minaret-cryer's chant of glee
Sung from his lighted gallery,t
And answer'd by a ziraleet
From neighbouring Haram, wild and sweet ;
The merry laughter, echoing
From gardens, where the silken swing
* Mentioned in the Toozek Jehangeery, or "Memoirs of Jehan-Guire,"
wilt-re there is an account of the beds of saffron flowers about Cashmere.
t " It is the custom among the women to employ the Maazeen to chant
from the gallery of the nearest minaret, which on that occasion is illumi-
nated, and the women assembled at the house respond at intervals witli
a airaleet or joyous chorus."
THE LIGHT OF THE IIATCAM. 139
W-ifts some delighted girl above
The top leaves of the orange grove ;
Or, from those infant groups at play
Among the tents that line the way,
Flinging, tniaw'd by slave or mother,
Handfuls of roses at each other !
And the sounds from the lake, the low whisp'ring in boats,
As they shoot through the moonlight; the dipping of oars.
And the wild, airy warbling that everywhere floats,
Through the groves, round the islands, as if all the shores
Like those of Kathay utter'd music, and gave
An answer in song to the kiss of each wave !*
But the gentlest of all are those sounds, full of feeling,
That soft from the lute of gome lover are stealing,
Some lover, who knows all the heart-touching power
Of a lute and a sigh in this magical hour.
Oh ! best of delights as it everywhere is
To be near the lov'd One, what a rapture is his,
Who in moonlight and music thus sweetly may glide
O'er the Lake of Cashmere, with that One by his side !
If woman can make the worst wilderness dear,
Think, think what a Heav'n she must make of Cashmere !
So felt the magnificent Son of Acbar,t
When from power and pomp and the trophies of war
Ho flew to that valley, forgetting them all
With the Light of the Haram, his young Ncrarmahal.
When free and uncrown'd as the Conqueror rov'd
By the banks of that lake, with his only belov'd,
He saw, in the wreaths she would playfully snatch
From the hedges, a glory his crown could not match.
And preferr'd in his heart the least ringlet that curl'd
Down her exquisite neck to the throne of the world !
There's a beauty, for ever unchangingly bright,
Like the long, sunny lapse of a summer day's light,
Shining on, shining on, by no shadow made tender,
Till love falls asleep in its sameness of splendour.
This was not the beauty oh ! nothing like this,
That to young Nourmahal gave such magic of bliss
But that loveliness, ever in motion, which plays
Like the light upon autumn's soft shadowy days,
Now here and now there, giving warmth as it flies
* "The ancients having remarked th.it a current of water made some
of the stones near its hunks st-n<l forth a sound, they detached some of
them, and being charmed with the delightful sound they emitted, con-
structed King or musical instruments of them."
t Jehan-Guire, the son of the Great Acbar.
140 LALLA ROOKH.
From the lips to the cheek, from the cheek to the eyes,
Now melting in mist and now breaking in gleams,
Like the glimpses a saint has of Heav'n in his dreams !
When pensive, it seem'd as if that very grace,
That charm of all others, was born with her face ;
And when angry, for ev'ii in the tranquillest climes
Light breezes will ruffle the flowers sometimes
The short, passing anger but seem'd to awaken
New beauty, like flow'rs that are sweetest when shaken.
I tenderness touch'd her, the dark of her eye
At once took a darker, a heavenlier dye,
From the depth of whose shadow, like holy revealings
From innermost shrines, came the light of her feelings !
Then her mirth oh ! 'twas sportive as ever took wing
From the heart with a burst, like the wild-bird in spring ;
Illum'd by a wit that would fascinate sages,
Yet playftil as Peris just loos'd from their cages.*
While her laugh, full of life, without any controul
But the sweet one of gracefulness, rung from her soul ;
And where it most sparkled no glance could discover,
In lip, cheek, or eyes, for she brighten'd all over,
Like any fair lake that the breeze is upon,
vVhen it breaks into dimples, and laughs in the sun.
Such, such were the peerless enchantments, that gave
Nourmahal the proud Lord of the East for her slave ;
And though bright was his Haram, a living parterre
Of the flow'rst of this planet though treasures were there,
For which Soliman's self might have giv'n all the store
That the navy from Ophir e'er wiiig'd to his shore,
Yet dim before her were the smiles of them all,
And tile Light of his Haram was young Nourmahal !
But where is she now, this night of joy,
When bliss is every heart's employ ?
When all around her is so bright,
So like the visions of a trance,
That one might think, who came by chance
Into the vale this happy night,
He saw that City of Delight*
In Fairy-land, whose streets and towers
Are made of gems and light and flow r ers !
Where is the lov'd Sultana ? where,
When mirth brings out the young and fair,
* In the vyars of the Dives with the Peris, whenever the Termer took
flie latter prisoners "they shut them up in iron cages, and hung them on
the highest trees."
f In the Malay language the same word signifies women and flowers.
J The capital of Shadukiam.
THE LIGHT OF THE HARAM. 141
Does she, the fairest, hide her brow,
In melancholy stillness now ?
Alas how light a cause may move
Dissension between hearts that love !
Hearts that the world in vain has tried,
And sorrow but more closely tied ;
That stood the storm, when waves were rough,
Yet in a sunny hour fall off,
Like ships, that have gone down at sea,
When Heav'n was all tranquillity !
A something, light as air a look,
A word unkind or wrongly taken
Oh ! love, that tempests never shook,
A breath, a touch like this has shaken.
And ruder words will soon rush in
To spread the breach that words begin ;
And eyes forget the gentle ray
They wore in courtship's smiling day ;
And voices lose the tone that shed
A tenderness round all they said ;
Till fast declining, one by one,
The sweetnesses of love are gone,
And hearts, so lately mingled, seem
Like broken clouds, or like the stream.
That smiling left the mountain's brow,
As though its waters ne'er could sever,
Yet, ere it reach the plain below,
Breaks into floods, that part for ever.
Oh you, that have the charge of Love,
Keep him in rosy bondage bound,
As in the Fields of Bliss above
He sits, with flow'rets fetter'd round :
Loose not a tie that round him clings,
Nor ever let him use his wing ;
For ev'n an hour, a minute's flight
Will rob the plumes of half their light.
Like that celestial bird, whose nest
Is found beneath far Eastern skies,
Whose wings, though radiant when at rest,
Lose all their glory when he flies !*
Some difference, of this dangerous kind,
By which, though light, the links that bind
* "Among the birds of Tonquin is a species of goldfinch which sings
so melodiously that it is called the Celestial Bird. Its \s-ings. when it is
perched, appear variegated with beautiful colours, but when it flies they
lose all their splendour."
112 LALLAROOKH.
The fondest hearts may soon be riven ;
Some shadow in love's summer Heaven,
Which, though a fleecy speck at first,
May yet in awful thunder burst ;
Such cloud it is, that now hangs over
The heart of the Imperial lover,
And far hath banish'd from his sight
His Nourmahal, his Haram's light !
Hence is it, on this happy night,
When Pleasure through the fields and groves
Has let loose all her world of loves,
And every heart has found its own,
He wanders, joyless and alone,
And weary as that bird of Thrace,
Whose pinion knows no resting-place.
In vain the loveliest cheeks and eyes
This Eden of the earth supplies
Come crowding round the cheeks are pale,
The eyes are dim though rich the spot
With every flow'r this earth has got,
What is it to the nightingale,
If there his darling rose is not ?*
In vain the valley's smiling throng
Worship him, as he moves along ;
He heeds them not one smile of hers
Is worth a world of worshippers.
They but the star's adorers are,
She is the Heav'n that lights the star !
Hence is it too that Nourmahal,
Amid the luxuries of this hour,
Far from the joyous festival,
Sits in her own sequester'd bower,
With no one near, to soothe or aid,
But that inspir'd and wond'rous maid,
Namouna, the Enchantress ; one,
O'er whom his race the golden sun
For unremember'd years has run,
Yet never saw her blooming brow
Younger or fairer than 'tis now.
Nay, rather, as the west-wind's sigh
Freshens the flower it passes by,
Time's wing but seem'd, in stealing o'er,
To leave her lovelier than before.
* Vu may place a hundred harulfuls of frajjrant herbs ancl ticnvers
iK-forc tlic nightingale, yet he wishes not, in his constant heart, for moro
than i ho sweet breath of his beloved rose. Jann.
THE LIGHT OF THE HARAM. MS
Yet on her smiles a sadness hung,
And when, as oft, she spoke or sung
Of other worlds, there came a light
From her dark eyes so strangely bright,
That all believ'd nor man nor earth
Were conscious of Namouna's birth 1
All spells and talismans she knew,
From the great Mantra,* which around
The air's sublimer spirits drew,
To the gold gernst of Afric, bound
Upon the wandering Arab's arm,
To keep him from the Siltim'st harm.
And she had pledg'd her powerful art,
Pledg'd it with all the zeal and heart
Of one who knew, though high her sphere,
What 'twas to lose a love so dear,
To find some spell that should recall
Her Selim's smile to Nourmahal!
'Twas midnight through the lattice, wreath 'd
With woodbine, many a perfume breath d
From plants that wake when others sleep,
From timid jasmine buda, that keep
Their odour to themselves all day,
But, when the sunlight dies away,
Let the delicious secret out
To every breeze that roams about ;
When thus Namouna : " Tis the hour
That scatters spells on herb and flower,
And garlands might be gather 'd now,
That, twin'd around the sleeper's brow,
Would make him dream of such delights,
Such miracles and dazzling sights
As Genii of the Sun behold,
At evening, from their tents of gold
Upon the horizon where they play
Till twilight comes, and, ray by ray,
Their sunny mansions melt away !
Now, too, a chaplet might be wreath'd
Of buds o'er which the moon has breath 'd,
Which worn by her, whose love has stray 'd,
Might bring some Peri from the skies,
* " He is said to have found the i^rcat Mantra, spell or talisman, through
winch lie ruled over the elements and spirits of all denominations."
t " The gold jewels of Jinnie, which are called by the Arabs ' El Herre*,
from the supposed charm they contain."
J " A demon supposed to haunt woods, <kc., In a human shnpe."
j The name of Jehan-Guire before his accession to the throne.
144 LALLA ROOKH.
Some sprite, whose very soul is made
Of flow'rets' breaths and lovers' sighs,
And who might tell "
" For me, for me,"
Cried Nourmahal impatiently,
" Oh ! twine that wreath for me to-night."
Then, rapidly, with foot as light
As the young musk-roe's, out she flew
To cull each shining leaf that grew
Beneath the moonlight's hallowing beams
For this enchanted wreath of dreams.
Anemones and seas of gold,*
And new-blown lilies of the river,
And those sweet flow'rets, that unfold
Their buds on Camadeva's quiver ;t
The tube-rose, with her silvery light,
That in the Gardens of Malay
Is called 'the Mistress of the Night,*
So like a bride, scented and bright,
She comes out when the sun's away.
Amaranths, such as crown the maids
That wander through Zamara's shades ;
And the White moon-flower, as it shows
On Serendib's high crags to those
Who near the isle at evening sail,
Scenting her clove-trees in the gale ;
In short, all flow'rets and all plants,
From the divine Amrita tree, I
That blesses Heaven's inhabitants
"With fruits of immorality,
Down to the basil** tuft, that waves
Its fragrant blossom over graves,
And to the humble rosemary,
Whose sweets so thanklessly are shed
To scent the desert tt and the dead,
* " Hemasagara, or the Sea of Gold, with flowers of the brightest gold
tolouv."
t " The delicious odour of the blossoms of this tree justly gives it a
place in the quiver of Camadevaor the God of Love."
t "The Malayans style the tube-rose (Polianthes tuberosa) 'Sandal Ma-
lam,' or the Mistress of the Night."
" In Zatnara (Sumatra) they lead an idle life, passing the day in play-
injr on a kind of flute, crowned with garlands of flowers, among which the
globe amaranthus mostly prevails."
II " The largest and richest sort (of the ' Jambu ' or Rose- Apple) is called
'Amrita,' or immortal, and the my thologists of Tibet apply the same word
to a celestial tree bearing ambrosial fruit."
** Sweet basil, called ' Hay ban ' in Persia, and generally found in church-
yards.
tt " In the Great Desert are found many stalk s of lavender and rosemary."
"Wlio lie 35 s ler "baskets -witb. the fl<ro <
Ani leaves. -tiH tkey can. loli no moTe:
Thpn -to ~N"flTnmTnH ilies . and- slicrwers
l.i-lll .,(' Ihr III, .-(Mil |, H.'i.
THE LIGHT OF THE HARAM. 14fi
All in that garden bloom, and all
Are gatlier'd by young Nourmahal,
"Who heaps her baskets with the flowers
And leaves, till they can hold no more ;
Then to Namouna flies, and showers
Upon her lap the shining store.
With what delight th' Enchantress views
So many buds, bath'd with the dews
And-*beams of that bless'd hour ! her glance
Spoke something, past all mortal pleasures,
As, in a kirfd of holy trance,
She hung above those fragrant treasures,
Bending to drink their balmy airs,
As if she mix'd her soul with theirs.
And 'twas, indeed, the perfume shed
From flowers and scented flame that fed
Her charmed life for none had e'er
Beheld her taste of mortal fare,
Nor ever in aught earthly dip,
But the morn's dew, her roseate lip.
Fill'd with the cool, inspiring smell,
Th' Enchantress now begins her spell,
Thus singing, as she winds and weaves
In mystic form the glittering leaves :
I know where the winged visions dwell
That around the night-bed play;
I know each herb and flow'ret's bell,
Where they hide their wings by day.
Then hasten we, maid,
To twine our braid,
To-morrow the dreams and flowers will fade.
The image of love, that nightly flie3
To visit the bashful maid,
Steals from the jasmine flower, that sighs
Its soul, like her, in the shade.
The hope, in dreams, of a happier hour
That alights on misery's brow,
Springs out of the silvery almond-flower,
That blooms on a leafless bough.*
Then hasten we, maid,
To twine our braid,
To-morrow the dreams and flowers will fade.
The visions, that oft to worldly eyes
The glitter of mines unfold,
Inhabit the mountain-herb,t that dyes
* " The almond-tree, with white flowers, blossoms on the bare branches."
t An herb on Mount Libanus, which is said to comrrmnicate a yelkrsr
golden hue to the teeth of the goats and other animals that graze upon it
148 LALLA ROOKH.
The tooth of the fawn like gold.
The phantom shapes oh touch not them
That appal the murderer's sight,
Lurk in the fleshly mandrake's stem,
That shrieks, when torn at night !
Then hasten we, maid,
To twine our braid,
To morrow the dreams and flowers will fade.
The dream of the injur'd, patient mind,
That smiles at the wrongs of men,
Is found in the bruis'd and wounded rind
Of the cinnamon, sweetest then 1
Then hasten we, maid,
To twine our braid,
To-morrow the dreams and flowers will fade.
No sooner was the flowery crown
Plac'd on her head, than sleep came down,
Gently as nights of summer fall,
Upon the lids of Nourmahal ;
And, suddenly, a tuneful breeze,
As full of small, rich harmonies
As ever wind, that o'er the tents
Of Azab* blew, was full of scents,
Steals on her ear and floats and swells,
Like the first air of morning creeping
Into those wreathy, Red Sea shells,
Where Love himself, of old, lay sleeping;!
And now a spirit form'd, 'twould seem,
Of music and of light, so fair,
So brilliantly his features beam,
And such a sound is in the air
Of sweetness, when he waves his winga,
Hovers around her, and thus sings :
From Chindara'sj warbling fount T come,
Call'd by that moonlight garland's spell;
From Chindara's fount, ray fairy home,
Where in music, morn and night, I dwell.
Where lutes in the air are heard about,
And voices are singing the whole day long,
And every sigh the heart breathes out
Is turn'd, as it leaves the lips, to song!
Hither I come
From my fairy home,
* The myrrh country.
t " Thia idea was not unknown to the Greeks, who represent the youns
Vrites, one of the Cupids, as living in shells on the shores of the Red St'ii."
t " A fabulous fountain, where instruments are said to be coashuitij
THE LIGHT OF THE HARAM. 147
And if there's a magic in Music's strain,
I swear by the breath
Of that moonlight wreath,
Thy lover shall sigh at thy feet again.
For mine is the lay that lightly floats,
And mine are the murmuring, dying notes,
That fall as soft as snow on the sea,
And melt in the heart as instantly !
And the passionate strain that, deeply going,
Refines the bosom it trembles through,
As the musk-wind, over the water blowing,
Ruffles the wave, but sweetens it too !
Mine is the charm, whose mystic sway
The spirits of past delight obey ;
Let but the tuneful talisman sound,
And they come, like Genii, hovering round.
And mine is the gentle song, that bears
From soul to soul, the wishes of love,
As a bird, that wafts through genial airs
The cinnamon seed from grove to grove.*
'Tis I that mingle in one sweet measure
The past, the present, and future of pleasure ;
When memory links the tone that is gone
With the blissful tone that's still in the ear ;
And hope from a heavenly note flies on
To a note more heavenly still that is near !
The warrior's heart, when touch'd by me,
Can as downy soft and as yielding be
As his own white plume, that high amid death
Through the field has shone yet moves with a breath.
And, oh, how the eyes of beauty glisten,
When music has reach'd her inward soul,
Like the silent stars, that wink and listen
While Heaven's eternal melodies roll !
So, hither I come
From my fairy home,
And if there's a magic in Music's strain,
I swear by the breath
Of that moonlight wreath,
Thy lover shall sigh at thy feet agaii
'Tis dawn at least that earlier dawn,
Whose glimpses are again withdrawn,
As if the morn had wak'd, and then
Shut close her lids of light again.
And Nourmahal is up, and trying
The wonders of her lute, whose strings
* " The Pompadour pigeon, by carrying the fruit of the cinnamon to
different places, is a great disseminator of this valuable tree."
t " They have two mornings, the 'Soobhi Kazim' and the 'Soobhi Sadig,'
the false and the real day-break."
K
148 LALLA RCOKH.
Oh bliss ! now murmur like the sighing
From that ambrosial spirit's wings !
And then, her voice 'tis more than human
Never, till now, had it been given
To lips of any mortal woman
To utter notes so fresh from Heaven ;
Sweet as the breath of angel sighs,
When angel sighs are most divine.
" Oh ! let it last till night," she cries,
" And he is more than ever mine."
And hourly she renews the lay,
So fearful lest its heavenly sweetness
Should, ere the evening, fade away,
For things so heavenly have such fleetness !
But, far from fading, it but grows
Kicher, diviner as it flows ;
Till rapt she dwells on every string,
And pours again each sound along,
Like echo, lost and languishing
In love with her own wondrous song.
That evening (trusting that his soul
Might be from haunting love releas'd
By mirth, by music, and the bowl)
Th' Imperial Selim held a feast
In his magnificent Shalimar ;
In whose saloons, when the. first star
Of evening o'er the waters trembled,
The valley's loveliest all assembled ;
All the bright creatures that, like dreams,
Glide through its foliage, and drink beams
Of beauty from its founts and streams.*
And all those wandering minstrel-maids,
"Who leave how can they leave ? the shades
Of that dear valley, and are found
Singing in gardens of the South
Those songs, that ne'er so sweetly sound
*As from a young Cashmerian's mouth.
There, too, the Haram's inmates smile ;
Maids from the West, with sun-bright hair,
And from the Garden of the Nile,
Delicate as the roses there ;t
Daughters of love from Cyprus' rocks,
* " It is supposed that the Cashmerians are indebted for their beauty to
their waters."
t "The roses of the Jinan Nile, or Garden of the Nile (attached to the
Emperor of Morocco's palace), are unequalled, and mattrasses are made of
their leaves for the men of rank to recline upon."
THE LIGHT OF THE HARAM. 149
With Papliian diamonds in their locks ;*
Light Peri forms, such as there are
On the gold meads of Candahar ;t
And they, before whose sleepy eyes,
In their own bright Kathaian bowers,
Sparkle such rainbow butterflies,*
That they might fancy the rich flowers,
That round them in the sun lay sighing,
Had been by magic all set flying 1
Everything young, everything fair
From East and West is blushing there,
Except except oh Nourmahal !
Thou loveliest, dearest of them all,
The one, whose smile shone out alone,
Amidst a world the only one !
Whose light, among so many lights,
Was like that star, on starry nights,
The seaman singles from tho sky,
To steer his bark for ever by !
Thou wert not there so Selim thought,
And everything seem'd drear without thee ;
But ah ! thou wert, thou wert and brought
Thy charm of song all fresh about thee.
Mingling unnotic'd with a band
Of lutanists from many a land,
And veil'd by such a mask as shades
The features of young Arab maids,
A mask that leaves but one eye free,
To do its best in witchery,
She rov'd, with beating heart, around,
And waited, trembling, for the minute,
When she might try if still the sound
Of her lov'd lute had magic in it.
The board was spread with fruits and wine,
With grapes of gold, like those that shine
On Casbin's hills ; pomegranates full
Of melting sweetness, and the pears
And sunniest apples that Caubul
In all its thousand gardens bears.
* "On the side of a mountain near Paphos there Is a cavern which pro-
luces the most beautiful rock ci-ystaL On account of its brilliancy it has
been called the Papliian diamond."
t " There is a part of Candahar called Peria or Fairy-Land."
t "Butterflies, which are called, in the Chinese language, 'Flying
Leaves.' "
The Arabian women wear black masks with little clasps, prettily or-
dered. Carreri. Niebuhr mentions their showing but one eye in con-
versation.
LALLA ROOKH.
Plantains, the golden and the green,
Malaya's nectar'd mangusteen ;*
Prunes of Bokara, and sweet nuts
From the far groves of Samarcand,
And Basra dates, and apricots,
Seed of the Sun,t from Iran's land ;
"With rich conserve of Visna cherries.?
Of orange flowers, and of those berries
That, wild and fresh, the young gazelles
Feed on in Erac's rocky dells.
All these in richest vases smile,
In baskets of pure santal-wood,
And urns of porcelain from that isle
Sunk underneath the Indian flood,
"Whence oft the lucky diver brings
Vases to grace the halls of kings.
"Wines too, of every clime and hue,
Around their liquid lustre threw ;
Amber Kosolli, the bright dew
From vineyards of the Green Sea gushing ;3
And Shiraz wine, that richly ran
As if that jewel, large and rare,
The ruby, for which Kublai-Khan
Offer'd a city's wealth,** was blushing,
Melted within the goblets there 1
And amply Selim quaffs of each,
And seems resolved the floods shall reach
His inward heart, shedding around
A genial deluge, as they run,
That soon shall leave no spot undrown'd,
For Love to rest his wings upon.
He little knew how blest the boy
Can float upon a goblet's streams,
Lighting them with his smile of joy ;
* "The Mangusteen, the most delicate fruit in the world ; the pride of
the Malay Islands."
f " A delicious kind of apricot, called by the Persians 'Tokm-ek-shems,'
signifying sun's seed."
J " Sweetmeats in a crystal cup, consisting of rose-leaves in conserve,
with lemon or Visna cherry, orange flowers, <fcc."
"Mauri-ga-Sima, an island near Formosa, supposed to have heen sunk
in the sea for the crimes of its inhabitants. The vessels which the fisher-
men and divers bring up from it are sold at an immense price in China
and Japan."
I! The white wine of Kishma,
** The King of Zeilan is said to have the very finest ruby that was
ever seen. Kublai-Khan sent and offered the value of a city for it, but
the king answered he would not give it for the treasure of the world.
Marco rob.
THE LIGHT OF THE HARAM. 151
As bards have seen him, in their dreams,
Down the blue Ganges laughing glido
Upon a rosy lotus wreath,*
Catching new lustre from the tide
That with his image shone beneath.
But what are cups, without the aid
Of song to speed them as they flow ?
And see a lovely Georgian maid,
With all the bloom, the freshen'd glow
Of her own country maiden's looks,
When warm they rise from Teflis' brooks ;t
And with an eye, whose restless ray,
Full, floating, dark oh he, who knows
His heart is weak, of Heav'n should pray
To guard him from such eyes as those !
With a voluptuous wildness flings
Her snowy hand across the strings
Of a syrinda,t and thus sings :
Come hither, come hither by night and by day,
We linger in pleasures that never are gone ;
Like the waves of the summer, as one dies away,
Another as sweet and as shining comes on.
And the love that is o'er, in expiring, gives birth
To a new one as warm, as unequall'd in bliss ;
And oh 1 if there be an Elysium on earth,
It is this, it is this.
Here maidens are sighing, and fragrant their sigh
As the flower of the Amra just op'd by a bee ;
And precious their tears as that rain from the sky,
Which turns into pearls as it falls in the sea.
Oh ! think what the kiss and the smile must be worth,
When the sigh and the tear are so perfect in bliss;
And own if there be an Elysium on earth,
It is this, it is this.
Here sparkles the nectar that, hallow'd by love,
Could draw down those angels of old from their sphere,
Who for wine of this earth left the fountains above,
And forgot Heaven's stars for the eyes we have here.
And, bless'd with the odour our goblet gives forth,
What spirit the sweets of his Eden would miss?
For oh ! if there be an Elysium on earth,
It is this, it is this.
* "The Indians feign that Cupid was first seen floating down the Ganges
on the Nymphcea Nelumbo."
t "Teflis is celebrated for its natural warm baths."
J "The Indian syrinda or guitar."
5 "TheNisan, or drops of spring rain, which they believe to produce
peails if they fall into shells."
152 LALLA KOOKIT.
The Georgian's song was scarcely mute,
When the same measure, -sound for sound,
Was caught up by another lute,
And so divinely breathed around,
That all stood hush'd, and wondering,
And turn'd and look'd into the air,
As if they thought to see the wing
Of Israfil,* the angel, there ;
So pow'rfully on every soul
That new, enchanted measure stole.
While now a voice, sweet as the note
Of the charm'd lute, was heard to float
Along its chords, and so entwine
Its sound with theirs, that none knew whether
The voice or lute was most divine,
So wond'rously they went together :
There's a bliss beyond all that the minstrel has told,
When two, that are link'd in one heavenly tie,
With heart never changing and brow never cold,
Lore on through all ills, and love on till they die 1
One hour of a passion so sacred is worth
Whole ages of heartless and wandering bliss ;
And oh ! if there be an Elysium on earth,
It is this, it is this.
'Twas not the air, 'twas not the words,
But that deep magic in the chords
And in the lips, that gave such power
As music knew not till that hour.
At once a hundred voices said,
" It is the mask'd Arabian maid !"
While Selim, who had felt the strain
Deepest of any, and had lain
Some minutes rapt, as in a trance,
After the fairy sounds were o'er,
Too inly touch 'd for utterance,
Now rnotion'd with his hand for more :
Fly to tbe desert, fly with me,
Our Arab tents are rude for thee ;
But oh ! the choice what heart can doubt
Of tents with love, or thrones without ?
Our rocks are rough, but smiling there
Th' acacia waves her yellow hair,
Lonely and sweet, nor lov'd the less
For flowering in a wilderness.
* The Angel of Music, who has the most melodious voice of all God's
creatures &t!e.
THE LIGHT OF THE HAttAM. 153
Our sands are bare, but down their slope
The silvery-footed antelope
As gracefully and gaily springs
As o'er the marble courts of kings.
Then come thy Arab maid will be
The lov'd and lone acacia-tree,
The antelope, whose feet shall bless
With their light sound thy loneliness.
Oh ! there are looks and tones that dart
An instant sunshine through the heart,
As if the soul that minute caught
Some treasure it thro'ugh life had sought;
As if Hie very lips and eyes
Predestin'd to have all our sighs,
And never be forgot again,
Sparkled and spoke before us then !
So came thy every glance and tone,
When first on me they breath'd and shone ;
New, as if brought from other spheres,
Yet welcome as if lov'd for years !
Then fly with me, if thou hast known
No other flame, nor falsely thrown
A gem away, that thou hadst sworn
Should ever in thy heart be worn.
Come, if the love thou hast for me
Is pure and fresh as mine for thee,
Fresh as the fountain under ground,
When first 'tis by the lapwing found.*
But if for me thou dost forsake
Some other maid, and rudely break
Her worshipp'd image from its base,
To give to me the ruin'd place ;
Then, fare-thee- well I'd rather make
My bower upon some icy lake
When thawing suns begin to shine,
Than trust to love so false as thine !
There was a pathos in this lay,
That, ev'n without enchantment's art,
Would instantly have found its way
Deep into Selim's burning heart ;
But breathing, as it did, a tone
To earthly lutes and lips unknown ;
With every chord fresh from the touch
Of Music's spirit, 'twas too much !
Starting, he dash d away the cup,
- The Tluclhurt, or lapwing, is supposed to have the power of discovering
water under ground.
LALLA ROOKH.
Which, all the time of this sweet air,
His hand had held, untasted, up,
As if 'twere fix'd by magic there,
And naming her, so long unnam'd,
So long unseen, wildly exclaim'd,
" Oh Nourmahal ! oh Nourmahal !
Hadst thou but sung this witching strain,
I could forget forgive thee all,
And never leave those eyes again."
The mask is off the charm is wrought -
And Selim to his heart has caught,
In blushes, more than ever bright,
His Nourmahal, his Haram's Light !
And well do vanish'd frowns enhance
The charm of every brighten'd glance ;
And dearer seems each dawning sinile
For having lost its light awhile ;
And, happier now for all her sighs,
As on his arm her head reposes,
She whispers him, with laughing eyes,
" Kemeraber, love, the Feast of Roses !"
Fadladeen, at the conclusion of this light rhapsody, took
occasion to sum up his opinion of the young Cashmerian's
poetry, of which, he trusted, they had that evening heard
the last. Having recapitulated the epithets " frivolous"
" inharmonious" " nonsensical," he proceeded to say that,
viewing it in the most favourable light, it resembled one of
those Maldivian boats, to which the Princess had alluded in
the relation of her dream (p. 104) a slight, gilded thing,
sent adrift without rudder or ballast, and with nothing but
vapid sweets and faded flowers on board. The profusion,
indeed, of flowers and birds which this poet had ready on
all occasions, not to mention dews, gems, &c., was a most
oppressive kind of opulence to his hearers ; and had the un-
lucky effect of giving to his style all the glitter of the flower-
garden without its method, and all the nutter of the aviary
without its song. In addition to this, he chose his subjects
badly, and was always most inspired by the worst part of
them. The charms of paganism, the merits of rebellion,- -
these weie the themes honoured with his particular en-
thusiasm ; and, in the poem just recited, one of his most
palatable passages was in praise of that beverage of the Un-
faithful wine; "being, perhaps," said he, relaxing into a
sinile, as conscious of his own character in the Haram on
this point, "one of those bards, whose fancy owes all its
LALLA ROOKH. 155
illumination to the grape, like that painted porcelain, so
curious and so rare, whose images are only visible when
liquor is poured into it." Upon the whole it was his opinion,
from the specimens which they had heard, and which, he
begged to say, were the most tiresome part of the journey,
that whatever other merits this well-dressed young gentle-
man might possess poetry was by no means his proper avo-
cation : " and indeed," concluded the critic, " from his
fondness for flowers and for birds, I would venture to sug-
gest that a florist or a bird-catcher is a much more suitable
calling for him than a poet."
They had now begun to ascend those barren mountains
which separate Cashmere from the rest of India ; and, as
the heats were intolerable, and the time of their encamp-
ments limited to the few hours necessary for refreshment
and repose, there was an end to all their delightful evenings,
and Lalla Rookh saw no more of Feramorz. She now felt
that her short dream of happiness was over, and that she had
nothing but the recollection of its few blissful hours, like the
one draught of sweet water that serves the camel across the
wilderness, to be her heart's refreshment during the dreary
waste of life that was before her. The blight that had fallen
upon her spirits soon found its way to her cheek ; and her
ladies saw with regret though not without some suspicion
of the cause that the beauty of their mistress, of which
they were almost as proud as of their own, was fast vanish-
ing away at the very moment of all when she had most need
of it. What must the King of Bucharia feel, when, instead
of the lively and beautiful Lalla Rookh, whom the poets of
Delhi had described as more perfect than the divinest
images in the House of Azor, he should receive a pale and
inanimate victim, upon whose cheek neither health nor
pleasure bloomed, and from whose eyes love had fled, to
hide himself in her heart 1
If anything could have charmed away the melancholy of
her spirits, it would have been the fresh airs and enchanting
scenery of that valley, which the Persians so justly called the
" Unequalled." But neither the coolness of its atmosphere,
so luxurious after toiling up those bare and burning moTin-
tains ; neither the splendour of the minarets and pagodas,
that shone out from the depths of its woods, nor the grottos,
hermitages, and miraculous fountains, which make every
spot of that region holy ground ; neither the countless
waterfalls that rush into the valley from all those high
and romantic mountains that encircle it, nor the fair city on
the lake, whose houses, roofed with flowers, appeared at a
distance like one vast and variegated parterre ; not all
156 LALLA ROOKH.
these wonders and glories of the most lovely country under
the sun could steal her heart for. a minute from those sad
thoughts, which but darkened and grew bitterer every step
she advanced.
The gay pomps and processions that met her upon her
entrance into the valley, and the magnificence with which
the roads all along were decorated, did honour to the taste
and gallantry of the young king. It was night when they
approached the city, and, for the last two miles, they had
passed under arches, thrown from hedge to hedge, festooned
with only those rarest roses from which the Attar Gul, more
precious than gold, is distilled, and illuminated in rich and
fanciful forms with lanterns of the triple-coloured tortoise-
shell of Pegu. Sometimes, from a dark wood by the side of
the road, a display of fire-works would break out, so sudden
and so brilliant, that a Bramin might think he saw that
grove, in whose purple shade the god of battles was born,
bursting into a flame at the moment of his birth. While, at
other times, a quick and playful irradiation continued to
brighten all the fields and gardens by which they passed.
forming a line of dancing lights along the horizon ; like the
meteors of the north as they are seen by those hunters who
pursue the white and blue foxes on the confines of the Icy
Sea.
These arches and fire-works delighted the ladies of the
Princess exceedingly ; and, with their usual good logic, they
deduced from his taste for illuminations, that the King of
Bucharia would make the most exemplary husband imagin-
able. Nor, indeed, could Lalla Kookh herself help feeling
the kindness and splendour with which the young bridegroom
welcomed her ; but she also felt how painful is the gratitude
which kindness from those we cannot love excites ; and that
their best blandishments come over the heart with all that
chilling and deadly sweetness, which we can fancy in the
cold, odoriferous wind that is to blow over this earth in the
last days.
The marriage was fixed for the morning after her arrival,
when she was, for the first time, to be presented to the
monarch in that imperial palace beyond the lake, called the
Slialimar. Though a night of more wakeful and anxious
thought had never been passed in the Happy Valley, yet,
when she rose in the morning, and her ladies came round
her, to assist in the adjustment of the bridal ornaments,
they thought they had never seen her look half so beautiful.
What she had lost of the bloom and radiancy of her charms
was more than made up by that intellectual expression thai
soul in the eyes whicL is worth all the rest of loveliness.
LALLA ROOKH. 157
When they had tinged her fingers with the Henna leaf, and
placed upon her brow a small coronet of jewels, of the shape
worn by the ancient Queens of Bucharia, they flung over
her head the rose-coloured bridal veil, and she proceeded to
the bargo that was to convey her across the lake ; first kiss-
ing, with a mournful look, the little amulet of cornelian
which her father had hung about her neck at parting.
The morning was as fair as the maid upon whose nuptials
it rose, and the shining lake, all covered with boats, the
minstrels playing upon the shores of the islands, and the
crowded summer-houses on the green hills around, with
shawls and banners waving from their roofs, presented such
a picture of animated rejoicing, as only she, who was the ob-
ject of it all, did not feel with transport. To Lalla Rookh
alone it was a melancholy pageant ; nor could she have even
borne to look upon the scene, were it not for a hope that,
among the crowds around she might once more perhaps
catch a glimpse of Feramorz. So much was her imagina-
tion haunted by this thought, that there was scarcely an
islet or boat she passed, at which her heart did not flutter
with a momentary fancy that he was there. Happy, in her
eyes, the humblest slave upon whom the light of his dear
looks fell ! In the barge immediately after the Princess was
F'adladeen, with his silken curtains thrown widely apart,
that all might have the benefit of his august presence, and
with his head full of the speech he was to deliver to the
King, " concerning Feramorz, and literature, and the cha-
buk, as connected therewith."
They had now entered the canal which leads from the
Lake to the splendid domes and saloons of the Shalimar,
and glided on through gardens ascending from each bank,
full of flowering shrubs that made the air all perfume ; while
from the middle of the canal rose jets of water, smooth and
unbroken, to such a dazzling height, that they stood like pil-
lars of diamond in the sunshine. After sailing under the
arches of various saloons, they at length arrived at the last
and most magnificent, where the monarch awaited the com-
ing of his bride ; and such was the agitation of her heart and
frame, that it was witli difficulty she walked up the marble
steps, which were covered with cloth of gold for her ascent
from the barge. At the end of the hall stood two thrones,
as precious as the cerulean throne of Koolburga, on one of
which sat Aliris, the youthful King of Bucharia, and on the
other was, in a few minutes, to bo placed the most beautiful
Princess in the world. Immediately upon the entrance of
Lalla Rookh into the saloon, the monarch descended from
his throne to meet her ; but, scarcely had he time to take
158 LALLA ROOKH,
her hand in his, when she screamed with surprise, and faint-
ed at his feet. It was Ferarnorz himself that stood before
her! Feramorz was, himself, the Sovereign of Bucharia,
who in this disguise had accompanied his young bride from
Delhi, and, having won her love as an humble minstrel, now
amply deserved to enjoy it as a King.
The consternation of Fadladeen at this discovery was, for
the moment, almost pitiable. But change of opinion is a re-
source too convenient in courts for this experienced courtier
not to have learned to avail himself of it. His criticisms
were all, of course, recanted instantly ; he was seized witli
an admiration of the King's verses, as unbounded as, he
begged him to believe, it was disinterested ; and the follow-
ing week saw him in possession of an additional place, swear-
ing by all the Saints of Islam that never had there existed
so great a poet as the monarch Aliris, and ready to prescribe
his favourite regimen of the chabuk for every man, women,
and child, that dared to think otherwise.
Of the happiness of the King and Queen of Bucharia, af-
ter such a beginning, there can be but little doubt ; and,
among the lesser symptoms, it is recorded of Lalla Kookh,
that, to the day of her death, in memory of their delightful
journey, she never called the King by any other name than
Furamorz.
MISCELLANEOUS POEMS.
TO A BOY,
WITH A WATCH.
Written for a Friend.
Is it not sweet, beloved youth,
To rove through Erudition's bowers.
And cull the golden fruits of truth,
And gather Fancy's brilliant flowers ?
And is it not more sweet than this.
To feel thy parent's hearts approving,
And pay them back in sums of bliss
The dear, the endless debt rf loving ?
It must be so to thee, my youth ;
With this idea toil is lighter ;
This sweetens all the fruits of truth,
And makes the flowers of fancy brighter!
The little gift we send thee, boy,
May sometimes teach thy soul to ponder,
If indolence or syren joy
Should ever tempt that soul to wander.
'Twill tell thee that the winged day
Can ne'er be chain'd by man's endeavour;
That life and time shall fade away,
While heav'n and virtue bloom for ever !
MOORE'S POEMS.
FRAGMENT OF COLLEGE EXERCISES.
" Nobilitas sola est atque nuica villas," Juv.
MARK those proud boasters of a splendid line,
Like gilded ruins, mouldering while they shine,
How heavy sits that weight of alien show,
Like martial helm upon an infant's brow ;
Those borrow'd splendours, whose contrasting light
Throws back the native shades in deeper night.
Ask the proud train who glory's shade pursue,
Where are the arts by which that glory grew ?
The genuine virtues that with eagle-gaze
Sought young Renown in all her orient blaze !
Where is the heart by chymic truth refin'd,
The exploring soul, whose eye had read mankind ?
Where are the links that twin'd, with heav'nly art,
His country's interest round the patriot's heart ?
Where is the tongue that scatter'd words of fire ?
The spirit breathing through the poet's lyre ?
Do these descend with all that tide of fame
Which vainly waters an unfruitful name ?
THE SAME.
' Justum bellum quibus necessarium, et pia arma quibus nalla nisi in
arniis relinquitur spes." Livy.
Is there no call, no consecrating cause,
Approv'd by Heav'n, ordain'd by nature's laws,
Where justice flies the herald of our way,
And truth's pure beams upon the banners play ?
Yes, there's a call sweet as an angel's breath
To slumb'ring babes, or innocence in death ;
And urgent as the tongue of heav'n within,
When the minds balance trembles upon sin.
Oh! 'tis our country's voice, whose claim should meet
An echo in the soul's most deep retreat ;
Along the heart's responding string should run,
Nor let a tone there 'vibrate but the one!
MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 161
SONG.*
MARY, I believed thee true,
And I was blest in thus believing ;
But now I mourn that e'er I knew
A girl so fair and so deceiving !
Fare thee well!
Few have ever lov'd like me,
Oh ! I have lov'd thee too sincerely !
And few have e'er deceiv'd like thee,
Alas ! deceiv'd me too severely !
Fare thee well !
Fare thee well ! yet think awhile
On one whose bosom bleeds to doubt thee ;
Who now would rather trust that smile,
And die with thee than live without thee !
Fare thee well !
Fare thee well ! I'll think of thee,
Thou leav'st me many a bitter token ;
For see, distracting woman ! see,
My peace is gone, my heart is broken !
Fare thee well 1
SONG,
ON THE BIRTH-DAY OF I'RS. .
Written in Ireland.
OF all my happiest hours of joy,
And even I have had my measure,
"When hearts were full, and ev'ry eye
Has kindled with the beams of pleasure !
Such hours as this I ne'er was given.
So dear to friendship, dear to blisses ;
Young Love himself looks down from heaven,
To smile on such a day as this is !
Then oh ! my friends, this hour improve,
Let's feel as if we ne'er could sever!
And may the birth of her we love
Be thus with joy remember'd ever !
Oh ! banish ev'ry thought to-night,
Which could disturb our soul's communion !
To the Scotch air "Gula Water."
MOORE'S POEMS.
Abandon'd thus to dear delight,'
We'll e'en for once forget the Union !
On that let statesmen try their pow'rs,
And tremble o'er the rights they'd die for ;
The union of the soul be ours,
'Bove ev'ry union else we sigh for !
Then oh ! my friends, &c.
In ev'ry eye around I mark
The feelings of the heart o'erflowing ;
*rom ev ry soul I catch the spark
Of sympathy, in friendship glowing !
Oh ! could such moments ever fly ;
* Oh ! that we ne'er were doom'd to lose em ;
And all as bright as Charlotte's eye,
And all as pure as Charlotte's bosom.
But oh ! my friends, &c.
For me, whate'er my span of years,
Whatever sun may light my roving ;
Whether I waste my life in tears,
Or live, as now, for mirth and loving !
This day shall come with aspect kind,
Wherever fate may cast your rover ;
He'll think of those he left behind,
And drink a health to bliss that's over!
Then oh I my friends, &c.
TO A LADY,
WITH SOME MANUSCRIPT POEMS,
On leaving the country.
WHEN, casting many a look behind,
I leave the friends I cherish here
Perchance some other friends to find,
But surely finding none so dear
Haply the little simple page,
Which votive thus I've trac'd for thee,
May now and then a look engage,
And steal a moment's thought for me.
But, oh! in pity let not those
Whose hearts are not of gentle mould,
Let not the eye that seldom flows
With feeling tear, my song behold.
MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 163
For, trust me; they who never melt
With pity, never melt with love ;
And they will frown at all I've felt,
And all my loving lays reprove.
But if, perhaps, some gentler mind,
Which rather loves to praise than blame,
Should in my page an interest find,
And linger kindly on my name ;
Tell him, or, oh ! if, gentler still,
By female lips my name be bless'd :
Ah ! where do all affections thrill
So sweetly as in woman's breast ?
Tell her, that he whose loving themes
Her eye indulgent wanders o'er,
Could sometimes wake from idle dreams,
And bolder flights of fancy soar ;
That Glory oft would claim the lay,
And Friendship oft his numbers move ;
But whisper then, that, "sooth to say,
His sweetest song was giv'n to Love !"
TO THE LARGE AND BEAUTIFUL MISS
IN ALLUSION TO SOME PABTNERSHIP IN A LOTTERY SHAKE.
IN wedlock a species of lottery lies,
Where in blanks and in prizes we deal ;
But how comes it that you, such a capital prize,
Should so long have remained in the wheel !
If ever, by Fortune's indulgent decree,
To me such a ticket should roll,
A sixteenth, Heav'n knows ! were sufficient for me ;
For what could I do with the whole ?
INCONSTANCY.
AND do I then wonder that Julia deceives me,
When surely there's nothing in nature more common?
She vows to be true, and while vowing she leaves me
But could I expect any more from a woman?
Oh, woman ! your heart is a pitiful treasure ;
And Mahomet's doctrine was not too severe,
1C4 MOORE'S POEMS.
When he thought you were only materials of pleasure,
And reason and thinking were out of your sphere.
By your heart, when the fond sighing lover can win it,
He thinks that an age of anxiety's paid ;
But, oh ! while he's blest, let him die on the minnte
If he live but a day, he'll be surely betray'd.
TO JULIA.
THOUGH Fate, my girl, may bid us part,
Our souls it cannot, shall not sever ;
The heart will seek its kindred heart,
And cling to it as close as ever.
But must we, must we part indeed ?
Is all our dream of rapture over ?
And does not Julia's bosom bleed
To leave so dear, so fond a lover ?
Does she too mourn ? Perhaps she may ;
Perhaps she weeps our blisses fleeting :
But why is Julia's eye so gay,
If Julia's heart like mine is beating ?
I oft have lov'd the brilliant glow
Of rapture in her blue eye streaming
But can the bosom bleed with woe,
"While joy is in the glances beaming ?
No, no ! Yet, love, I will not chide,
Although your heart were fond of roving :
Nor that, nor all the world beside,
Could keep your faithful boy from loving.
You'll soon be distant from his eye,
And, with you, all that's worth possessing.
Oh ! then it will be sweet to die,
When life has lost its only blessing I
NATUKE'S LABELS.
A FRAGMENT.
IN vain we fondly strive to trace
The soul's reflection in the face ;
In vain we dwell on lines and crosses,
Crooked mouth, or short proboscis ;
MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 196
Boobies have look'd as wise and bright
As Plato or the Stagirite :
And many a sage and learned skull
Has peep'd through windows dark and dull !
Since then, though art do all it can,
We ne'er can reach the inward man,
Nor inward woman, from without
(Though, ma'am, you smile, as if in doubt),
I think 'twere well if Nature could
(And Nature could, if Nature would)
Some pretty short descriptions write,
In tablets large, in black and white,
Which she might hang about our throttles,
Like labels upon physic-bottles.
There we might read of all But stay
As learned dialectics say,
The argument most apt and ample
For common use, is the example.
For instance, then, if Nature's care
Had not arrang'd those traits so fair,
Which speak the soul of Lucy L-nd-n,
This is the label she'd have pinn'd on.
LABEL FIRST.
Within this vase there lies enshrin'd
The purest, brightest gem of mind !
Though Feeling's hand may sometimes throw
Upon its charms the shade of woe,
The lustre of the gem, when veil'd,
Shall be but mellow'd, not conceal'd.
Now, sirs, imagine, if you're able,
That Nature wrote a second label,
They're her own words at least suppose so-
And boldly pin it on Pomposo.
LABEL SECOND.
When I compos'd the fustian brain
Of this redoubted Captain Vain,
I had at hand but few ingredients,
And so was forc'd to use expedients.
I put therein some small discerning,
A grain of sense, a grain of learning ;
And when I saw the void behind,
I fill'd it up with froth and wind !
169 MOORE'S POEMS.
TO M ; .
SWEET lady ! look not thus again :
Those little pouting smiles recall
A maid remember'd now with pain,
"Who was my love, my life, my all I
Oh ! while this heart delirious took
Sweet poison from her thrilling eye,
Thus would she pout, and lisp, and look,
And I would hear, and gaze, and sigh !
Yes, I did love her madly love
She was the sweetest, hest deceiver 1
And oft she swore she'd never rove !
And I was destin'd to believe her I
Then, lady, do not wear the smile
Of her whose smile could thus betray.
Alas ! I think the lovely wile
Again might steal my heart away.
And when the spell that stole my mind
On lips so pure as thine I see,
I fear the heart which she resign'd
Will err again, and fly to thee 1
TO JULIA.
MOCK me no more with love's beguiling drearn,
A dream, I find, illusory as sweet :
One smile of friendship, nay, of cold esteem,
Is dearer far than passion's bland deceit !
I've heard you oft eternal truth declare ;
Your heart was only mine, I once believ'd.
Ah ! shall I say that all your vows were air !
And must I say, my hopes were all deceiv'd ?
Vow, then, no longer that our souls are twin'd,
That all our joys are felt with mutual zeal :
Julia ! 'tis pity, pity makes you kind ;
You know I love, and you would seem to feel.
TO EOSA.
DOES the harp of Rosa slumber ?
Once it breath'd the sweetest number
Never does a wilder song
MISCELLANEOUS POEMS.
Steal the breezy lyre along,
When the wind, in odours dying,
Woos it with enarnour'd sighing.
Does the harp of Eosa cease ?
Once it told a tale of peace
To her lover's throbbing breast
Then he was divinely blest 1
Ah ! but Kosa loves no more,
Therefore Kosa's song is o'er ;
And her harp neglected lies ;
And her boy forgotten sighs.
Silent harp forgotten lover
Rosa's love and song are over !
SYMPATHY.
TO JULIA.
OUB hearts, my love, were doom'd to Vi
The genuine twins of sympathy :
They live with one sensation :
In joy or grief, but most in love,
Our heart-strings musically move,
And thrill with like vibration.
How often have I heard thee say,
Thy vital pulse shall cease to play
When mine no more is moving !
Since, now, to feel a joy alone
Were worse to thee than feeling none :
Such sympathy in loving !
TO JULIA.
I SAW the peasant's hand unkind
From yonder oak the ivy sever ;
They seem'd in very being twin'd ;
Yet now the oak is fresh as ever?
Not so the widow'd ivy shines :
Torn from its dear and only stay,
In drooping widowhood it pines,
And scatters all its blooms away I
Thus. Julia, did our hearts entwine,
Till fate disturb'd their tender ties :
Thus gay indifference blooms in tliine,
Wliilo mine, deserted, droops and dies, 1
1G8 MOORE'S POEMS.
ON THE DEATH OF A LADY.
SWEET spirit ! if thy airy sleep
Nor sees my tears, nor hears my sighs,
Oh ! I will weep, in lux'ry weep,
Till the last heart's-drop fills mine eyes.
But if thy sainted soul can feel,
And mingles in our misery ;
Then, then, my breaking heart I'll seal
Thou shalt not hear one sigh from me !
The beam of morn was on the stream,
But sullen clouds the day deform :
Thou wert, indeed, that morning beam,
And death, alas ! that sullen storm.
Thou wert not form'd for living here,
For thou wert kindred with the sky ;
Yet, yet we held thee all so dear,
We thought thou wert not form'd to die !
WRITTEN IN THE BLANK LEAF OF A LADY'S
COMMON-PLACE BOOK.
HEBE is one leaf reserv'd for me,
From all tliy sweet memorials free ;
And here my simple song might tell
The feelings thou must guess so well.
But could I thus, within thy mind,
One little vacant corner find,
Where no impression yet is seen,
Where no memorial yet has been,
Oh ! it should be my sweetest care
To write my name for ever there !
TO EOSA.
LIKE who trusts to summer skies,
And puts his little bark to sea,
Is he who, lur'd by smiling eyes,
Consigns his simple heart to theo.
For fickle is the summer wind,
And sadly may the bark be tost ;
For thou art sure to change thy mind,
And then the wretched heart is lost
MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 16l
TO ROSA.
WEITTEN DTJEINQ ILLNESS.
THE wisest soul, by anguish torn,
Will soon unlearn the lore it knew ;
And when the shrining casket's worn,
The gem within will tarnish too.
But love's an essence of the soul,
Which sinks not with this chain of clay ;
Which throbs beyond the chill control
Of with 'ring pain or pale decay.
And surely, when the touch of Death
Dissolves the spirit's mortal ties,
Love still attends the soaring breath,
And makes it purer for the skies !
Oh, Kosa ! when, to seek its sphere,
My soul shall leave this orb of men,
That love it found so blissful here
ShaU be its best of blesses then !
And, as in fabled dreams of old,
Some airy genius, child of time,
Presided o'er each star that roll'd,
And track'd it through its path sublime ;
So thou, fair planet, not unled,
Shalt through thy mortal orbit stray ;
Thy lover's shade, divinely wod,
Shall linger round thy wand'ring way.
Let other spirits range the sky,
And brighten in the solar gem ;
I'll bask beneath that lucid eye,
Nor envy worlds of suns to them !
No 1 when that heart shall cease to beat.
And when that breath at length is free ;
Then, Rosa, soul to soul we'll meet,
And mingle to eternity 1
ANACREONTIC.
" f n lachrymas rerterat omne merura." Tib. lib. i. cleg. &.
PKESS the grape, and let it pour
Around the board its purple show'r ;
170 MOORE'S POEMS.
And while the drops my goblet steep,
I'll think in woe the clusters weep.
"Weep on, weep on, my pouting vine !
Heaven grant no tears, but tears of wine.
"Weep on ; and, as thy sorrows flow,
I'll taste the luxury of woe I
ANACKEONTIO.
FKJEND of my soul ! this goblet sip,
'Twill chase that pensive tear;
'Tis not so sweet as woman's lip,
But, oh ! 'tis more sincere.
Like her delusive beam,
'Twill steal away thy mind:
But, like Affection's dream,
It leaves no sting behind !
Come, twine the wreath, thy brows to shade;
These flow'rs were cull'd at noon ;
Like woman's love the rose will fade,
But, ah ! not half so soon !
For though the flower's decay'd,
Its fragrance is not o'er ;
But once when love's betray'd,
The heart can bloom no more !
"Neither do I condemn thee; go, and sin no more!" St Jof*n, viil
OH, woman ! if by simple wile
Thy soul has stray'd from honour's track,
'Tis mercy only can beguile,
By gentle ways, the wand'rer back.
The stain that on thy virtue lies,
"Wash'd by thy tears, may yet decay ;
As clouds that sully morning skies
May all be wept in show'rs away.
Go, go be innocent, and live
The tongues of men may wound thee sore ;
But Heav'n in pity can forgive,
And bids thee " go. and sin no more !"
MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 171
TO MISS ,
HER ASKING THE AUTHOB WHY SHE HAD SLEEPLESS NIGHTB?
I'LL ask the sylph who round thee flies,
And in thy breath his pinion dips,
"Who suns him in thy lucent eyes,
And faints upon thy sighing lips :
I'll ask him where's the veil of sleep
That us'd to shade thy looks of light ;
And why those eyes their vigil keep,
"When other suns are sunk in night ?
And I will say her angel breast
Has never throbb'd with guilty sting ;
Her bosom is the sweetest nest
Where Slumber could repose his wing
And I will say -her cheeks of flame,
Which glow like roses in the sun,
Have never felt a blush of shame,
Except for what her eyes have done !
Then tell me, why, thou child of air !
Does slumber from her eyelids rove ?
What is her heart's impassion'd care ?
Perhaps, oh, sylph ! perhaps 'tis love $
ELEGIAC STANZAS.
How sweetly could I lay my head
Within the cold grave's silent breast ;
Where Sorrow's tears no more are shed,
No more the ills of life molest.
For, ah ! my heart, how very soon
The glittering dreams of youth are past!
And, long before it reach its noon,
The sun of life is overcast.
TO JULIA,
ON HER BIRTH-DAT.
WHEN Time was entwining the garland of years.
Which to crown my beloved was given,
172 MOORES POEMS.
Though some of the leavea might be sullied with tears,
Yet the flow'rs were all gatker'd in heaven!
And long may this garland be sweet to the eye,
May its verdure for ever be new 1
Young Love shall enrich it with many a sigh,
And Pity shall nurse it with dew I
TO ROSA.
AND are you then a thing of art,
Enslaving all, and loving none ;
And have I strove to gain a heart
Which every coxcomb thinks his own ?
Do you thus seek to flirt a number,
And through a round of danglers run,
Because your heart's insipid slumber
Could never wake to feel for one ?
Tell me at once if this be true,
And I shall calm my jealous breast ;
Shall learn to join the dangling crew,
And share your simpers with the rest.
But if your heart be not so free,
Oh 1 if another share that heart,
Tell not the saddening tale to me,
But mingle mercy with your art.
THE SURPRISE.
CHLORIS, I swear, by all I ever swore,
That from this hour I shall not love thee more.
" What ! love no more ? Oh ! why this alter'd vow ? H
Because I cannot love thee more than now ?
THE BALLAD.
THOU hast sent me a flowery band,
And told me 'twas fresh from the field ;
That the leaves were untouch'd by the hand,
And the purest of odours would yield.
And indeed it was fragrant and fair;
But, if it were handled by thee,
MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 1 78
It would bloom with a livelier air,
And would surely be sweeter to mo !
Then take it, and let it entwine
Thy tresses, so flowing and bright ;
And each little flow'ret will shine
More rich than a gem to my sight.
Let the odorous gale of thy breath
Embalm it with many a sigh ;
Nay, let it be wither'd to death,
Beneath the warm noon of thine eye.
And, instead of the dew that it bears,
The dew dropping fresh from the tree ;
On its leaves let me number the tears
That Affection has stolen from thee 1
TO MRS ,
ON HEB BEAUTIFUL TBANSLATION OF VOITTJBE's KISS.
How heav'nly was the poet's doom,
To breathe his spirit through a kiss ;
And lose within so sweet a tomb
The trembling messenger of bliss !
And, ah ! his soul return'd to feel
That it again could ravish'd be ;
For in the kiss that thou didst steal,
His life and soul have fled to thee !
TO A LADY,
- ON HEB SINGING.
THY song has taught my heart to feel
Those soothing thoughts of heav'nly love
Which o'er the sainted spirits steal
When list'ning to the spheres above
When, tir'd of life and misery,
I wish to sigh my latest breath,
Oh, Emma ! I will fly to thee,
And thou shalt sing me into death !
And if along thy lip and cheek
That smile of heav'nly softness play,
174 MOORE'S POEMS.
Which, all ! forgive a mind that's weak,
So oft has stol'n iny inind away ;
Thou'lt seem an angel of the sky,
That comes to charm me into bliss :
I'll gaze and die Who would not die,
If death were half so sweet as this ?
A DEEAM.
I THOUGHT this heart consuming lay
On Cupid's burning shrine :
I thought he stole thy heart away,
And plac'd it near to mine.
I saw thy heart begin to melt,
Like ice before the sun ;
Till both a glow congenial felt,
And mingled into one !
WKITTEN IN A COMMON-PLACE BOOK,
CALLED " THE BOOK OF FOLLIES ;"
In which every one that opened it should contribute something.
TO THE BOOK OF FOLLIES.
THIS tribute's from a wretched elf,
Who hails thee, emblem of himself !
The book of life, which I have trac'd,
Has been, like thee, a motley waste
Of follies scribbled o'er and o'er,
One folly bringing hundreds more.
Some have indeed been writ so neat,
In characters so fair, so sweet,
That those who judge not too severely,
Have said they lov'd such follies dearly !
Yet still, book ! the allusion stands :
For these were penn'd by female hands ;
The rest, alas ! I own the truth,
Have all been scribbled so uncouth,
That Prudence, with a withering look,
Disdainful flings away the book.
Like thine, its pages here and there
Have oft been stain'd with blots of care:
And sometimes hours of peace, I own,
MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 17*
Upon some fairer leaves have shown,
White as the snowings of that heaven
By which those hours of peace were given.
But now no longer such, oh ! such
The blast of Disappointment's touch !
No longer now those hours appear ;
Each leaf is sullied by a tear :
Blank, blank is ev'ry page with care,
Not e'en a folly brightens there.
Will they yet brighten ? Never, never !
Then shut the book, alas ! for ever I
THE TEAK.
ON beds of snow the moonbeam slept,
And chilly was the midnight gloom,
When by the damp grave Ellen wept
Sweet maid 1 it was her Lindor's tomb 1
A warm tear gush'd, the wintry air
Congeal'd it as it flow'd away :
All night it lay an ice-drop there,
At morn it glitter'd in the ray !
An angel, wand'ring from her sphere,
Who saw this bright, this frozen gem,
To dew-ey'd Pity brought the tear,
And hung it on her diadem 1
TO JULIA WEEPING.
OH ! if your tears are giv'n to care,
If real woe disturbs your peace,
Come to my bosom, weeping fair !
And I will bid your weeping cease.
But if with Fancy's vision'd fears,
With dreams of woe your bosom thrill ;
You look so lovely in your tears,
That I must bid you drop them still !
SONG.
Have you not seen the timid tear
Steal trembling from mine eye ?
MOORE'S POEMS.
Have you not mark'd the flush of fear,
Or caught the murmur'd sigh ?
And can you think my love is chill,
Nor fix'd on you alone ?
And can you rend, by doubting still,
A heart so much your own ?
To you my soul's affections move
Devoutly, warmly, true ;
My life has been a task of love,
One long, long thought of you.
If all your tender faith is o'er,
If still my truth you'll try ;
Alas ! I know but one proof more,
I'll bless your name, and die !
THE SHIELD.
OH ! did you not hear a voice of death ?
And did you not mark the paly form
Which rode on the silver mist of the heath,
And sung a ghostly dirge in the storm ?
Was it a wailing bird of the gloom,
Which shrieks on the house of woe all night
Or a shivering fiend that flew to a tomb,
To howl and to feed till the glance t>f light ?
'Twas not the death-bird's cry from the wood,
Nor shivering fiend that hung in the blast ;
'Twas the shade of Helderic man of blood
It screams for the guilt of days that are past !
See ! how the red, red lightning strays,
And scares the gliding ghosts of the heath !
Now on the leafless yew it plays,
Where hangs the shield of this son of death !
That shield is blushing with murderous stains ;
Long has it hung from the cold yew's spray ;
It is blown by storms and wash'd by rains,
But neither can take the blood away 1
Oft by that yew, on the blasted field,
Demons dance to the red moon's light ;
While the damp boughs creak, and the swinging shield
Sings to the raving spirit of night 1
MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 177
PTTT me, love ! I'll pity thee,
If thou indeed hast felt like me.
All, all my bosom's peace is o'er !
At night, which was my hour of calm,
When from the page of classic lore,
From the pure fount of ancient lay,
My soul has drawn the placid balm,
"Which charm'd its little griefs away ;
Ah ! there I find that balm no more.
Those spells, which make us oft forget
The fleeting troubles 'of the day,
In deeper sorrows only whet
The stings they cannot tear away,
When to my pillow rack'd I fly,
With wearied sense and wakeful eye,
While my brain maddens, where, where,
Is that serene consoling pray'r,
Which once has harbinger'd my rest,
When the still soothing voice of Heav'n
Has seem'd to whisper in my breast,
" Sleep on, thy errors are forgiv'n !"
No, though I still in semblance pray,
My thoughts are wandering far away ;
And e'en the name of Deity
Is murmur'd out in sighs for thee !
ELEGIAC STANZAS.
SUPPOSED TO BE WBITTEN BY JULIA ON THE DEATH OF HER
BEOTHEB.
THOUGH sorrow long has worn my heart ;
Though every day I've counted o'er
Has brought a new and quick'ning smart
To wounds that rankled fresh before ;
Though in my earliest life bereft
Of many a link by nature tied ;
Though hope deceiv'd, and pleasure left ;
Though friends betray 'd, and foes belied ;
I still had hopes for hope will stay
After the sunset of delight ;
So like the star which ushers day,
We scarce can think it heralds night 1
ITS MOORE'S POEMS.
I hop'd that, after all its strife,
My weary heart at length should rest,
And, fainting from the waves of life,
Find harbour in a brother's breast.
That brother's breast was warm with truth,
Was bright with honour's purest ray ;
He was the dearest, gentlest youth
Oh 1 why then was he torn away ?
He should have stay'd, have linger'd here,
To calm his Julia's every woe ;
He should have chas'd each bitter tear,
And not have caus'd those tears to flow.
We saw his youthful soul expand
In blooms of genius, nurs'd by taste ;
While Science, with a fost'ring hand,
Upon his brow her chaplet plac'd.
We saw his gradual op'ning mind
Enrich'd by all the graces dear ;
Enlighten'd, social, and refin'd,
In friendship firm, in love sincere.
Such was the youth we lov'd so well ;
Such were the hopes that fate denied
We lov'd, but ah ! we could not tell
How deep, how dearly, till he died !
Close as the fondest links could strain,
Twin'd with my very heart he grew ;
And by that fate which breaks the chain,
The heart is almost broken too !
A NIGHT THOUGHT.
How oft a cloud, with envious veil,
Obscures yon bashful light,
Which seems so modestly to steal
Along the waste of night !
'Tis thus the world's obtrusive wrongs
Obscure with malice keen
Some timid heart, which only longs
To live and die unseen I
MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 179
ELEGIAC STANZAS.
"Sicjuvatperire."
WHEN wearied wretches sink to sleep,
How heavenly soft their slumbers lie !
How sweet is death to those who weep,
To those who weep and long to die !
Saw you the soft and grassy bed,
Where flow'rets deck the green earth's breast ?
'Tis there I wish to lay my head,
'Tis there I wish to sleep at rest !
Oh ! let not tears embalm my tomb,
None but the dews by twilight given !
Oh ! let not sighs disturb the gloom,
None but the whispering winds of heaveu I
TO .
WITH all my soul, then, let us part,
Since both are anxious to be free ;
And I will send you home your heart,
If you will send back mine to me.
We've had some happy hours together,
But joy must often change its wing ;
And spring would be but gloomy weather,
If we had nothing else but spring.
'Tis not that I expect to find
A more devoted, fond, and true one,
With rosier cheek or sweeter mind
Enough for me that she's a new one.
A REFLECTION AT SEA.
SEE how, beneath the moonbeam's smile,
Yon little billow heaves its breast,
And foams and sparkles for awhile,
And murmuring then subsides to rest.
Thus man, the sport of bliss and care,
Rises on Time's eventful sea ;
And, having swell'd a moment there,
Thus melts into eternity !
M
180 MOORE'S POEMS.
COME, tell me where the maid is found,
Whose heart can love without deceit,
And I will range the world around,
To sigh one moment at her feet.
Oh ! tell me where 's her sainted home,
What air receives her blessed sigh,
A pilgrimage of years I'll roam
To catch one sparkle of her eye !
And if her cheek be rosy bright,
While truth within her bosom lies,
I'll gaze upon her morn and night,
Till my heart leave me through my eyes!
Show me on earth a thing so rare,
I'll own all miracles are true ;
To make one maid sincere and fair,
Oh! 'tis the utmost Heav'n can do!
SONG.
SWEETEST love ! I'll not forget thee ;
Time shall only teach my heart,
Fonder, warmer to regret thee,
Lovely, gentle as thou art !
Farewell, Bessy !
Yet, oh ! yet again well meet, love,
And repose our hearts at last :
Oh ! sure 'twill then be sweet, love,
Calm to think on sorrows past.
Farewell, Bessy !
Still I feel my heart is breaking,
When I think I stray from thee,
Eound the world that quiet seeking,
Which I fear is not for me !
Farewell, Bessy !
Calm to peace thy lover's bosom
Can it, dearest ! must it be ?
Thou within an hour shalt lose him,
He for ever loses thee!
Farewell, Bessy I
MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 181
SONG.
THINK on that look of humid ray,
Which for a moment mix'd with mine,
And for that moment seem'd to say,
"I dare not, or I would be thine*!"
Think, think on ev'ry smile and glance,
On all thou hast to charm and move ;
And then forgive my bosom's trance,
And tell me 'tis not sin to love 1
Oh ! not to love thee were the sin ;
For sure, if Heav'n's decrees be done,
Thou, thou art destin'd still to win,
As I was destin'd to be won 1
SONG.
WHEN Time, who steals our years away,
Shall steal our pleasures too,
The mem'ry of the past will stay,
And half our joys renew.
Then, Chloe, when thy beauty's flow'r
Shall feel the wintry air,
Eemembrance will recall the hour
When thou alone wert fair !
Then talk no more of future gloom ;
Our joys shall always last ;
For hope shall brighten days to come,
And mem'ry gild the past !
Come, Chloe, fill the genial bowl,
I drink to love and thee :
Thou never canst decay in soul,
Thou'lt still be young for me.
And as thy lips the tear-drop chase,
Which on my cheek they find,
So hope shall steal away the trace
Which sorrow leaves behind I
Then fill the bowl away with gloom !
Our joys shall always last ;
For hope shall brighten days to come,
And mem'ry gild the past !
182 MOORE'S POEMS.
But mark, at thought of future years
When love shall lose its soul,
My Chloe drops her timid tears,
They mingle with my bowl !
How like this bowl of wine, my fair,
Our loving life shall fleet ;
Though tears may sometimes mingle there,
The draught will still be sweet !
Then fill the bowl ! away with gloom !
Our joys shall always last ;
For hope will brighten days to come,
And mem'ry gild the past !
EEUBEN AND EOSE.
A TALE OF ROMANCE.
THE darkness which hung upon Willumberg's walls
Has long been remember'd with awe and dismay !
For years not a sunbeam had play'd in its halls,
And it seem'd as shut out from the regions of day ;
Though the valleys were brighten'd by many a beam,
Yet none could the woods of the castle illume ;
And the lightning which flash'd on the neighbouring stream
Flew back, as if fearing to enter the gloom !
" Oh ! when shall this horrible darkness disperse ?"
Said Willumberg's lord to the seer of the cave ;
" It can never dispel," said the wizard of verse,
" Till the bright star of chivalry's sunk in the wave 1"
And who was the bright star of chivalry then ?
Who could be but Keuben, the flow'r of the age ?
For Eeuben was first in the combat of men,
Though Youth had scarce written his name on her page.
For Willumberg's daughter his bosom had beat,
For Eose, who was bright as the spirit of dawn,
When with wand dropping diamonds, and silvery feet,
It walks o'er the flow'rs of the mountain and lawn 1
Must Eose, then, from Eeuben so fatally sever ?
Sad, sad were the words of the man in the cave,
That darkness should cover the castle for ever,
Or Eeuben be sunk in the merciless wave !
She flew to the wizard, "And tell me, oh tell !
Shall my Eeuben no more be restor'd to my eyes ?"
MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 183
" Yes, yes, when a spirit shall toll the great bell
Of the mouldering abbey, your Eeubeu shall rise !"
Twice, thrice he repeated " Your Reuben shall rise !"
And Rose felt a moment's release from her pain ;
She wip'd, while she listen'd, the tears from her eyes,
And she hop'd she might yet see her hero again !
Her hero could smile at the terrors of death,
When he felt that he died for the sire of his Rose ;
To the Oder he flew, and there plunging beneath,
In the lapse of the billows soon found his repose.
How strangely the order of destiny falls !
Not long in the waters the warrior lay,
When a sunbeam was seen to glance over the walls,
And the castle of Willumberg bask'd in the ray !
All, all but the soul of the maid was in light,
There sorrow and terror lay gloomy and blank :
Two days did she wander, and all the long night,
In quest of her love, on the wide river's bank.
Oft, oft did she pause for the toll of the bell,
And she heard but the breathings of night in the air
Long, long did she gaze on the watery swell,
And she saw but the foam of the white billow there
And often as midnight its veil would undraw,
As she look'd at the light of the moon in the stream,
She thought 'twas his helmet of silver she saw,
As the curl of the surge glitter'd high in the beam.
And now the third night was begemming the sky,
Poor Rose on the cold dewy margent reclin'd,
There wept till the tear almost froze in her eye,
When, hark ! 'twas the bell that came deep in the wind
She startled, and saw, through the glimmering shade,
A form o'er the waters in majesty glide ;
She knew 'twas her love, though his cheek was decay'd,
And his helmet of silver was wash'd by the tide.
Was this what the seer of the cave had foretold ?
Dim, dim through the phantom the moon shot a gleam
'Twas Reuben, but ah ! ho was deathly and cold,
And fleeted away like the spell of a dream !
Twice, thrice did he rise, and as often she thought
From the bank to embrace him, but never, ah ! novel
Then springing beneath, at a billow she caught,
And sunk to repose on its bosom for ever 1
184 MOORE'S POEMS.
THE RING.
A TALE.
THE happy day at length arriv'd
When Rupert was to wed
The fairest maid in Saxony,
Ahd take her to his bed.
As soon as morn was in the sky,
The feast and sports began ;
The men admired the happy maid,
The maids the happy man.
In many a sweet device of* mirth
The day was pass'd along ;
And- some the featly dance amus'd,
And some the dulcet song.
The younger maids with Isabel
Disported through the bowers,
And deck'd her robe, and crown'd her head
With motley bridal flowers.
The matrons all in rich attire,
Within the castle walls,
Sat listening to the choral strains
That echo'd through the halls.
Young Rupert and his friends repair 'd
Unto a spacious court,
To strike the bounding tennis-ball
In feat and manly sport.
The bridegroom on his finger had
The wedding-ring so bright,
Which was to grace the lily hand
Of Isabel that night.
And fearing he might break the gem,
Or lose it in the play,
He look'd around the court, to see
Where he the ring might lay.
Now in the court a statue stood,
Which there full long had been :
It was a Heathen goddess, or
Perhaps a Heathen queen.
Upon its marble finger then
. He tried the ring to fit ;
And, thinking it was safest thera,
Thereon he fasten'd it.
MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 185
And now the tennis sports went on,
Till they were wearied all,
And messengers announc'd to them
Their dinner in the hall.
Young Rupert for his wedding-ring
Unto the statue went ;
But, oh ! how was he shock'd to find
The marble finger bent !
The hand was clos'd upon the ring
With firm and mighty clasp ;
tn vain he tried, and tried, and tried,
He could not loose the grasp !
How sore surpris'd was Rupert's miad,
As well his mind might be ;
" I'll come," quoth he, " at night again,
"When none are here to see."
He went unto the feast, and much
He thought upon his ring ;
And much he wonder'd what could mean
So very strange a thing !
The feast was o'er, and to the court
He went without delay,
Resolv'd to break the marble hand,
And force the ring away !
But mark a stranger wonder still
The ring was there no more ;
Yet was the marble hand ungrasp'd,
And open as before !
He search'd the base, and all the court,
And nothing could he find,
But to the castle did return
With sore bewilder'd mind.
Within he found them all in mirth,
The night in dancing flew ;
The youth another ring procur'd,
And none the adventure knew.
And now the priest has join'd their hands
The hours of night advance !
Rupert almost forgets to think
Upon the morn's mischance.
And here my song should leave them both,
JSIor let the rest be told,
But for the horrid, horrid tale
it yet has to unfold !
186 MOORE'S POEMS.
Soon Rupert, 'twixt his bride and him,
A death-cold carcass found ;
He saw it not, but thought he felt
Its arms embrace him round.
He started up, and then return'd,
But found the phantom still ;
In vain he shrunk, it clasp'd him round,
TVith damp and deadly chill !
And when he bent, the earthly lips
A kiss of horror gave ;
'Twas like the smell from charnel vaults,
Or from the mould'ring grave !
Ill-fated Rupert, wild and loud
Thou criedst to thy wife,
" Oh ! save me from this horrid fiend,
My Isabel! my life!"
But Isabel had nothing seen,
She look'd around in vain ;
And much she mourn'd the mad conceit
That rack'd her Rupert's brain.
At length from this invisible
These words to Rupert came :
(And oh ! while he did hear the words,
"What terrors shook his frame !)
" Husband ! husband ! I've the ring
Thou gav'st to-day to me ;
And thou'rt to me for ever wed,
As I am wed to thee !"
And all the night the demon lay
Cold-chilling by his side,
And strain'd him with such deadly grasp,
He thought he should have died !
But when the dawn of day was near,
The horrid phantom fled,
And left the affrighted youth to weep
By Isabel in bed.
All, all that day a gloomy cloud
Was seen on Rupert's brows ;
Fair Isabel was likewise sad,
But strove to cheer her spouso.
At length the second night arriv'd,
Again their couch they press'd ;
Poor Rupert hop'd that all was o'er,
And look'd for peace and rest.
MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 187
But oil ! when midnight came, again
The fiend was at his side,
And, as it strain'd him in its grasp,
With howl exulting cried,
" Husband ! husband ! I've the ring,
The ring thou gav'st to me ;
And thou'rt to me for ever wed,
As I am wed to thee !"
In agony of wild despair,
He started from the bed ;
And thus to his bewilder'd wife
The trembling Kupert said :
" Oh Isabel ! dost thou not see
A shape of horrors here,
That strains me with a deadly kiss,
And claims me as its dear ?"
" No, no, my love ! my Rupert, I
No shape of horrors see ;
And much I mourn such phantasy
Should e'er be thought by thee ! T>
This night, just like the night before,
In terrors pass'd away,
Nor did the demon vanish thenco
Before the dawn of day.
Says Rupert, then, " My Isabel,
Dear partner of my woe,
To Father Austin's holy cave
This instant will I go."
Now Austin was a reverend man,
Who acted wonders maint,
Whom all the country round believ'd
A devil or a saint !
To Father Austin's holy cave
Then Rupert went full straight,
And told him all, and ask'd him how
To remedy his fate.
The father heard the youth, and then
Retir'd awhile to pray ;
And having pray'd for half an hour,
Return'd, and thus did say :
" There is a place where four roads meet,
Which I will tell to thee ;
Be there this eve, at fall of night,
And list what thou shalt see.
188 MOORE'S POEMS.
" Thou'lt see a group of figures pass
In strange disorder'd crowd,
Trav'ling by torch-light through the roads,
With noises strange and loud.
" And one that's high above the rest,
Terrific towering o'er,
Will make thee know him at a glance,
So I need say no more.
" To him from me these tablets give,
They'll soon be understood ;
Thou need'st not fear, but give them straight,
I've scrawl'd them with my blood!"
The night-fall came, and Eupert all
In pale amazement went
To where the cross-roads met, and he
Was by the Father sent.
And lo ! a group of figures came
In strange disorder'd crowd,
Trav'ling by torch-light through the roads,
With noises strange and loud.
And, as the gloomy train advanc'd,
Rupert beheld from far
A female form of wanton mien
Seated upon a car.
And Rupert, as he gaz'd upon
The loosely-vested dame,
Thought of the marble statue's look,
For hers was just the same.
Behind her walk'd a hideous form,
With eyeballs flashing death ;
Whene'er he breath'd, a sulphur'd smolre
Came burning in his breath !
He seem'd the first of all the crowd,
Terrific towering o'er ;
" Yes, yes," said Rupert, " this is he.
And I need ask no more."
Then slow he went, and to this fiend
The tablets trembling gave,
Who look'd and read them with a yell
That would disturb the grave.
And when he saw the blood-scrawl'd name,
His eyes with fury shine ;
u I thought," cries he, "his time was out,
But he must soon be mine !"
MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 189
Then darting at the youth a look,
Which rent his soul with fear,
He went unto the female fiend,
And whisper'd in her ear.
The female fiend no sooner heard,
Than, with reluctant look,
The very ring that Kupert lost,
She from her finger took.
And, giving it unto the youth,
"With eyes that breath'd of hell,
She said, in that tremendous voice,
Which he remember'd well :
" In Austin's name take back the ring,
The ring thou gav'st to me ;
And thou'rt to me no longer wed,
Nor longer I to thee."
He took the ring, the rabble pass'd,
He home return'd again ;
His wife was then the happiest fair,
The happiest he of men.
SONG.
WHY does azure deck the sky ?
'Tis to be like thy looks of blue ;
Why is red the rose's dye?
Because it is thy blushes' hne.
All that's fair, by Love's decree,
Has been made resembling thee !
Why is falling snow so white,
But to be like thy bosom fair?
Why are solar beams so bright ?
That they may seem thy golden hair !
All that's bright, by Love's decree,
Has been made resembling thee !
Why are nature's beauties felt ?
Oh ! 'tis thine in her we see!
Why has music pow'r to melt ?
Oh ! because it speaks like thee.
All that's sweet, by Love's decree,
Has been made resembling thee 1
190 MOGUL'S POEMS.
MOBILITY.
FAMILIAR EPISTLE ADDRESSED TO J. ATKINSON, ESQ., M.E.I. A.
THOUGH long at school and college dozing,
On books of rhyme and books of prosing,
And copying from their moral pages,
Fine recipes for forming sages ;
Though long with those divines at school,
Who think to make us good by rule ;
"Who, in methodic forms advancing,
Teaching morality like dancing,
Tell us, for Heav'n or money's sake,
What steps we are through life to take :
Though thus, my friend, so long employ 'd,
And so much midnight oil destroy'd,
I must confess, my searches past,
I only learn'd to doubt at last.
I find the doctors and the sages
Have differ'd in all climes and ages,
And two in fifty scarce agree
On what is pure morality !
'Tis like the rainbow's shifting zone,
And every vision makes its own.
The doctors of the Porch advise,
As modes of being great and wise,
That we should cease to own or know
The luxuries that from feeling now.
" Keason alone must claim direction,
And Apathy's the soul's perfection.
Like a dull lake the heart must lie ;
Nor passion's gale nor pleasure's sigh,
Though heav'n the breeze, the breath supplied,
Must curl the wave or swell the tide !"
Such was the rigid Zeno's plan
To form his philosophic man ;
Such were the modes he taught mankind
To weed the garden of the mind ;
They tore away some weeds, 'tis true,
But all the flow'rs were ravish 'd too !
Now listen to the wily strains,
"Which on Gyrene's sandy plains,
When Pleasure, nymph with loosen'd zone,
Usurp'd the philosophic throne ;
MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 181
Hear what the courtly sage's * tongue
To his surrounding pupils sung :
" Pleasure's the only noble end
To which all human pow'rs should tend,
And Virtue gives her heav'nly lore,
But to make Pleasure please us more !
"Wisdom and she were both design'd
To make the senses more refin'd,
That man might revel, free from cloying,
Then most a sage, when most enjoying !"
Is this morality ? Oh, no !
E'en I a wiser path could show.
The flow'r within this vase confin'd,
The pure, the unfading flow'r of mind,
Must not throw all its sweets away
Upon a mortal mould of clay ;
No, no ! its richest breath should rise
In virtue's incense to the skies !
But thus it is, all sects we see
Have watch -words of morality : .
Some cry out Venus, others Jove ;
Here 'tis religion, there 'tis love !
But while they thus so widely wander,
While mystics dream, and doctors ponder ;
And some, in dialectics firm,
Seek virtue in a middle term ;
While thus they strive, in Heaven's defiance,
To chain morality with science ;
The plain good man, whose actions teach
More virtue than a sect can preach,
Pursues his course, unsagely blest,
His tutor whisp'ring in his breast
Nor could he act a purer part,
Though he had Tully all by heart ;
And when he drops the tear on woe,
He little knows or cares to know
That Epictetus blam'd that tear,
By Heav'n approv'd, to virtue dear !
Oh ! when I've seen the morning beam
Floating within the dimpled stream ;
While Nature, wak'ning from the night,
Has just put on her robes of light,
Have I, with cold optician's gaze,
Explor'd the doctrine of those rays ?
* Aristippua.
MOORE'S POEMS.
No, pedants, I have left to you
Nicely to sep'rate hue from hue :
Go, give that moment up to art,
When Heav'n and nature claim the heart ;
And, dull to all their beat attraction,
Go measure angles of refraction !
While I, in feeling's sweet romance,
Look on each day-beam as a glance
From the great eye of Him above,
Wak'ning his world with looks of love !
THE NATAL GENIUS.
A Dream.
TO , THE MOENING OF HEE BIRTH-1>AY.
IN witching slumbers of the night,
I dream'd I was the airy sprite
That on thy natal moment smil'd ;
And thought I wafted on my wing -
Those flow'rs which in Elysium spring,
To crown my lovely mortal child.
With olive-branch I bound thy head,
Heart's-ease along thy path I shed,
Which was to bloom through all thy yeuzs ;
Nor yet did I forget to bind
Love's roses, with his myrtle twin'd,
And dew'd by sympathetic tears.
Such was the wild but precious boon,
Which Fancy, at her magic noon,
Bade me to Nona's image pay
Oh ! were I, love, thus doom'd to be
Thy little guardian deity,
How blest around thy steps I'd play !
Thy life should softly steal along,
Calm as some lonely shepherd's song
That's heard at distance in the grovo ;
No cloud should ever shade thy sky,
No thorns along thy pathway lie,
But all be sunshine, peace, and love I
The wing of time should never brush
Thy dewy lip's luxuriant flush,
To bid its roses with'ring die ;
Nor age itself, though dim and dark,
Should ever quench a single spark
That flashes from my Nona's eye !
MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 198
THE TELL-TALE LYKE.
I'VE heard, there was in ancient days
A I.yre of most melodious spell ;
'Twas heav'n to hear its fairy lays,
If half be true that legends tell.
'Twas play'd on "by the gentlest sighs,
And to their breath it breath'd again
In such entrancing melodies
As ear had never drunk till then !
Not harmony's serenest touch
So stilly could the notes prolong,
They were not heavenly song so much,
As they were dreams of heavenly song
If sad the heart, whose murmuring air
Along the chords in languor stole,
The soothings it awaken'd there
Were eloquence from pity's soul !
Or if the sigh, serene and light,
Was but the breath of fancied woes,
The string, that felt its airy flight,
Soon whisper'd it to kind repose !
And oh ! when lovers talk'd alone,
If, mid their bliss the Lyre was near.
It made their murmurs all its own,
And echoed notes that Heav'n might hear !
There was a nymph, who long had lov'd,
But would not tell the world how well ;
The shades, where she at evening rov'd,
Alone could know, alone could tell.
'Twas there, at twilight time, she stole
When evening stars announced the night
With him, who claimed her virgin soul,
To linger in that soothing light.
It chanc'd that, in the fairy bower
Where they had found their. sweetest shed,
This Lyre, of strange and magic power,
Hung gently whispering o'er their head.
And while the melting words she breath'd
On all its echoes wanton 'd round,
Her hair, amid the strings enwreath'd,
Through golden mazes charm'd the sound t
194 MOORE'S POEMS.
Alas ! their hearts but little thought,
While thus entranc'd they listening lay,
That every sound the Lyre was taught
Should linger long, and long betray !
So mingled with its tuneful soul
Were all their tender murmurs grown,
That other sighs unanswer'd stole,
Nor chang'd the sweet, the treasur'd tone.
Unhappy nymph ! thy name was sung
To every passing lip that sigh'd ;
The secrets of thy gentle tongue
On every ear in murmurs died !
The fatal Lyre, by envy's hand
Hung high amid the breezy groves,
To every wanton gale that fann'd
Betray'd the story of your loves !
Yet, oh ! not many a trying hour,
Thy gentle heart on earth was given ;
Benignly came some pitying Power,
And took the Lyre and thee to heav'n !
Still do your happy souls attune
The notes it learn'd, on earth, to move ;
Still breathing o'er the chords, commune
In sympathies of angel love !
TO CAKA,
AFTER AN INTEEVAL OF ABSEXCE.
CONCEAL'D within the shady wood
A mother left her sleeping child,
And flew, to cull her rustic food,
The fruitage of the forest wild.
But storms upon her path-way rise,
The mother roams, astray and weeping ;
Far from the weak appealing cries
Of him she left so sweetly sleeping.
She hopes, she fears ; a light is seen,
And gentler blows the night-wind's breath ;
Yet no 'tis gone the storms are keen,
The baby may be chill'd to death !
Perhaps his little eyes are shaded
Dim by death's eternal chill
MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 195
And yet, perhaps, they are not faded,
Life and love may light them still.
Thus, when my soul, with parting sigh,
Hung on thy hand's bewildering touch,
And, timid, ask'd that speaking eye,
If parting pain'd thee half so much :
I thought, and, oh ! forgive the thought,
For who, by eyes like thine inspir'd,
Could e'er resist the nattering fault
Of fancying what his soul desir'd ?
Yes I did think, in Cara's mind,
Though yet to Cara's mind unknown,
I left one infant wish behind,
One feeling, which 1 call'd my own !
Oh blest ! though but in fancy blest,
How did J ask of pity's care,
To shield and strengthen, in thy breast,
The nursling I had cradled there.
And, many an hour beguil'd by pleasure,
And many an hour of sorrow numbering,
I ne'er forgot the new-born treasure,
I left within thy bosom slumbering.
Perhaps, indifference has not chill'd it,
Haply, it yet a throb may give
Yet no perhaps, a doubt has kill'd it!
Oh, Cara ! does the feeling live ?
TO CARA,
ON TIIE DAWNING OF A NEW YEAR'S DAT.
WHEN midnight came to close the year,
"We sigh'd to think it thus should take
The hours it gave us hours as-dear
As sympathy and love could make
Their blessed moments ! every sun
Saw us, my love, more closely one !
But, Cara, when the dawn was nigh
Which came another year to shed,
The smile we caught from eye to eye
Told us, those moments were not fled ;
Oh no ! we felt, some future sun
Should see us still more closely one!
a
MOORE'S POEMS.
Thus may we ever, side by side,
From happy years to happier glide,
And, still, my Cara, may the sigh
We give to hours, that vanish o'er us,
Be follow'd by the smiling eye,
That Hope shall shed on scenes before us !
TO THE INVISIBLE GIBL.
TTTEY try to persuade me, my dear little sprite;
That you are not a daughter of ether and light,
Nor have any concern with those fanciful forms
That dance upon rainbows and ride upon storms ;
But I will not believe them no, science ! to you
I have long bid a last and a careless adieu :
Still flying from nature to study her laws,
And dulling delight by exploring its cause,
You forget how superior, for mortals below,
Is the fiction they dream to the truth that they know.
Oh ! who, that has ever had rapture complete,
Would ask how we feel it, or why it is sweet ;
How rays are confus'd, or how particles fly,
Through the medium refin'd of a glance or a sigh !
Is there one, who but once would not rather have known it,
Than written, with Harvey, whole volumes upon it ?
No, no but for you, my invisible love,
I will swear, you are one of those spirits, that rove
By the bank where, at twilight, the poet reclines,
When the star of the west on his solitude shines,
And the magical fingers of fancy have hung
Every breeze with a sigh, every leaf with a tongue !
Oh ! whisper him then, 'tis retirement alone
Can hallow his harp or ennoble its tone ;
Like you, with a veil of seclusion between,
His song to the world let him utter unseen,
And like you, a legitimate child of the spheres,
Escape from the eye to enrapture the ears !
Sweet spirit of mystery ! how I should love,
In the wearisome ways I am fated to rove,
To have you for ever invisibly nigh,
Inhaling for ever your song and your sigh !
'Mid the crowds of the world and the murmurs of care,
I might sometimes converse with my nymph of the air,
And turn with disgust from the clamorous crew,
To steal in the pauses one whisper from you.
MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 197
Oh ! come and be near me, for ever be mine,
We shall hold in the air a communion divine,
As sweet as, of old, was imagin'd to dwell
In the grotto of Numa, or Socrates' cell.
And oft, at those lingering moments of night,
When the heart is weigh'd down and the eyelid is light,
You shall come to my pillow and tell me of love,
Such as angel to angel might whisper above !
Oh spirit ! and then, could you borrow the tone
Of that voice, to my ear so bewitchingly known,
The voice of the one upon earth, who has twin'd
With her essence for ever my heart and my mind !
Though lonely and far from the light of her smile,
An exile and weary and hopeless the while,
Could you shed for a moment that voice on my ear,
I will think at that moment my Cara is near,
That she comes with consoling enchantment to speak,
And kisses my eyelid and sighs on my cheek,
And tells me, the night shall go rapidly by,
For the dawn of our hope, of our heav'n is nigh !
Sweet spirit ! if such be your magical power,
It will lighten the lapse of full many an hour ;
And let fortune's realities frown as they will,
Hope, Fancy, and Cara may smile for me still !
PEACE AND GLORY.
WRITTEN AT THE COMMENCEMENT OF THE PRESENT WAE,
Where is now the smile, that lighten 'd
Every hero's couch of rest ?
Where is now the hope, that brighten'd
Honour's eye and pity's breast ?
Have we lost the wreath, we braided
For our weary warrior men ?
Is the faithless olive faded,
Must the bay be pluck'd again ?
Passing hour of sunny weather
Lovely, in your light awhile,
Peace and Glory, wed together,
Wander'd through the blessed isle.
And the eyes of peace would glisten,
Dewy as a morning sun,
When the timid maid would listen
To the deeds her chief had done.
198 MOORE S POEMS.
Is the hour of meeting over ?
Must the maiden's trembling feet
Waft her from her warlike lover
To the desert's still retreat ?
Fare you well ! with sighs we banish
Nymph so fair and guest so bright ;
Yet the smile, with which you vanish,
Leaves behind a soothing light !
Soothing light ! that long shall sparkle
O'er your warrior's sanguine way,
Through the field where horrors darkle,
Shedding Hope's consoling ray !
Long the smile his heart will cherish,
To its absent idol true,
While around him myriads perish,
Glory still will sigh for you 1
TO , 1801.
To be the theme of every hour
The heart devotes to Fancy's power,
When her soft magic fills the mind
With friends and joys t we've left behind,
And joys return and friends are near,
And all are welcom'd with a tear !
In the mind's purest seat to dwell,
To be remember'd oft and well
By one whose heart, though vain and wild,
By passion led, by youth beguil'd,
Can proudly still aspire to know
The feeling soul's clivinest glow !
If thus to live in every part
Of a lone weary wanderer's heart ;
If thus to be its sole employ
Can give thee one faint gleam of joy,
Believe it, Mary 1 oh ! believe
A tongue that never can deceive,
When passion doth not first betray
And tinge the thought upon its way !
In pleasure's dream or sorrow's hour,
In crowded hall or lonely bower,
The business of my life shall be,
For ever, to remember thee !
And though that heart be dead to mine,
Since love is life and wakes not thine,
MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 199
I'll take thy image, as the form
Of something I should long to warm,
Which, though it yield no answering thrill,
Is not less dear, is lovely still 1
I'll take it, wheresoe'er I stray,
The bright, cold burthen of my way !
To keep this semblance fresh in bloom,
My heart shall be its glowing tomb,
And love shall lend his sweetest care,
With memory to embalm it there !
SONG.
TAKE back the sigh, thy lips' of art
In passion's moment breath 'd to me ;
Yet, no it must not, will not part,
'Tis now the life-breath of my heart,
And has become too pure for thee!
Take back the kiss, that faithless sigh
With all the warmth of truth imprest ;
Yet, no the fatal kiss may lie,
Upon thy lip its sweets would die,
Or bloom to make a rival blest !
Take back the vows that, night and day
My heart receiv'd, I thought, from thine :
Yet, no allow them still to stay,
They might some other heart betray,
As sweetly as they've ruin'd mine !
THE GENIUS OF HARMONY,
AN IRREGULAR ODE.
"Ad harmoniam canere mundum." Cicero, de Nat. Deor, lib. iii.
THERE lies a shell beneath the waves,
In many a hollow winding wreath'd,
Such as of old,
Echoed the breath that warbling sea-maids breath'd ;
This magic shell
From the white bosom of a syren fell,
As once she wander'd by the tide that laves
Sicilia's sands of gold.
It bears
Upon its shining side, the mystic notes
200 MOORE'S POEMS.
Of those entrancing airs.
The genii of the deep were wont to swell,
When heaven's eternal orbs their midnight music roll'd !
Oh ! seek it, wheresoe'er it floats ;
And, if the power
Of thrilling numbers to thy soul be dear,
Go, bring the bright shell to my bower,
And I will fold thee in such downy dreams,
As lap the spirit of the seventh sphere,
"When Luna's distant tone falls faintly on his ear
And thou shalt own,
That, through the circle of creation's zone,
Where matter darkles or where spirit beams ;
From the pellucid tides, that whirl
The planets through their maze of song,
To the small rill, that weeps along
Murmuring o'er beds of pearl ;
From the rich sigh
Of the sun's arrow through an evening sky,*
To the faint breath the tuneful osier yield's
On Afric's burning fields ; t
Oh! thou shalt own this universe divine
Is mine !
That I respire in all and all in me,
One mighty mingled soul of boundless harmony !
Welcome, welcome, mystic shell !
Many a star has ceas'd to burn,t
Many a tear has Saturn's urn
O'er the cold bosom of the ocean wept,
Since thy aerial spell
Hath in the waters slept !
I fly,
With the bright treasure to my choral sky,
Where she, who wak'd its early swell,
The syren, with a foot of fire,
Walks o'er the great string of my Orphic Lyre,l
* Heraclides, upon the allegories of Homer, conjectures that the idea of
the harmony of the spheres originated with this poet, who, in represent-
ing the solar beams as arrows, supposes them to emit a peculiar sound in
the air.
t In the account of Africa which d'Ablancourt has translated, there is
mention of a tree in that country, whose branches when shaken by the
hand produce very sweet sounds.
t Alluding to the extinction, or at least the disappearance, of some of
those fixed stars, which we are taught to consider as suns, attended each
by its system.
Porphyry says that Pythagoras held the sea to be a tear.
|| The system of the harmonized orbs was styled by the ancients " The
Great Lyre of Orpheus."
MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 201
Or guides around the burning pole
The wing'd chariot of some blissful soul !
While thou,
O son of earth ! what dreams shall rise for thee !
Beneath Hispania's sun,
Thou'lt see a streamlet run,
Which I have warm'd with dews of melody ;
Listen ! when the night wind dies
Down the still current, like a harp it sighs !
A liquid chord is every wave that flows,
An airy plectrum every breeze that blows !
There, by that wondrous stream,
Go, lay thy languid brow,
And I will send thee such a godlike dream,
Such mortal ! mortal ! hast thou heard of him,*
Who, many a night, with his primordial lyre,
Sate on the chill Pangaean mount,
And, looking to the orient dim,
Watch'd the first flowing of that sacred fount,
From which his soul had drunk its iirc !
Oh ! think what visions, in that lonely hour,
Stole o'er his musing breast 1
What pious ecstasy
Wafted his prayer to that eternal Power,
Whose seal upon this world imprest f
The various forms of bright divinity !
Or, dost thou know what dreams I wove,
'Mid the deep horror of that silent bower, t
Where the rapt Samian slept his holy slumber?
When, free
From every earthly chain,
From wreaths of pleasure and from bonds of pain,
His spirit flew through fields above,
Drank at the source of nature's fontal number
And saw, in mystic choir, around him move
The stars of song, Heaven's burning minstrelsy !
Such dreams, so heavenly bright,
I swear
* Orpheus.
t In one of the Hymns of Orpheus, he attributes a figured seal to Apollo,
with which he imagines that deity to have stamped a variety of forma
upon the universe.
t Alluding to the cave near Samos, where Pythagoras devoted the
greater part of his days and nights to meditation and the mysteries of hia
philosophy.
The Tetractys, or Sacred Number of the Pythagoreans, on which they
solemnly swore, and which they called Tfcf.yKv MVKH (punas, "Tho
Fountain of Perennial Nature."
202 MOORE'S POEMS.
By the great diadem that twines my hair,
And by the seven gems that sparkle there,*
Mingling their beams
In a soft iris of harmonious light,
Oh, mortal ! such shall be thy radiant dreams !
THE KING.
TO , 180L
No Lady ! Lady ! keep the ring ;
Oh ! think, how many a future year,
Of placid smile and downy wing,
May sleep within its holy sphere !
Do not disturb their tranquil dream,
Though love hath ne'er the mystery warm'd,
Yet Heaven will shed a soothing beam,
To bless the bond itself hath forni'd.
But then, that eye, that burning eye !
Oh ! it doth ask, with magic power,
If Heaven can ever bless the tie,
"Where love inwreathes no genial flower !
Away, away, bewildering look !
Or all the boast of virtue's o'er ;
Go hie thee to the sage's book,
And learn from him to feel no more !
I cannot warn thee ; every touch,
That brings my pulses close to thine,
Tells me I want thy aid as much,
Oh ! quite as much, as thou dost mine !
Yet stay, dear love one effort yet
A moment turn those eyes away,
And let me, if I can, forget
The light that leads rny soul astray !
Thou say'st, that we were born to meet,
That our hearts bear one common seal,
Oh, Lady ! think, how man's deceit
Can seem to sigh and feign to feel !
When, o'er thy face some gleam of thought,
Like day-beams through the morning air,
Hath gradual stole, and I have caught
The feeling ere it kindled there :
This diadem is intended to represent the analogy between the noteg
Of music and the prismatic colours.
MISCELLAMEOUS POEMS. 203
The sympathy I then betray'd,
Perhaps was but the child of art ;
The guile of one, who long hath play'd
"With all these wily nets of heart.
Oh ! thou hast not my virgin vow ;
Though few the years I yet have told,
Canst thou believe I live till now,
With loveless heart or senses cold ?
No many a throb of bliss and pain,
For many a one my soul hath prov'd ;
With some I sported wild and vain,
While some I truly, dearly lov'd 1
The cheek to thine I fondly lay,
To theirs hath been as fondly laid ;
The words to thee I warmly say,
To them have been as warmly said.
Then, scorn at once a languid heart,
Which long hath lost its early spring ;
Think of the pure, bright soul thou art,
And keep the ring, oh ! keep the ring.
TO .
WHEN I lov'd you, I can't but allow
I had many an exquisite minute ;
But the scorn that 1 feel for you now
Hath even more luxury in it 1
Thus, whether we're on or we're off,
Some witchery seems to await you ;
To love you is pleasant enough,
And, oh ! 'tis delicious to hate you !
FKOM THE GEEEK OF MELEAGER.
FILL high the cup with liquid flame,
And speak my Heliodora's name !
Repeat its magic o'er and o'er,
And let the sound my lips adore,
Sweeten the breeze, and mingling swim
On every bowl's voluptuous briin !
Give me the wreath that withers there,
It was but last delicious night,
204 MOORE'S POEMS.
It hung upon her wavy hair,
And caught her eyes' reflected light
Oh ! haste, and twine it round my brow :
It breathes of Heliodora now I
The loving rose-bud drops a tear,
To see the nymph no longer here,
No longer, where she used to stay,
To glad my heart and cheer my way !
I FOUND her not the chamber seem'd
Like some divinely haunted place,
"Where fairy forms had lately beam'd,
And left behind their odorous trace.
It felt, as if her lips had shed
A sigh around her, ere she fled
Which hung, as on a melting lute,
"When all the silver chords are mute,
There lingers still a trembling breath
After the note's luxurious death,
A shade of song, a spirit air
Of melodies which had been there !
Oh NBA ! NBA 1 where art thou ?
In pity fly not thus from me ;
Thou art my life, my essence now,
And my soul dies of wanting thee !
LOVE AND REASON.
"Quand 1'homme commence a raisonner, il cesse cle scntir."
J. J Rousseau
'TWAS in the summer-time, so sweet,
When hearts and flowers are both in season.
That who, of all the world, should meet,
One early dawn, but Love and Reason !
Love told his dream of yester-night,
While Reason talk'd about the weather ;
The morn, in sooth, was fair and bright,
And on they took their way together.
The boy in many a gambol flew,
While Reason like a Juno stalk'd,
And from her portly figure threw
A lengtheu'd shadow, as she wallv'd.
MISCELLANEOUS POEMS.
No wonder Love, as on they past,
Should find that sunny morning chill,
For still the shadow Keason cast
Fell on the boy, and cool'd him still.
In vain he tried his wings to warm,
Or find a path-way not so dim,
For still the maid's gigantic form
Would pass between the sun and him !
" This must not be," said little Love
" The sun was made for more than you.'*
So, turning through a myrtle grove,
He bid the portly nymph adieu !
Now gaily roves the laughing boy
O'er many a mead, by many a stream ;
In every breeze inhaling joy,
And drinking bliss in every beam.
From all the gardens, all the bowers,
He cull'd the many sweets they shaded,
And ate the fruits and smell'd the flowers,
Till taste was gone and odour faded !
But now the sun, in pomp of noon,
Look'd blazing o'er the parch'd plains ;
Alas ! the boy grew languid soon,
And fever thrill'd through all his veins !
The dew forsook his baby brow,
No more with vivid bloom he smil'd
Oh ! where was tranquil Reason now,
To cast her shadow o'er the child ?
Beneath a green and aged palm,
His foot at length for shelter turning,
He saw the nymph reclining calm,
With brow as cool, as his was burning !
"Oh ! take me to that bosom cold,"
In murmurs at her feet he said ;
And Reason op'd her garment's fold,
And flung it round his fever'd head.
He felt her bosom's icy touch,
And soon it lull'd his pulse to rest ;
For, ah ! the chill was quite too much,
And Love expir'd on Reason's breast 1
206 MOORE'S POEMS.
NAT, do not -weep, my Fanny dear !
"While in these arms you lie,
The world hath not a wish, a fear,
That ought to claim one precious tear
From that beloved eye !
The world ! ah, Fanny ! love must shun
The path where many rove ;
One bosom to recline upon,
One heart, to be his only one,
Are quite enough for love !
"What can we wish, that is not here
Between your arms and mine ?
Is there, on earth, a space so dear,
As that within the blessed sphere
Two loving arms entwine !
For me, there's not a lock of jet
Along your temples curl'd,
"Within whose glossy, tangling net,
My soul doth not, at once, forget
All, all the worthless world!
'Tis in your eyes, my sweetest love !
My only worlds I see ;
Let but their orbs in sunshine move,
And earth below and skies above
May frown or smile for me 1
ASPASIA.
TWAS in the fair Aspasia's bower,
That Love and Learning, many an hour,
In dalliance met, and Learning smil'd
With rapture on the playful child,
Who frequent stole, to find his nest
Within a fold of Learning's vest !
There, as the listening statesman hung
In transport on Aspasia's tongue,
Tho^dcstinics of Athens took
Their colour from Aspasia's look.
Oh happy time ! when laws of state,
When all that rul'cl the country's fate,
MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 207
Its glory, quiet, or alarms,
Was plann'd between two snowy arms !
Sweet times ! you could not always last
And yet, oh ! yet, you are not past ;
Though we have lost the sacred mould,
In which their men were cast of old,
Woman, dear woman, still the same,
While lips are balm and looks are flame,
While man possesses heart or eyes,
Woman's bright empire never dies !
Fanny, my love, they ne'er shall say,
That beauty's charm hath pass'd away ;
No give the universe a soul
Attun'd to woman's soft control,
And Fanny hath the charm, the skill,
To wield a universe at will !
THE GRECIAN GIRL'S DREAM OF THE
BLESSED ISLANDS.*
WAS it the moon, or was it morning's ray,
That call'd thee, dearest, from me far away
For oh, my Theon, what a heavenly dream !
I saw two spirits, on the lunar beam,
Two winged boys, descending from above,
And gliding to my bower with looks of love.
Like the young genii, who repose their wings
All day in Amatha's luxurious springs
And rise at midnight from the tepid rill,
To cool their plumes upon some moonlight hill !
To that dim mansion of my breast they stole,
Where, wreath'd in blisses, lay my captive soul.
Swift at their touch dissolv'd the ties, that clung
So sweetly round me, and aloft I sprung 1
Exulting guides, the little genii flew
Through paths of light, refresh'd with starry dew,
And fann'd by airs of that ambrosial breath,
On which the free soul banquets after death !
Thou know'st, my love, beyond our clouded skies,
As bards have drcam'd, the spirits' kingdom lies.
* It was Imagined by some of the ancients that there Is an ethereal
ocean above us, and that the sun and moon are two floating, lumiuoua
Wands, in which the spirits of the blest reside.
208 MOORE'S POEMS.
Through that fair clime a sea of ether rolls*
Gemm'd with bright islands, where the hallo w'd souls,
Whom life hath wearied in its race of hours
Repose for ever in unfading bowers !
That very orb, whose solitary light
So often guides thee to thy home at night,
Is no chill planet, but an isle of love,
Floating in splendour through those seas above !
Thither, I thought, we wing'd our airy way,
Mild o'er its valleys stream'd a silvery day,
While, all around, on lily beds of rest,
Reclin'd the spirits of the immortal Blest !t
Oh ! there I met those few congenial maids,
Whom love hath warm'd, in philosophic shades ;
There still Leontium,t on her sage's breast,
Found lore and love, was tutor'd and carest ;
And there the twine of Pythia's gentle arms
Repaid the zeal which deified her charms !
The Attic Master, in Aspasia's eyes
Forgot the toil of less endearing ties ;
While fair Theano, innocently fair,
Play'd with the ringlets of her Samian's hair,l
Who, fix'd by love, at length was all her own,
And pass'd his spirit through her lips alone !
Oh Samian sage ! whate'er thy glowing thought
Of mystic Numbers divinely wrought ;
The One that's form'd of Two who dearly love,
Is the best number heaven can boast above !
But think, my Theon, how this soul was thrill 'd,
When near a fount, which o'er the vale distill'd,
My fancy's eye beheld a form recline,
Of lunar race, but so resembling thine,
That, oh ! 'twas but fidelity in me,
To fly, to clasp, and welcome it for thee !
Oh my beloved ! how divinely sweet
* This belief of an ocean in the heavens, or "waters above the fisma-
ment," was one of the many physical errors in which the early fathers
bewildered themselves.
t There were various opinions among the ancients with respect to their
lunar establishment ; some made it an elysium, and others a purgatory ;
while some supposed it to be a kind of entre-pot between heaven and earth,
where souls which had left their bodies, and those that were on their way
to join them, were deposited in the valleys cf Hecate, and remained till
further orders.
t The pupil of Epicurus, who called her his " dear little Leontium."
Pythias was a woman whom Aristotle loved, and to whom, after her
death, he paid divine honours, solemnizing her memory by the same
sacrifices which the Athenians offered to the goddess Ceres.
I Pythagoras was remarkable for fine hair.
MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 200
Is the pure joy, when kindred spirits meet !
Th' Elean god,* whose faithful waters flow,
With love their only light, through caves below,
Wafting in triumph all the flowery braids,
And festal rings, with which Olympic maids
Have deck'd their billow, as an offering meet
To pour at Arethusa's crystal feet !
But no ; no more soon as to-morrow s ray
O'er soft Ilissus shall dissolve away,
I'll fly, my Theon, to thy loving breast,
And there in murmurs tell thee all the rest.
TO CLOE.
IMITATED FROM MARTIAL.
I COULD resign that eye of blue,
Howe'er it burn, howe'er it thrill me ;
And though your lip be rich with dew,
To lose it, Cloe, scarce would kill me.
That snowy neck I ne'er should miss,
However oft I've raved about it ;
And though your heart can beat with bliss,
I think my soul could live without it.
In short, I've learn'd so well to fast,
That, sooth my love, I know not whither
I might not bring myself at last,
To do without you altogether !
THE WREATH AND THE CHAIN.
I BRING thee, love, a golden Chain,
I bring thee, too, a flowery Wreath ;
The gold shall never wear a stain,
The flow'rets long shall sweetly breathe !
Come, tell me which the tie shall be
To bind thy gentle heart to me.
The Chain is of a splendid thread,
Stol'n from Minerva's yellow hair,
Just when the setting sun had shed
* The river Alphens, which flowed by Pisa or Olympla, and Into which
it was customary to throw offerings of different kinds, during the celebra-
tion of the Olympic games. In the pretty romance of Clitophon and
Leucippe the river is supposed to carry these offerings as bridal gifts to
tho fountain Arethusa.
810 MOORE'S POEMS.
The sober beam of evening there.
The Wreath's of brightest myrtle wove.
With brilliant tears of bliss among it,
And many a rose-leaf, cull'd by Love,
To heal his lip when bees have stung it !
Come, tell me which the tie shall be,
To bind thy gentle heart to me.
Yes, yes, I read that ready eye,
Which answers when the tongue is loth,
Thou lik'st the form of either tie,
And hold'st thy playful hands for both.
Ah ! if there were not something wrong,
The world would see them blended oft ;
The Chain would make the Wreath so strong !
The Wreath would make the Chain so soft !
Then might the gold, the flow'rets be
Sweet fetters for my love and me !
But, Fanny, so unblest they twine,
That (Heaven alone can tell the reason)
When mingled thus they cease to shine,
Or shine but for a transient season !
Whether the Chain may press too much,
Or that the Wreath is slightly braided,
Let but the gold the flow'rets touch,
And all their glow, their tints are faded !
TO
AND hast thou mark'd the pensive shade,
That many a time obscures my brow,
Amidst the happiness, dear maid,
Which thou canst give, and only thou ?
Oh ! 'tis not that I then forget
The endearing charms that round me twine-
There never throbb'd a bosom yet
Could feel their witchery like mine !
When bashful on my bosom hid,
And blushing to have felt so blest,
Thou dost but lift thy languid lid,
Again to close it on my breast !
Oh ! these are minutes all thine own,
Thine own to give, and mine to feel,
Yet ev'n in them, my heart has known
The sigh to rise, the tear to steal.
MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 211
For I have thought of former hours,
"When he who first thy soul possess'd,
Like me awak'd its witching powers,
Like me was lov'd, like me was blest !
Upon his name thy murmuring tongue
Perhaps hath all as sweetly dwelt ;
For him that snowy lid hath hung
In ecstasy, as purely felt !
For him yet why the past recall
To wither blooms of present bliss ?
Thou'rt now my own, I clasp thee all,
And Heaven can grant no more than this !
Forgive me, dearest, oh ! forgive ;
I would be first, be sole to thee,
Thou should'st have but begun to live,
The hour that gave thy heart to me.
Thy book of life till then effac'd,
Love should have kept that leaf alone,
On which he first so dearly trac'd
That thou wert, soul and all, my own 1
SONG.
THE wreath you wove, the wreath you wove,
Is fair but oh ! how fair,
If pity's hand had stol'n from Love
One leaf to mingle there !
If every rose with gold were tied.
Did gems for dew-drops fall,
One faded leaf, where Love had sigh'd,
"Were sweetly worth them all !
The wreath you wove, the wreath you wove,
Our emblem well may be ;
Its bloom is yours, but hopeless love
Must keep its tears for me 1
LYING.
I DO confess, in many a sigh
My lips have breath 'd yoxi many a lie,
And who, with such delights in view,
Would lose them, for a lie or two ?
212 MOORE'S POEMS.
Nay look not thus, with brow reproving ;
Lies are, my dear, the soul of loving !
If half we tell the girls were true,
If half we swear to think and do,
"Were aught but lying's bright illusion,
The world would bo in strange confusion !
If ladies' eyes were, every one,
As lover's swear, a radiant sun,
Astronomy should leave the skies,
To learn her lore in ladies' eyes !
Oh no ! believe me, lovely girl,
"When Nature turns your teeth to pearl,
Your neck to snow, your eyes to fire,
Your yellow locks to golden wire,
Then, only then, can Heaven decree,
That you should live for only me.
And now, my gentle hints to clear,
For once, I'll tell you truth, my dear !
"Whenever you may chance to meet
A loving youth, whose love is sweet,
Long as you're false and he believes you,
Long as you trust and he deceives you,
So long the blissful bond endures ;
And while he lies, his heart is yours :
But, oh ! you've wholly lost the youth
The instant that he tells you truth !
ANACKEONTIC.
I FILL'D to thee, to thee I drank,
I nothing did but drink and fill ;
The bowl by turns was bright and bland,
'Twas drinking, filling, drinking still f
At length I bid an artist paint
Thy image in this ample cup,
That I might see the dimpled saint,
To whom I quafFd my nectar up.
Behold how bright that purple lip
Is blushing through the wave at me !
Every roseate drop I sip
Is just like kissing wine from thee !
But, oh ! I drink the more for this ;
For, ever when the draught I drain,
Thy lip invites another kiss,
And in the nectar flows again !
MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 213
So, here's to thee, my gentle dear !
And may that eye for ever shine
Beneath as soft and sweet a tear
As bathes it in this bowl of mine !
TO 'S PICTURE.
Go then, if she whose shade thou art
No more will let thee soothe my pain
Yet tell her, it has cost this heart
Some pangs, to give thee back again !
Tell her, the smile was not so dear,
"With which she made thy semblance mine,
As bitter is the burning tear,
"With which I now the gift resign 1
Yet go and could she still restore,
As some exchange for taking thee,
The tranquil look which first I wore,
When her eyes found me wild and free ;
Could she give back the careless flow,
The spirit which my fancy knew
Yet, ah ! 'tis vain go, picture, go
Smile at ine once, and then adieu !
FRAGMENT OF A MYTHOLOGICAL HYMN TO LOVE.
BLEST infant of eternity !
Before the day-star learn 'd to move,
In pomp of fire, along his grand career,
Glancing the beamy shafts of light
From his rich quiver to the farthest sphere,
Thou wert alone, oh Love !
Nestling beneath the wings of ancient Night,
"Whose horrors seem'd to smile in shadowing thee I
No form of beauty sooth 'd thine eye,
As through the dim expanse it wander'd wide ;
No kindred spirit caught thy sigh,
As o'er the watery waste it lingering died 1
* Love and Psyche are here considered as the active and passive prin-
ciples of creation, and the universe is supposed to have received its first
harmonizing impulse from the sympathy between these two powers.
214 MOORE'S POEMS.
Unfelt the pulse, unknown the power,
That latent in his heart was sleeping ;
Oh Sympathy ! that lonely hour
Saw Love himself thy absence weeping !
But look what glory through the darkness beams !
Celestial airs along the water glide :
What spirit art thou, moving o'er the tide
So lovely ? Art thou but the child
Of the young Godhead's dreams,
Tisshe!
Psyche, the first-born spirit of the air :
To thee, oh Love ! she turns,
On thee her eye-beam burns :
Blest hour of happy ecstasy 1
They meet
The blooming god the spirit fair-
Oh ! sweet, oh heavenly sweet i
Now, Sympathy, the hour is thine ;
All Nature feels the thrill divine,
The veil of Chaos is withdrawn,
And their first union is Creation's dawn I
TO HIS SERENE HIGHNESS THE DUKE OF
MONTPENSIER,
ON HIS PORTRAIT OF THE LADY ADELAIDE FOBBE8.
To catch the thought, by painting's spell,
Howe'er remote, howe'er refin'd,
And o'er the magic tablet tell
The silent story of the mind ;
O'er Nature's form to glance the eye,
And fix, by mimic light and shade,
Her morning tinges, ere they fly,
Her evening blushes, ere they fade !
These are the pencil's grandest theme,
Divinest of the powers divine
That light the Muse's flowery dream,
And these, oh Prince ! are richly thine !
Yet, yet, when Friendship sees thee trace,
In emanating soul exprest,
The sweet memorial of a face
On which her eye delights to rest
MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 215
While o'er the lovely look serene,
The smile of peace, the bloom of youth,
The cheek, that blushes to be seen,
The eye, that tells the bosom's truth ;
While o'er each line, so brightly true,
Her soul with fond attention roves,
Blessing the hand, whose various hue
Could imitate the form it loves ;
She feels the value of thy art,
And owns it with a purer zeal,
A rapture, nearer to her heart,
Than critic taste can ever feel !
THE PHILOSOPHER ARISTIPPUS TO A LAMP
WHICH WAS GIVEN HIM BY LAIS.
"Dulcis conscia lectuli Lucerna." - Martial, lib. xiv. epig. 39.
"On! love the Lamp" (my mistress said),
" The faithful Lamp that, many a night,
Beside thy Lais' lonely bed
Has kept its little watch of light !
" Full often has it seen her weep,
And fix her eye upon its flame,
Till, weary, she has sunk to sleep,
Repeating her beloved's name !
" Then love the Lamp 'twill often lead
Thy step through learning's sacred way ;
And, lighted by its happy ray,
Whene'er those darling eyes shall read
Of things sublime, of Nature's birth,
Of all that's bright in heaven or earth,
Oh ! think that she, by whom 'twas giv'n,
Adores thee more than earth or heaven !"
Yes dearest Lamp ! by every charm
On which thy midnight beam has hung ;
The neck reclin'd, the graceful arm
Across the brow of ivory flung ;
The heaving bosom, partly hid,
The sever'd lip's delicious sighs,
The fringe, that from the snowy lid
Along the cheek of roses lies :
By these, by all that bloom untold,
And long as all shall chunn my heart,
216 MOORE'S POEMS.
I'll love my little Lamp of gold,
My Lamp and I shall never part !
And often, as she smiling said,
In fancy's hour, thy gentle rays
Shall guide my visionary tread
Through poesy's enchanting maze !
Thy flame shall light the page refin'd,
Where still we catch the Chian's breath,
Where still the bard, though cold in death,
Has left his burning soul behind !
Or, o'er thy humbler legend shine,
Oh man of Ascra's dreary glades !
To whom the nightly warbling Nine
A wand of inspiration gave,
Pluck'd from the greenest tree, that shades
The crystal of Castilia's wave.
Then, turning to a purer lore,
We'll cull the sages' heavenly store,
From Science steal her golden clue,
And every mystic path pursue,
Where Nature, far from vulgar eyes
Through labyrinths of wonder flies !
'Tis thus my heart shall learn to know
The passing world's precarious flight,
Where all, that meets the morning glow,
Is chang'd before the fall of night !
I'll tell thee, as I trim thy fire,
" Swift, swift the tide of being runs,
And Time, who bids thy flame expire,
Will also quench yon heaven of suns !"
Oh ! then if earth's united power
Can never chain one feathery hour ;
If every print we leave to-day
To-morrow's wave shall steal away ;
Who pauses, to inquire of Heaven
Why were the fleeting treasures giv'n,
The sunny days, the shady nights,
And all their brief but dear delights,
Which Heaven has made for man to use,
And man should think it guilt to lose ?
Who, that has cull'd a weeping rose,
Will ask it why it breathes and glows,
Unmindful of the blushing ray,
In which it shines its soul away ;
MISCELLANEOUS POEMS.
Unmindful of the scented sigh,
On which it dies and loves to die ?
Pleasure ! thou only good on earth !*
Our little hour resign'd to thee
Oh ! by my Lais' lip, 'tis worth,
The sage's immortality !
Then far be all the wisdom hence,
And all the lore, whose tame controul
Would wither joy with chill delays !
Alas ! the fertile fount of sense,
At which the young, the panting soul
Drinks life and love, too soon decays !
Sweet Lamp ! thou wert not form'd to shed
Thy splendour on a lifeless page
Whate'er my blushing Lais said
Of thoughtful lore and studies sage,
'Twas mockery all her glance of joy
Told me thy dearest, best employ !
And, soon as night shall close the eye
Of Heaven's young wanderer in the west ;
When seers are gazing on the sky,
To find their future orbs of rest ;
Then shall I take my trembling way,
Unseen but to those worlds above,
And, led by thy mysterious ray
Glide to the meeting with my love.
TO MRS BL H D.
WEITTEN IN HEB ALBUM.
THEY say that Love had once a book
(The urchin likes to copy you),
Where all who came, the pencil took,
And wrote, like us, a line or two.
Twas Innocence, the maid divine,
Who kept this volume brig] it and fair,
And saw that no unhallow'd line,
Or thought profane should enter there.
* Aristippus considered motion as the principle of happiness, fn wiiich
ideahe differed from the Epicureans, who looked to a state of repose as
the only true voluptuousness, and avoided even the too lively agitation*
of yJuaaire, as a violent and ungraceful denmgeinent of the senses.
218 MOORE'S POEMS.
And sweetly did tlie pages fill
With fond device and loving lore,
And every leaf she turn'd was still
More bright than that she turn'd before !
Beneath the touch of Hope, how soft,
How light the magic pencil ran !
Till Fear would come, alas ! as oft,
And trembling close what Hope began.
A tear or two had dropp'd from Grief,
And Jealousy would, now and then,
Ruffle in haste some snowy leaf,
Which Love had still to smooth again !
But, oh ! there was a blooming boy,
"Who often turn'd the pages o'er,
And wrote therein such words of joy,
As all who read still sigh'd for more !
And Pleasure was this spirit's name,
And though so soft his voice and look,
Yet Innocence, whene'er he came,
Would tremble for her spotless book !
And so it chanc'd, one luckless night
He let his nectar goblet fall
O'er the dear book, so pure, so white,
And sullied lines and marge and all !
And Fancy's emblems lost their glow,
And Hope's sweet lines were all defac'd,
And Love himself could scarcely know
What Love himself had lately trac'd 1
At length the urchin Pleasure fled
(For how, alas ! could Pleasure stay ?)
And Love, while many a tear he shed,
In blushes flung the book away !
The index now alone remains,
Of all the pages spoil'd by Pleasure,
And though it bears some honey stains,
Yet Memory counts the leaf a treasure !
And oft, they say, she scans it o'er,
And oft, by this memorial aided,
Brings back the pages now no more,
And thinks of lines that long are faded!
I know not if this tale be true,
But thus the simple facts are stated ;
And I refer their truth to you,
Since Love and you are near related !
MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 219
THE FALL OF HEBE.
A DITHYBAMBIC ODE.
'TWAS on a day
When the immortals at their banquet lay ;
The bowl
Sparkled with starry dew,
The weeping of those myriad urns of light,
Within whose orbs, the almighty Power,
At nature's dawning hour,
Stor'd the rich fluid of ethereal soul !*
Around
Soft odorous clouds, that upward wing their flight
From eastern isles,
(Where they have bath'd them in the orient ray,
And with fine fragrance all their bosoms fill'd),
In circles flew, and melting, as they flew,
A liquid daybreak o'er the board distill'd 1
All, all was luxury !
All must be luxury, where Lseus smiles !
His locks divine
Were crown'd
With a bright meteor-braid,
Which, like an ever-springing wreath of vine,
Shot into brilliant leafy shapes,
And o'er his brow in lambent tendrils play'd !
While mid the foliage hung,
Like lucid grapes,
A thousand clustering blooms of light,
Cull'd from the gardens of the galaxy !
Upon his bosom, Cytherea's head
Lay lovely, as when first the Syrens sung
Her beauty's dawn,
And all the curtains of the deep, undrawn,
Reveal'd her sleeping in its azure bed.
The captive deity
Languish'd upon her eyes and lip,
In chains of ecstasy !
Now on his arm,
In blushes she repos'd,
* This is a Platonic fancy; the philosopher supposes, in h5s Timrens,
that, when the deity had formed the soul of the world, he proceeded to the
composition of other souls ; in which process, says Plato, he made use oi
the same cup though the ingredients he mingled were not quite so pure
as for the former; and having refined the mixture with a little of his own
essence, he distributed it among the stars, which served as reservoirs oi
the fluid.
220 MOORE'S POEMS.
And, while lie looked entranced on every charm,
To shade his burning eyes her hand in dalliance stole-
And now she rais'd her rosy mouth to sip
The nectar'd wave
Lyseus gave,
And from her eyelids, gently clos'd,
Shed a dissolving gleam,
"Which fell, like sun-dew, in the bowl
"While her bright hair, in mazy flow
Of gold descending
Along her cheek's luxurious glow,
Wav'd o'er the goblet's side,
And was reflected by its crystal tide,
Like a sweet crocus flower,
"Whose sunny leaves, at evening hour
With roses of Gyrene blending,
Hang o'er the mirror of a silver stream !
The Olympian cup
Burn'd in the hands
Of dimpled Hebe, as she wing'd her feet
Up
The empyreal mount,
To drain the soul-drops at their stellar fount ;*
And still,
As the resplendent rill
Flamed o'er the goblet with a mantling heat,
Her graceful care
"Would cool its heavenly fire
In gelid waves of snowy-feather'd air,
Such as the children of the pole respire,
In those enchanted lands,!
Where life is all a spring, and north winds never blow'
But oh !
Sweet Hebe, what a tear,
And what a blush were thine,
When, as the breath of every Grace
Wafted thy fleet career
Along the studded sphere,
With a rich cup for Jove himself to drink,
Some star, that glitter'd in the way,
* Heraclitus (Physicus) held the soul to be a spark of the stellar essence.
t The country of the Hyperboreans. They were supposed to be placed
so far noith that the north wind could not affect them; they lived longer
than any other mortals; passed their whole time in music and dancing,
&e. It was imagined that, instead of our vulgar atmosphere, the Hyper-
boreans breathed nothing but feathers 1 According to Herodotus ami
PJiny, this idea was suggested by the quantity of snow which was observed
to Ml in those region*
MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 221
Raising its amorous head
To kiss so exquisite a tread,
Check'd thy impatient pace !
And all heaven's host of eyes
Saw those luxuriant beauties sink
In lapse of loveliness, along the azure skies !
Upon whose starry plain they lay,
Like a young hlossom on our meads of gold,
Shed from a vernal thorn
Amid the liquid sparkles of the morn !
Or, as in temples of the Paphian shade,
The myrtled votaries of the queen behold
An image of their rosy idol, laid
Upon a diamond shrine I
Who was the spirit that remember'd Man
In that exciting hour ?
And with a wing of Love
Brush'd off the scatter'd tear ,
As o'er the spangled heaven they ran,
And sent them floating to our orb below ?*
Essence of immortality 1
The shower
Fell glowing through the spheres,
"While all around new tints of bliss,
New perfumes of delight,
Enrich'd its radiant flow !
Now, with a humid kiss,
It thrill 'd along the beamy wire
Of Heaven's illumin'd lyre,t
Stealing the soul of Music in its flight !
And now, amid the breezes bland,
That whisper from the planets as they roll,
The bright libation, softly fann'd
By all their sighs, meandering stole !
They who, from Atlas' height,
Beheld the rill of flame
Descending through the waste of night,
Thought 'twas a planet, whose stupendous frame
Had kindled, as it rapidly revolv'd
Around its fervid axle, and dissolv'd
Into a flood so bright !
The child of day,
Within his twilight bower,
* Tn the " Geopnnica," lib. ii. cap. 17, there is a fable somewhat like this
lescent of the nectar to earth.
t The constellation Lyra. The astrologers attribute great virtues to this
sign in the ascendant.
222 MOORE'S POEMS."
Lay sweetly sleeping
On the flush'd bosom of a lotus-flower ;*
When round him, in profusion weeping,
Dropp'd the celestial shower,
Steeping
The rosy clouds, that curl'd
About his infant head,
Like myrrh upon the locks of Cupid shed !
But, when the waking boy
Wav'd his exhaling tresses through the sky,
morn of joy !
The tide divine,
All glittering with the vermil dye
It drank beneath his orient eye,
Distill'd, in dews, upon the world,
And every drop was wine, was heavenly wine 1
Blest be the sod, the flow'ret blest,
That caught, upon their hallow'd breast,
The nectar'd spray of Jove's perennial springs !
Less sweet the flow'ret, and less sweet the sod,
O'er which the spirit of the rainbow flings
The magic mantle of her solar god !t
ANACKEONTIC.
" SHE never look'd so kind before
Yet why the melting smile recal ?
I've seen this witchery o'er and o'er,
'Tis hollow, vain, and heartless all !"
Thus I said, and, sighing, sipp'd
The wine which she had lately tasted ;
The cup, where she had lately dipp'd
Breath, so long in falsehood wasted.
I took the harp, and would have sung
As if 'twere not of her I sang ;
But still the notes on Lamia hung
On whom but Lamia could they hang ?
That kiss, for which, if worlds were mine,
A world for every kiss I'd give her ;
* The Egyptians represented the dawn of day by a young boy seated
upon a lotus.
t The ancients esteemed those flowers and trees the sweetest upon
which the rainbow had appeared to rest; and the wood they chiefly
burned in sacrifices was that which the smile of Iris had consecrated.
MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 228
Those floating eyes, that floating shine
Like diamonds in an eastern river !
That mould so fine, so pearly bright,
Of which luxurious Heaven hath cast her,
Through which her soul doth beam as white
As flame through lamps of alabaster !
Of these I sung, and notes and words
"Were sweet, as if 'twas Lamia's hair
That lay upon my lute for chords,
And Lamia's lip that warbled there !
But when, alas ! I turn'd the theme,
And when of vows and oaths I spoke,
Of truth and hope's beguiling dream
The chord beneath my finger broke
And when that thrill is most awake,
And when you think heaven's joys await you,
The nymph will change, the chord will break
Oh Love ! oh Music ! how I hate you !
TO MRS ,
ON SOME CALUMNIES AGAINST HEK CHARACTER.
Is not thy mind a gentle mind ?
Is not thy heart a heart refin'd ?
Hast thou not every blameless grace,
That man should love or Heaven can trace ?
And oh ! art thou a shrine for sin
To hold her hateful worship in ?
No, no, be happy dry that tear
Though some thy heart hath harbour'd near
May now repay its love with blame ;
Though man, who ought to shield thy fame,
Ungenerous man be first to wound thee ;
Though the whole world may freeze around theo,
Oh ! thou'lt be like. that lucid tear*
Which, bright, within the crystal's sphere
In liquid purity was found,
Though all had grown congeal'd around ;
Floating in frost, it mock'd the chill,
"Was pure, was soft, was brilliant still !
* This alludes to a curious gem a drop of pure water enclosed within a
piece of crystal. See Claudlan.
224 MOORE'S POEMS.
HYMN OF A VIRGIN OF DELPHI,
AT THE TOMB OF HEE MOTHER.
OH ! lost, for ever lost ! no more
Shall Vesper light our dewy way
Along the rocks of Crissa's shore,
To hymn the fading fires of day !
No more to Tempi's distant vale
In holy musings shall we roam,
Through summer's glow and winter's gale,
To bear the mystic chaplets home ! *
'Twas then my soul's expanding zeal,
By Nature warm'd, and led by thee,
In every breeze was taught to feel
The breathings of a deity !
Guide of my heart ! to memory true,
Thy looks, thy words, are still my own
I see thee raising from the dew,
Some laurel, by the wind o'erthrown,
And hear thee say, " This humble bough
"Was planted for a doom divine,
And, though it weep in languor now,
Shall flourish on the Delphic shrine !
Thus, in the vale of earthly sense,
Though sunk awhile the spirit lies,
A viewless hand shall cull it thence,
To bloom immortal in the skies !"
Thy words had such a melting flow.
And spoke of truth so sweetly well,
They dropp'd like Heaven's serenest snow,
And all was brightness where they fell !
Fond soother of my infant tear !
Fond sharer of my infant joy !
Is not thy shade still lingering here ?
Am I not still thy soul's employ ?
And oh ! as oft, at close of day
When, meeting on the sacred mount,
Our nymphs awak'd the choral lay,
And danc'd around Cassotis' fount ;
As then, 'twas all thy wish and care,
That mine should be the simplest mien,
* Upon all important occasions, they sent to Tempe' for their laurel.
We find, in Pausanins, that this valley supplied the branches of which the
temple was originally constructed ; and Plutarch says, in his Dialogue on
Music, " The youth who brings the Tempic laurel to Delphi is always at-
tended by a player on the flute.'
MISCELLANEOUS FOEMS. 225
My lyre and voice the sweetest there,
My foot the lightest o'er the green :
So still, each little grace to mould,
Around my form thiiie eyes are shed,
Arranging every snowy fold,
And guiding every mazy tread!
And, when I lead the hymning choir,
Thy spirit still, unseen and free,
Hovers between my lip and lyre,
And weds them into harmony !
Flow, Plistus, flow, thy murmuring wave
Shall never drop its silv'ry tear
Upon so pure, so blest a grave,
To memory so divinely dear !
TO MISS SUSAN BECKFOKD,
ON HER SINGING.
I MOEE than once have heard, at night,
A song, like those thy lips have given,
And it was sung by shapes of light,
Who seem'd like thee, to breathe of heaven!
But this was all a dream of sleep,
And I have said, when morning shone,
" Oh ! why should fairy Fancy keep
These wonders for herself alone?"
I knew not then that fate had lent
Such tones to one of mortal birth ;
I knew not then that Heaven had sent
A voice, a form like thine on earth !
And yet, in all that flowery maze
Through which my life has lov'd to tread,
"When I have heard the sweetest lays
From lips of dearest lustre shed ;
"When I have felt the warbled word
From beauty's mouth of perfume sighing,
Sweet as music's hallow'd bird
Upon a rose's bosom lying !
Though form and song at once combin'd
Their loveliest bloom and softest thrill,
My heart hath sigh'd, my heart hath pin'd,
For something softer, lovelier still
MOORE'S POEMS.
Oh ! I have found it all, at last,
In thee, thou sweetest living lyre,
Through which the soul hath ever pass'd
Its harmonizing breath of fire !
All that my best and wildest dream,
In fancy's hour, could hear or see
Of music's sigh or beauty's beam
Are realiz'd, at once, in theel
TO MRS HENRY TIGHE,
ON BEADING HER " PSYCHE." 18031
TELL me the witching tale again,
For never has my heart or ear
Hung on so sweet, so pure a strain,
So pure to feel, so sweet to hear !
Say, Love ! in all thy spring of fame,
When the high heaven itself was thine ;
When Piety confess'd the flame,
And even thy errors were divine !
Did ever Muse's hand, so fair,
A glory round thy temples spread ?
Did ever lip's ambrosial air
Such perfume o'er thy altars shed ?
One maid there was, who round her lyre
The mystic myrtle wildly wreath'd
But all her sighs were sighs of fire,
The myrtle wither'd, as she breath'd !
Oh ! you, that love's celestial dream,
In all its purity, would know,
Let not the senses' ardent beam
Too strongly through the vision glow I
Dear Psyche ! many a charmed hour,
Through many a wild and magic waste,
To the fair fount and blissful bower
Thy mazy foot my soul hath trac'd !
Where'er thy joys are number'd now,
Beneath whatever shades of rest,
The Genius of the starry brow*
Has chain'd thee to thy Cupid's breast ;
* Constancy.
MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 22T
Whether above the horizon dim,
Along whose verge our spirits stray ,^
Half sunk within the shadowy brim,
Half brighten'd by the eternal ray,*
Thou risest to a cloudless pole !
Or, lingering here, dost love to mark
The twilight walk of many a soul
Through sunny good, and evil dark ;
Still be the song to Psyche dear,
The song, whose dulcet tide was given
To keep her name as fadeless here,
As nectar keeps her soul in heaven !
IMPROMPTU,
UPON LEAVING BOME FBIENDS.
No, never shall my soul forget,
The friends I found so cordial-hearted ;
Dear shall be the day we met,
And dear shall be the night we parted !
Oh ! if regrets, however sweet,
Must with the lapse of time decay,
Yet still, when thus in mirth you meet,
Fill high to him that's far away !
Long be the flame of memory found,
Alive, within your social glass,
Let that be still the magic round,
O'er which oblivion dares not pass !
A WARNING.
OH ! fair as heaven and chaste as light !
Did Nature mould thee all so bright,
That thou shouldst ever learn to weep
O'er languid Virtue's fatal sleep,
O'er shame extinguish'd, honour fled,
Peace lost, heart wither'd, feeling dead ?
No, no ! a star was born with thee,
Which sheds eternal purity !
Thou hast, within those sainted eyes,
So fair a transcript of the skies,
* By this image the Platonists expressed the middle state of the s<vol
between sensible and intellectual existence.
328
In lines of fire such heavenly lore,
That man should read them and adore
Yet have I known a gentle maid
Whose early charms were just array'd
In Nature's loveliness like thine,
And wore that clear, celestial sign,
Which seems to mark the brow that's fair
For Destiny's peculiar care !
Whose bosom, too, was once a zone,
Where the bright gem of virtue shone ;
Whose eyes were talismans of fire
Against the power of mad desire !
Yet, hapless girl, in one sad hour,
Her charms have shed their radiant flower ;
The gem has been beguil'd away ;
Her eyes have lost their chastening ray ;
The simple fear, the guiltless shame,
The smiles that from reflection came,
All, all have fled, and left her mind
A faded monument behind !
Like some wave-beaten, mouldering stone,
To Memory rais'd by hands unknown,
Which, many a wintery hour, has stood
Beside the ford of Tyra's flood,
To tell the traveller, as he crost,
That there some loved friend was lost !
Oh ! 'twas a sight I wept to see
Heaven keep the lost-one's fate from thce !
WOMAN.
AWAY, away you're all the same,
A fluttering, smiling, jilting throng !
Oh ! by my soul, I burn with shame,
To think I've been your slave so long !
Still panting o'er a crowd to reign,
More joy it gives to woman's breast
To make ten frigid coxcombs vain,
Than one true manly lover blest !
Away, away your smile's a curse
Oh ! blot me from the race of men,
Kind pitying Heaven ! by death or worse,
Before I love such things again 1
MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 2549
TO .
COME, take the harp 'tis vain to muse
Upon the gathering ills we see ;
Oh ! take the harp and let me lose
All thoughts of ill in hearing thee !
Sing to me, love ! though death were near,
Thy song could make my soul forget
Nay, nay, in pity, dry that tear,
All may be well, be happy yet !
Let me but see that snowy arm
Once more upon the dear harp lie,
And I will cease to dream of harm,
Will smile at fate, while thou art nigh I
Give me that strain, of mournful touch,
We us'd to love long, long ago,
Before our hearts had known as much
As now, alas ! they bleed to know !
Sweet notes ! they tell of former peace.
Of all, that look'd so rapturous then,
Now wither'd, lost oh! pray thee, cease,
I cannot bear those sounds again !
Art thou, too, wretched ? yes, thou art ;
I see thy tears flow fast with mine
Come, come to this devoted heart,
'Tis breaking, but it still is thine I
A VISION OF PHILOSOPHY
'TWAS on the Eed Sea coast, at morn, we met
The venerable man ; a virgin bloom
Of softness mingled with the vigorous thought
That tower'd upon his brow ; as when we see
The gentle moon and the full radiant sun
Shining in heaven together. When he spoko
'Twas language sweeten'd into song such holy sonnda
As oft the spirit of the good man hears,
Prelusive to the harmony of heaven,
When death is nigh ! and still, as he unclos'd
His sacred lips, an odour, all as bland
As ocean-breezes gather from the flowers
That blossom in Elysium, breath'd around I
With silent awe we listen'd, while he told
Of the dark veil, which many an age had hung
MOORE'S POEMS.
O'er Nature's form, till by the touch of time
The mystic shroud grew thin and luminous,
And half the goddess beam'd in glimpses through it !
Of magic wonders, that were known and taught
By him (or Cham or Zoroaster named)
Who mus'd, amid the mighty cataclysm,
O'er his rude tablets of primeval lore,*
Nor let the living star of science sink
Beneath the waters, which ingulph'd the world !
Of visions, by Calliope reveal'd
To him,t who trac'd upon his typic lyre
The diapason of man's mingled frame,
And the grand Doric heptachord of heaven !
With all of pure, of wonderous and arcane,
Which the grave sons of Mochus, many a night,
Told to the young and bright-hair'd visitant
Of Carmel's sacred mount !$ Then, in a flow
Of calmer converse, he beguil'd us on
Through many a maze of garden and of porch,
Through many a system, where the scatter'd light
Of heavenly truth lay, like a broken beam
From the pure sun, which, though refracted all
Into a thousand hues, is sunshine still,
And bright through every change ! he spoke of Him,
The lone, eternal One, who dwells above,
And of the soul's untraceable descent
From that high fount of spirit, through the grades
Of intellectual being, till it mix
With atoms vague, corruptible, and dark ;
Nor even then, though sunk in earthly dross,
Corrupted all, nor its ethereal touch
Quite lost, but tasting of the fountain still !
As some bright river, which has roll'd along
Through meads of flowery light and mines of gold,
When pour'd at length into the dusky deep,
Disdains to mingle with its briny taint,
But keeps awhile the pure and golden tinge,
The balmy freshness of the fields it leftl
* Cham, the son of Noah, is supposed to have taken with him into the
nrk the principal doctrines of magical, or rather of natural science, which
he had inscribed upon some very durable substances, in order that they
might resist the ravages of the deluge, and transmit the secrets of ante-
diluvian knowledge to his posterity.
t Orpheus.
t Pythagoras is represented in Jamblichus as descending with great
solemnity from Mount Cannei, for which reason the Carmelites have
claimed him as one :f their fraternity. This Mochus or Moschus, with the
descendants of whom Pythagoras conversed in Phoenicia, and from whom
ne derived the doctrines of atomic philosophy, is supposed by some to be
tli 3 same with Moses.
MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 231
And here the old man ceased a winged train
Of nymphs and genii led him from our eyes.
The fair illusion fled ! and, as I wak'd,
I knew my visionary soul had been
Among that people of aerial dreams
Who live upon the burning galaxy ! *
TO
THE world had just begun to steal
Each hope, that led me lightly on,
I felt not, as I us'd to feel,
And life grew dark and love was gone !
No eye to mingle sorrow's tear,
No lip to mingle pleasure's breath,
No tongue to call me kind and dear
'Twas gloomy, and I wish'd for death !
But when I saw that gentle eye,
Oh ! something seem'd to tell me then,
That I was yet too young to die,
And hope and bliss might bloom again !
With every beamy smile, that crost
Your kindling cheek, you lighted home
Som feeling, which my heart had lost,
And peace, which long had learn'd to roam !
'Twas then indeed so sweet to live,
Hope look'd so new and love so kind,
That, though I weep, I still forgive
The ruin, which they've left behind !
I could have lov'd you oh so well !
The dream, that wishing boyhood knows,
Is but a bright, beguiling spell,
Which only lives while passion glows :
But, when this early flush declines,
When the heart's vivid morning fleets,
You know not then how close it twines
Round the first kindred soul it meets!
Yes, yes, I could have lov'd, as one
Who, while his youth's enchantments fall,
Finds something dear to rest upon,
Which pays him for the loss of all !
* According to Pythagoras, the People of Dreams are souls collected to-
gether in the galaxy.
2S2 MOOKE'S POEMS.
TO MRS
To see thee every day that came,
And find thee every day the same,
In pleasure's smile or sorrow's tear
Benign, consoling, ever dear !
To meet thee early, leave thee late,
Had been so long my bliss, my fate,
That life, without this cheering ray,
"Which came, like sunshine, every day,
And all my pain, my sorrow chac'd,
Is now a lone and loveless waste.
Where are the chords she us'd to touch ?
Where are the songs she lov'd so much ?
The songs are hush'd, the chords are still
And so, perhaps, will every thrill
Of friendship soon be lull'd to rest,
Which late I wak'd in Anna's breast !
Yet no the simple notes I play'd
On memory's tablet soon may fade ;
The songs, which Anna lov'd to hear,
May all be lost on Anna's ear ;
But friendship's sweet and fairy strain
Shall ever in her heart remain ;
Nor memory lose nor time impair
The sympathies which tremble there 1
TO LADY H-
ON AN OLD KING FOUND AT TUNBKIDGE WELLS.
"Tnnnebrlge est &, la mgme distance de Londres que Fontainebleau
Test de Paris. Ce qu'il y a de beau et de galant dans 1'un et dans
1'autre sexe s'y rassemble an terns des eaux. La compagnie, <fec.,
<fcc." See Memoires de Grammont, second part, chap. iii.
TUNBRIDGE WELLS, August 1805.
WHEN Grammont grac'd these happy springs,
And Tunbridge saw, upon her Pantiles,
The merriest wight of all the kings
That ever rul'd these gay, gallant isles :
Like us, by day, they rode, they walk'd,
At eve they did as we may do,
Aud Grammont just like Spencer talk'd
And lovely Stewart srnil'd like you !
MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 233
The only different trait is this,
That woman then, if man beset her,
Was rather given to saying " yes,"
Because, as yet, she knew no better !
Each night they held a coterie,
Where every fear to slumber charm'd,
Lovers were all they ought to be,
And husbands not the least alarm 'd !
They call'd up all their school-day pranks,
Nor thought it much their sense beneath,
To play at riddles, quips, and cranks,
And lords show'd wit, and ladies teeth.
As "Why are husbands like the Mint?"
Because, forsooth, a husband's duty
Is just to set the name and print
That give a currency to beauty.
" Why is a garden's wilder'd maze
Like a young widow, fresh and fair ? "
Because it wants some hand to raise
The weeds, which " have no business there !"
'Twas one of those facetious nights
That Grammont gave this forfeit ring
For breaking grave conundrum rites,
Or punning ill, or some such thing ;
From whence it can be fairly trac'd
Through many a branch and many a bough,
From twig to twig, until it grac'd
The snowy hand that wears it now.
All this I'll prove, and then to you,
Oh Tunbridge ! and your springs ironical,
I swear by Heathcote's eye of blue
To dedicate th' important chronicle.
Long may your ancient inmates give
Their mantles to your modern lodgers,
And Charles's loves in Heathcote live,
And Charles's bards revive in Kogers !
Let no pedantic fools be there,
For ever be those fops abolish'd
With heads as wooden as thy ware,
And, Heaven knows ! not half so polish'd.
But still receive the mild, the gay,
The few, who know the rare delight
Of reading Grammont every day,
And acting Grammont every night
234 MOORE'S POEMS.
TO .
NEVER mind how the pedagogue proses,
You want not antiquity's stamp,
The lip, that's so scented by roses,
Oh ! never must smell of the lamp.
Old Cloe, whose withering kisses
Have long set the loves at defiance,
Now, done with the science of blisses,
May fly to the blisses of science !
Young Sappho, for want of employments
Alone o'er her Ovid may melt,
Condemn'd but to read of enjoyments,
"Which wiser Corinna had felt.
But for you to be buried in books
Oh, Fanny ! they're pitiful sages,
Who could not in one of your looks
Read more than in millions of pages !
Astronomy finds in your eye
Better light than she studies above,
And Music must borrow } r our sigk
As the melody dearest to love.
In Ethics 'tis you that can check,
In a minute, their doubts and their quarrels ;
Oh ! show but that mole on your neck,
And 'twill soon put an end to their morals.
Your Arithmetic only can trip
When to kiss and to count yju endeavour ;
But Eloquence glows on your lip
When you swear, that you'll love me for ever
Thus you see, what a brilliant alliance
Of arts is assembled in you
A course of more exquisite science
Man never need wish to go through !
And, oh ! if a fellow like me
May confer a diploma of hearts,
With my lip thus I seal your degree,
My divine little Mistress of Arts !
DID NOT.
'TWAS a new feeling something more
Than we had dared to own before,
MISCELLANEOUS POKMS. 235
Which then we hid not ;
We saw it in each other's eye,
A] id wish'd, in every half-breath'd sigh,
To speak, but did not.
She felt my lips' impassion'd touch
'Twas the first time I dared so much,
And yet she chid not ;
But whisper'd o'er my burning brow,
" Oh ! do you doubt I love you now ?"
Sweet soul ! I did not.
AT NIGHT.*
AT night, when all is still around,
How sweet to hear the distant sound
Of footstep, coming soft and light !
What pleasure in the anxious beat,
With which the bosom flies to meet
That foot that comes so soft at night !
And then, at night, how sweet to say
" 'Tis late, my love !"" and chide delay,
Though still the western clouds are bright:
Oh ! happy, too, the silent press,
The eloquence of mute caress,
With those we love exchang'd at night !
TO LORD VISCOUNT STKANGFORD.
ABOARD THE PHAETON FEIGATE, OFF THK AZOEES, BY MOONLIGHT.
SWEET Moon ! if like Crotona's sage,t
By any spell my hand could dare
To make thy disk its ample page,
And write my thoughts, my wishes there ;
How many a friend, whose careless eye
Now wanders o'er that starry sky,
Should smile, upon thy orb to meet
The recollection, kind and sweet,
The reveries of fond regret,
The promise never to forget,
* These lines allude to a curious lamp, which has for its device a Cupid,
with the words "At Night" written over him.
t Pythagoras.
e a uupiu,
MOORE'S POEMS.
And all my heart and soul would send
To many a dear-lov'd, distant friend 1
Oh Strangford ! when we parted last,
I little thought the times were past,
For ever past, when brilliant joy
"Was all my vacant heart's employ :
"When, fresh from mirth to mirth again,
We thought the rapid hours too few,
Our only use for knowledge then
To turn to rapture all we knew !
Delicious days of whim and soul !
When, mingling lore and laugh together,
We lean'd the book on Pleasure's bowl,
And turn'd the leaf with Folly's feather!
I little thought that all were fled,
That, ere that summer's bloom was shed,
My eye should see the sail unfurl'd
That wafts me to the western world !
And yet 'twas time in youthful days,
To cool the season's burning rays,
The heart may let its wanton wing
Repose awhile in Pleasure's spring,
But, if it wait for winter's breeze,
The spring will dry, the heart will freeze !
And then, that Hope, that fairy Hope,
Oh ! she awak'd such happy dreams,
And gave my soul such tempting scope
For all its dearest, fondest schemes,
That not Verona's child of song,
When flying from the Phrygian shore,
With lighter hopes could bound along,
Or pant to be a wanderer more !
Even now delusive hope will steal
Amid the dark regrets I feel,
Soothing, as yonder placid beam
Pursues the murmurers of the deep,
And lights them with consoling gleam.
And smiles them into tranquil sleep!
Oh ! such a blessed night as this,
I often think, if friends were near,
How we should feel, and gaze with bliss
Upon the moon-bright scenery here !
The' sea is like a silvery lake,
And, o'er its calm the vessel glides
Gently, as if it fear'd to wake
MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 2"7
The slumber of the silent tides !
The only envious cloud that lowers,
Hath hung its shade on Pico's height,*
"Where dimly, mid the dusk, he towers.
And scowling at this heav'n of light,
Exults to see the infant storm
Cling darkly round his giant form !
Now, could I range those verdant isles,
Invisible, at this soft hour,
And see the looks, the melting smiles,
That brighten many an orange bower ;
And could I lift each pious veil,
And see the blushing cheek it shades,
Oh ! I should have full many a tale,
To tell of young Azorian maids.
Dear Strangford ! at this hour, perhaps,
Some faithful lover (not so blest
As they, who in their ladies' laps
May cradle every wish to rest),
"Warbles, to touch his dear one's soul,
Those madrigals, of breath divine,
"Which Camoens' harp from rapture stole
And gave, all glowing warm, to thine !
Oh ! could the lover learn from thee,
And breathe them with thy graceful tonu.
Such dear, beguiling minstrelsy
Would make the coldest nymph his own !
But, hark ! the boatswain's pipings tell
Tis time to bid my dream farewell :
Eight bells : the middle watch is set ;
Good night, my Strangford ! ne'er forget
That, far beyond the western sea
Is one, whose heart remembers thee !
STANZAS.
A BEAM of tranquillity smil'd in the west,
The storms of the morning pursued us no more,
And the wave, while it welcom'd the moment of rest,
Still heav'd, as remembering ills that were o'er !
Serenely my heart took the hue of the hour,
Its passions were sleeping, were mute as the dead,
* Pico Is a very high mountain on one of the Azovua.
MOORE'S POEMS.
And the spirit becalm'd but remeinber'd their power,
As the billow the force of the gale that was lied !
I thought of the days, when to pleasure alone
My heart ever granted a wish or a sigh ;
When the saddest emotion my bosom' had known,
Was pity for those who were wiser than I !
I felt how the pure, intellectual fire
In luxury loses its heavenly ray ;
How soon, in the lavishing cup of desire,
The pearl of the soul may be melted away !
And I pray'd of that Spirit who lighted the flame,
That pleasure no more might its purity dim ;
And that sullied but little, or brightly the same,
I might give back the gem I had borrow'd from him
The thought was extatic ! I felt as if Heaven
Had already the wreath of eternity shown ;
As if, passion all chasten 'd and error forgiven,
My heart had begun to be purely its own !
I look'd to the west, and the beautiful sky
Which morning had clouded, was clouded no more ;
' Oh ! thus," I exclaimed, " can a heavenly eye
Shed light on the soul that was darkeu'd before I"
TO THE FLYING FISH.
WHEN I have seen thy snowy wing
O'er the blue wave at evening spring,
And give those scales, of silver white,
So gaily to the eye of light,
As if thy frame were form'd to rise,
And live amid the glorious skies ;
Oh ! it has made me proudly feel,
How like thy wing's impatient zeal
Is the pure soul, that scorns to rest
Upon the world's ignoble breast,
But takes the plume that God has given,
And rises into light and heaven !
But, when I see that wing, so bright,
Grow languid with a moment's flight,
Attempt the paths of air, in vain,
And sink into the waves again ;
Alas ! the flattering pride is o'er ;
Like thee, awhile, the soul may soar,
MISCELLANLOUS POEMS. 239
But erring man must blush to think,
Like thee, again, the soul may sink !
Oh Virtue ! when thy clime I seek,
Let not my spirit's flight be weak :
Let me not, like this feeble thing,
With brine still dropping from its wing,
Just sparkle in the solar glow,
And plunge again to depths below ;
But, when I leave the grosser throng
With whom my soul hath dwelt so long,
Let me, in that aspiring day,
Cast every lingering stain away,
And, panting for thy purer air,
Fly up at once and fix me there !
TO MISS MOORE.
FROM NORFOLK, IN VIRGINIA, NOVEMBER 1803.
IN days, my Kate, when life was new,
When, lull'd with innocence and you,
I heard, in home's beloved shade,
The din the world at distance made ;
When, every night my weary head
Sunk on its own unthorned bed,
And, mild as evening's matron hour
Looks on the faintly shutting flower,
A mother saw our eyelids close,
And bless'd them into pure repose !
Then, haply if a week, a day,
I linger'd from my home away,
How long the little absence seem'd !
How bright the look of welcome beani'd,
As mute you heard, with eager smile,
My tales of all that pass'd the while !
Yet now, my Kate, a gloomy sea
Rolls wide between that home and mo ;
The moon may thrice be born and die,
Ere ev'n your seal can reach mine eye ;
And oh ! ev'n then, that darling seal,
(Upon whose print, I us'd to feel
The breath of home, the cordial air
Of loved lips, still freshly there !)
Must come, alas ! through every fate
Of time and distance, cold and late,
24 ) MOORE'S POEMS.
When the dear hand, whose touches fill'd
The leaf with sweetness, may be chill'd !
But hence, that gloomy thought ! at last,
Beloved Kate ! the waves are past :
I tread on earth securely now,
And the green cedar's living bough
Breathes more refreshment to my eyes
Than could a Claude's divinest dies !
At length I touch the happy sphere
To liberty and virtue dear,
Where man looks up, and proud to claim
His rank within the social frame,
Sees a grand system round him roll,
Himself its centre, sun and soul !
Far from the shocks of Europe ; far
From every wild, elliptic star
That, shooting with a devious fire,
Kindled by Heaven's avenging ire,
So oft hath into Chaos huii'd
The systems of the ancient world !
The warrior here, in arms no more,
Thinks of the toil, the conflict o'er,
And glorying in the rights they won
For hearth and altar, sire and son,
Smiles on the dusky webs that hide
His sleeping sword's remember'd pride !
While peace, with sunny cheeks of toil,
Walks o'er the free, unlorded soil,
Effacing with her splendid share
The drops that war had sprinkled there I
Thrice happy land ! where he who flies
From the dark ills of other skies,
From scorn, or want's unnerving woes,
May shelter him in proud repose!
Hope sings along the yellow sand
His welcome to a patriot land ;
The mighty wood, with pomp, receives
The stranger, in its world of leaves,
Which soon their barren glory yield
To the warm shed and cultur'd field ;
And he, who came, of all bereft,
To whom malignant fate had left
Nor home nor friends nor country dear,
Finds home and friends and country here
Such is the picture, warmly such,
That long the spell of fancy's touch
MISCELLANEOUS POKMS. 241
Hath painted to my sanguine eye
Of man's new weald of liberty !
Oh ! ask me not, if truth will seal
The reveries of fancy's zeal,
If yet, my charmed eyes behold
These features of an age of gold
No yet, alas ! no gleaming trace !
Never did youth, who lov'd a face
From portrait's rosy, nattering art,
Recoil with more regret of heart,
To find an owlet eye of grey,
Where painting pour'd the sapphire's ray,
Than I have felt, indignant felt,
To think the glorious dreams should melt,
Which oft, in boyhood's witching time,
Have rapt me to this wond'rous clime !
But, courage ! yet, my wavering heart !
Blame not the temple's meanest part,
Till you have trac'd the fabric o'er :
As yet, we have beheld no more
Than just the porch to Freedom's fane,
And, though a sable drop may stain
The vestibule, 'tis impious sin
To doubt there's holiness within !
So here I pause and now, my Kate,
To you (whose simplest ringlet's fate
Can claim moire interest in my soul
Than all the Powers from pole to pole)
One word at parting ; in the tone
Most sweet to you, and most my own.
The simple notes I send you here,*
Though rude and wild, would still be dear,
If you but knew the trance of thought,
In which my mind their murmurs caught.
'Twas one of those enchanting dreams,
That lull me oft, when music seems
To pour the soul in sound along,
And turn its every sigh to song !
I thought of home, the according lays
Respir'd the breath of happier days ;
Warmly in every rising note
I felt some dear remembrance float,
Till, led by Music's fairy chain,
I wander'd back to home again !
Oh ! love the song, and let it oft
A trifling attempt at musical composition accompanied this epistle.
242 MOORE'S POEMS.
Live on your lip, in warble soft !
Say that it tells you, simply well.
All I have bid its murmurs tell,
Of memory's glow, of dreams that shed
The tinge of joy when joy is fled,
And all the heart's illusive hoard
Of love renew'd and friends restor'd !
Now, sweet, adieu ! this artless air,
And a few rhymes, in transcript fair,
Are all the gifts I yet can boast
To send you from Columbia's coast ;
But when the sun, with warmer smile,
Shall light me to my destin'd isle,*
You shall have many a cowslip-bell
Where Ariel slept, and many a shell,
In which the gentle spirit drew
From honey flowers the morning dew !
A BALLAD.
THE LAKE OF THE DISMAL SWAMP.
WRITTEN AT NORFOLK, IN VIRGINIA.
"They tell of a young: man who lost his mind upon the death of a girl
he loved, and who, suddenly disappearing from his friends, was never
afterwards heard of. As he had frequently said in his ravings, that the
girl was not dead, but gone to the Dismal Swamp, it is supposed he had
wandered into that dreary wilderness, and had died of hunger or beea
lost in some of its dreadful morasses." Anon.
"La poesie a ses monstres comme la nature." D'Alembert.
" THEY made her a grave, too cold and damp
For a soul so warm and true ;
And she's gone to the Lake of the Dismal Swamp,t
Where, all night long, by a fire-fly lamp,
She paddles her white canoe.
" And her fire-fly lamp I soon shall see,
And her paddle I soon shall hear ;
Long and loving our life shall be,
And I'll hide the maid in a cypress tree,
When the footstep of death is near !"
Away to the Dismal Swamp he speeds
His path was rugged and sore,
* Bermuda,
t The Great Dismal Swamp is ten or twelve miles distant from Norfolk,
.xml the lake in the middle of it (about seven miles long) is calltd Drum-
I uiond's Pond
I
MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 243
Through tangled juniper, beds of reeds,
Through many a fen, where the serpent feeds,
And man never trod before !
And, when on the earth he sunk to sleep,
If slumber his eyelids knew,
He lay, where the deadly vine dotli weep
Its venomous tear and nightly steep
The flesh with blistering dew !
And near him the she-wolf stirr'd the brake,
And the copper-snake breath'd in his ear,
Till he starting cried, from his dream awake,
" Oh ! when shall I see the dusky Lake,
And the white canoe of my dear ?"
He saw the Lake, and a meteor bright
Quick over its surface play'd
"Welcome," he said, "my dear-one's light!"
And the dim shore echoed, for many a night
The name of the death-cold maid !
Till he hollow'd a. boat of the birchen bark.
Which carried him off from shore ;
Far he follow'd the meteor spark,
The wind was high and the clouds were
And the boat return'd no more.
But oft, from the Indian hunter's camp
This lover and maid so true
Are seen at the hour of midnight rlamp,
To cross the Lake by a fire-fly lau p,
And paddle their white canoe !
TO THE MARCHIONESS DOWAGER OF DONEGALL
FEOM BERMUDA, JANUARY 1804.
LADY ! where'er you roam, whatever beam
Of bright creation warms your mimic dream ;
Whether you trace the valley's golden meads,
Where mazy Linth his lingering current leads ; *
Enamour'd catch the mellow hues that sleep,
At eve, on Meillerie's immortal steep ;
Or musing o'er the Lake, at day's decline,
Mark the last shadow on the holy shrine,t
Where, many a night, the soul of Tell complains
* Lady D., I supposed, was at this time still in Switzerland.
t The chapel of William Tell, on the Lake of Lucerne.
Q
241 MOORE'S POEMS.
Of Gallin's triumph and Helvetia's chains ;
Oh ! lay the pencil for a moment by,
Turn from the tablet that creative eye,
And let its splendour, like the morning ray
Upon a shepherd's harp, illume my lay !
Yet, Lady ! no for song so rude as mine,
Chase not the wonders of your dream divine ;
Still, radiant eye ! upon the tablet dwell ;
Still, rosy finger ! weave your pictur'd spell ;
And, while I sing the animated smiles
Of fairy nature in these sun-born isles,
Oh ! might the song awake some bright design,
Inspire a touch, or prompt one happy line,
Proud were my soul, to see its humble thought
On painting's mirror so divinely caught,
And wondering Genius, as he lean'd to trace
The faint conception kindling into grace,
Might love my numbers for the spark they threw,
A'nd bless the lay that lent a charm to you !
Have you not oft, in nightly vision, stray'd
To the pure isles of ever-blooming shade,
"Which bards of old, with kindly magic, plac'd
For happy spirits in th' Atlantic waste ?
There as eternal gales, with fragrance warm,
Breath'd from Elysium through each shadowy form
In eloquence of eye, and dreams of song,
They charm'd their lapse of nightless hours along I
Nor yet in song, that mortal ear may suit,
For every spirit was itself a lute,
Where virtue waken'd, with elysian breeze,
Pure tones of thoiight and mental harmonies !
Believe me, Lady, when the zephyrs bland
Floated our bark to this enchanted land,
These leafy isles upon the ocean thrown,
Like studs of emerald o'er a silver zone ;
Not all the charm, that ethnic fancy gave
To blessed arbours o'er the western wave,
Could wake a dream, more sootliing or sublime,
Of bowers ethereal and the spirit's clime !
The morn was lovely, every wave was still,
When the first perfume of a cedar-hill
Sweetly awak'd us, and with smiling charms,
The fairy harbour woo'd us to its arms.*
Gently we stole, before the languid wind,
* The little harbour of St George's.
MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 245
Through plaintain shades, that like an awning twin'd
And kiss'd on either side the wanton sails.
Breathing our welcome to these vernal vales;
While, far reflected o'er the wave serene
Each wooded island shed so soft a green,
That the enamour 'd keel, with whispering play
Through liquid herbage seera'd to steal its wa<y !
Never did weary bark more sweetly glide,
Or rest its anchor in a lovelier tide !
Along the margin, many a brilliant dome,
"White as the palace of a Lapland gnome,
Br'ghten'd the wave ; in every myrtle grove
Secluded bashful, like a shrine of love,
Some elfin mansion sparkled through the shade ;
And, while the foliage interposing play'd,
Wreathing the structure into various grace,
Fancy would love, in many a form, to trace
The flowery capital, the shaft, the porch,
And dream of temples, till her kindling torch
Lighted me back to all the glorious days
Of Attic genius ; and I seemed to gaze
On marble, from the rich Pentelic mount,
Gracing the umbrage of some Naiad's fount.
Sweet airy being !* who, in brighter hours,
Liv'd on the perfume of these honied bowers,
In velvet buds, at evening, lov'd to lie,
And win with music every rose's sigh !
Though weak the magic of my humble strain,
To charm your spirit from its orb again,
Yet, oh 1 for her, beneath whose smile I sing,
For her (whose pencil, if your rainbow wing
Were dimm'd or ruffled by a wintry sky,
Could smooth its feather and relume its dye),
A moment wander from your starry sphere,
And if the lime-tree grove that once was dear,
The sunny wave, the bower, the breezy hill,
The sparkling grotto can delight you still,
Oh ! take their fairest tint, their softest light,
Weave all their beauty into dreams of night,
And, while the lovely artist slumbering lies,
Shed the warm picture o'er her mental eyes ;
Borrow for sleep her own creative spells,
And brightly show what song but faintly tells !
* Among the many charms which Bermuda has for a poetic eye. wo
cannot for an instant forget that it is the scene of Shakspeare's Tempest,
and that here he conjured up the " delicate Ariel," who alone ia worth the
whole heaven of auciont mythology
246 MOORE'S POEMS.
TO GEORGE MORGAN, ESQ.,
OF NORFOLK, VIRGINIA.
From Bermuda, January 1804.
OH what a tempest whirl 'd us hither !
Winds, whose savage hreath could wither
All the light and languid flowers
That bloom in Epicurus' bowers !
Yet think not, George, that fancy's charm
Forsook me in this rude alarm.
"When close they reef d the timid sail,
When, every plank complaining loud,
We labour'd in the midnight gale,
And ev'n our haughty main-mast bow'u !
The Muse, in that unlovely hour,
Benignly brought her soothing power,
And, midst the war of waves and wind,
In song's elysian lap'd my mind !
She open'd, with her golden key,
The casket where my memory lays
Those little gems of poesy,
Which time has sav'd from ancient daya !
Take one of these, to Lais sung,
[ wrote it while my hammock swung,
As one might write a dissertation
Upon " suspended animation !"
Sweetly you kiss, my Lais dear !
But, while you kiss, I feel a tear
Bitter, as those when lovers part,
In mystery from your eye-lid start !
Sadly you lean your head to mine,
And round my neck in silence twine,
Your hair along my bosom spread,
All humid with the tears you shed I
Have I not kiss'd those lids of snow ?
Yet still, my love, like founts they flow,
Bathing our cheeks, whene'er they meet
Why is it thus ? do tell me, sweet 1
Ah, Lais I are my bodings right ?
Am I to lose you ? is to-night
Our last go, false to heaven and me !
Your very tears are treachery.
Such, while in air I floating hung,
Such was the strain, Morgante mio J
The Muse and I together sung,
MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 247
With Boreas to make out the trio.
But, bless the little fairy isle !
How sweetly after all our ills,
We saw the dewy morning smile
Serenely o'er its fragrant hills 1
And felt the pure, elastic flow
Of airs, that round this Eden blow,
With honey freshness, caught by stealth
Warm from the very lips of health !
Oh ! could you view the scenery dear,
That now beneath my window lies,
You'd think, that Nature lavish'd here
Her purest wave, her softest skies,
To make a heaven for love to sigh in,
For bards to live and saints to die in !
Close to my wooded bank below,
In glassy calm the waters sleep,
And to the sun-beam proudly show
The coral rocks they love to steep !
The fainting breeze of morning fails,
The drowsy boat moves slowly past,
And I can almost touch its sails
That languish idly round the mast.
The sun has now profusely given
The flashes of a noontide heaven,
And, as the wave reflects his beams,
Another heaven its surface seems !
Blue light and clouds of silvery tears
So pictur'd o'er the waters lie,
That every languid bark appears
To float along a burning sky !
Oh ! for the boat the angel gave
To him, who in his heaven-ward flight,
Sail'd, o'er the sun's ethereal wave,
To planet-isles of odorous light !
Sweet Venus, what a clime he found
Within thy orb's ambrosial round !
There spring the breezes, rich and warm,
That pant around thy twilight car ;
There angels dwell, so pure of form,
That each appears a living star !
These are the sprites, oh radiant queen !
Thou send'st so often to the bed
Of her I love, with spell unseen,
Thy planet's bright'niug balm to shed
248 MOORE'S POEMS.
To make the eye's enchantment clearer,
To give the cheek one rose-bud more,
And bid that flushing lip be dearer,
"Which had been, oh ! so dear before !
But, whither means the Muse to roam ?
'Tis time to call the wanderer home.
"Who could have ever thought to search her
Up in the clouds with Father Kircher ?
So, health and love to all your mansion !
Long may the bowl that pleasures bloom in,
The flow of heart, the soul's expansion,
Mirth and song your board illumine !
Fare you well remember too,
When cups are flowing to the brim,
That here is one who drinks to you,
And, oh ! as warmly drink to him.
LINES,
WRITTEN IN A STORM AT SEA.
On ! there's a holy calm profound
In awe like this, that ne'er was given
To rapture's thrill ;
'Tis as a solemn voice from heaven,
And the soul, listening to the sound,
Lies mute and still !
'Tis true, it talks of danger nigh,
Of slumbering with the dead to-morrow
In the cold deep,
Where pleasure's throb or tears of sorrow
No more shall wake the heart or eye,
But all must sleep !
Well ! there are some, thou stormy bed,
To whom thy sleep would be a treasure ;
Oh ! most to him,
Whose lip hath drain'd life's cup of pleasure,
Nor left one honey drop to shed
Round misery's brim.
Yes he can smile serene at death :
Kind Heaven ! do thou but chase the weeping
Of friends who love him ;
Tell them that he lies calmly sleeping
Where sorrow's sting or envy's breath
No more shall move him.
MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 249
ODES TO NEA.
WRITTEN AT BERMUDA.
I.
NAT, tempt me not to love again,
There was a time when love was sweet ;
Dear Nea ! had I known thee then,
Our souls had not been slow to meet !
But, oh ! this weary heart hath run,
So many a time, the rounds of pain,
Not ev'n for thee, thou lovely one !
Would I endure such pangs again.
If there be climes, where never yet
The print of beauty's foot was set,
Where man may pass his loveless nights,
Unfever'd by her false delights,
Thither my wounded soul would fly,
Where rosy cheek or radiant eye
Should bring no more their bliss, their pain,
Or fetter me to earth again !
Dear absent girl ! whose eyes of light,
Though little priz'd when all my own,
Now float before me, soft and bright
As when they first enamouring shone !
Flow many hours were idly past,
As if such bliss must ever last,
Unmindful of the fleeting day,
H ave I dissolv'd life's dream away !
O bloom of time profusely shed !
O moments ! simply, vainly fled,
Yet sweetly too for love perfurn'd
The flame which thus my life consum'd-
And brilliant was the chain of flowers,
In which he led my victim-hours !
Say, Nea dear ! cotild'st thou, like her,
When warm to feel and quick to err,
Of loving fond, of roving fonder,
Mv thoughtless soul might wish to wander,
Could'st thou, like her, the wish reclaim,
Endearing still, reproaching never,
Till all my heart should burn will) shame,
Aud be thy own more fix'd than ever ?
!
! 250 MOORE'S POEMS.
No, no on earth there's only one
Could bind such faithless folly fast :
And sure on earth 'tis I alone
Could make such virtue false at last !
' Nea ! the heart which she forsook,
For thee were but a worthless shrine
Go, lovely girl, that angel look
Must thrill a soul more pure than mine.
Oh ! thou shalt be all else to me,
That heart can feel or tongue can feign ;
I'll praise, admire, and worship thee,
But must not, dare not love again.
II.
You read it in my languid eyes,
And there alone should love be read ;
You hear me say it all in sighs,
And thus alone should love be said.
Then dread no more ; I will not speak ;
Although my heart to anguish thrill,
I'll spare the burning of your cheek,
And look it all in silence still !
Divinely through the graceful dance,
You seem'd to float in silent song,
Bending to earth that beamy glance,
As if to light your steps along !
Oh ! how could others dare to touch
That hallow'd form with hand so free,
When but to look was bliss too much,
Too rare for all but heaven and me !
With smiling eyes, that little thought
How fatal were the beams they threw,
My trembling hands you lightly caught,
And round mo like a spirit, flew.
Heedless of all, I wildly turn'd,
My soul forgot nor, oh ! condemn,
That when such eyes before me burn'd,
My soul forgot all eyes but them !
That moment, did the mingled eyes
Of heaven and earth my madness view,
I should have seen, through earth and skies.
But you alone but only you 1
I
MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 251
III.
A DUE AM OF ANTIQUITY.
I JUST had tiirn'd the classic page,
And trac'd that happy period over,
When love could warm the proudest sage,
And wisdom grace the tenderest lover !
Before I laid me down to sleep,
Upon the hank awhile I stood,
And saw the vestal planet weep
Her tears of light on Ariel's flood.
My heart was full of fancy's dream,
And, as I watch'd the playful stream,
Entangling in its net of smiles
So fair a group of elfin isles,
I felt as if the scenery there
Were lighted hy a Grecian sky
As if I hreath'd the blissful air
That yet was warm with Sappho's sigh !
And now, the downy hand of rest
Her signet on my eyes imprest,
Ar.d still the bright and balmy spell,
Like star-dew, o'er my fancy fell !
I thought that, all enrapt, I stray'd
Through that serene, luxiirious shade,
Where Epicurus taught the Loves
To polish Virtue's native brightness,
Just as the beak of playful doves
Can give to pearls a smoother whiteness .*
'Twas one of those delicioiis nights
So common in the climes of Greece,
When day withdraws but half its lights,
And all is moonshine, balm, and peace !
And thou wert there, my own belov'd !
And dearly by thy side I rov'd
Through many a temple's reverent gloom,
And many a bower's enticing bloom,
Where beauty learned and wisdom taught,
Where lovers sigh'd and sages thought,
* This method of polishing pearls, by leavinp them awhile to he plnyed
with by doves, is mentioned by the fanciful Curdamis, de Ro-um VarieM \
lib. \f. cap. 34.
252 MOORE'S POEMS.
Where hearts might feel or heads discern,
And all was form'd to soothe or move.
To make the dullest love to, learn,
To make the coldest learn to love !
And now the fairy pathway seem'd
To lead us through enchanted ground
Where all that bard has ever dream'd
Of love or luxury bloom 'd around !
Oh ! 'twas a bright, bewildering scene -
Along the alley's deepening green
Soft lamps, that hung like burning flowers,
And scented and illum'd the bowers,
Sccnrd, as to him, who darkling roves
Amid the lone Hercynian groves,
Appear the countless birds of light,
That sparkle in the leaves at night,
And from their wings diffuse a raj 7 '
Along the traveller's weary way !
'Twas light of that mysterious kind,
Through which the soul is doom'd to roarn.
When it has left this world behind,
And gone to seek its heavenly home !
And, Nea, thou didst look and move,
Like any blooming soul of bliss,
That wanders to its home above
Through mild and shadowy light like this !
But now, methought, we stole along
Through halls of more voluptuous glory
Than ever lived in Teian song,
(Jr wanton'd in Milesian story!
And nymphs were there, whose very eyes
Seem'd almost to exhale in sighs ;
Whose every little ringlet thrill'd,
As if with soul and passion fill'd !
Some flew, with amber cups, around,
Shedding the flowery wines of Crete,
And, as they pass'd with youthful bound,
The onyx shown beneath their feet !
While others, waving arms of snow
Entwin'd by snakes of burnish'd gold,
With fairy form, as loth to show.
Through many a thin Tarentian fold,
Glided along the festal ring
With vases, all respiring spring,
Where roses lay, in languor breathing,
And the young bee-grape, round them wreathing,
MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 253
Hung on their blushes warm and meek,
Like curls upon a rosy cheek 1
Oh, Nea ! why did morning break
The spell that so divinely bound me ?
Why did I wake ? how could I wake
With thee rny own, and heaven around me !
IV.
WELL peace to thy heart, though another's it be,
And health to thy cheek, though it bloom not for me !
To-morrow, I sail for those cinnamon groves,
Where nightly the ghost of the Carribee roves,
And, far from thine eye, oh ! perhaps, I may yet
Its allurement forgive and its splendour forget !
Farewell to Bermuda, and long may the bloom
Of the lemon and myrtle its valleys perfume ;
May spring to eternity hallow the shade,
Where Ariel has warbled and Waller has stray'd !
And thou when, at dawn, thou shalt happen to roam
Through the lime-cover'd alley that leads to thy home,
Where oft, when the dance and the revel were done,
And the stars were beginning to fade in the sun,
I have led thee along, and have told by the way
What my heart all the night had been burning to say
Oh ! think of the past give a sigh to those times,
And a blessing for me to that alley of limes 1
V.
IF I were yonder wave, my dear,
And thou the isle it clasps around,
I would not let a foot come near
My land of bliss, my fairy ground !
If I were yonder conch of gold,
And thou the pearl within it plac'd,
I would not let an eye behold
The sacred gem my arms embrac'd !
If I were yonder orange-tree,
And thou the blossom blooming there,
I \vould not yield a breath of thee,
To scent the most imploring air 1
MOORE'S POEMS.
Oli ! bend not o'er the water's brink,
Give not the wave that rosy sigh,
Nor let its burning mirror drink
The soft reflection of thine eye.
That glossy hair, that glowing cheek,
Upon the billows pour their beam
So warmly, that my soul could seek
Its Nea in the painted stream.
Behold the leafy mangrove, bending
O'er the waters blue and bright,
Like Nea's silky lashes, lending
Shadow to her eyes of light !
Oh, my belov'd ! where'er I turn,
Some trace of thee enchants mine eyes
In every star thy glances burn.
Thy blush on every flow'ret lies.
I pray thee, on those lips of thine
To wear this rosy leaf for me,
And breathe of something not divine,
Since nothing human breathes of thee !
All other charms of thine I meet
In nature, but thy sigh alone ;
Then take, oh ! take, though not so sweet,
The breath of roses for thine own !
So. while I walk the flowery grove,
The bud that gives, through morning dew,
The lustre of the lips I love,
May seem to give their perfume too !
VI.
THE SNOW-SPIRIT.
No. ne'er did the wave in its element steep
An island of lovelier charms ;
It blooms in the giant embrace of the deep,
Like Hebe in Hercules' arms!
The tint of your bowers is balm to the eye,
Their melody balm to the ear ;
But the fiery planet of day is too nigh,
And the Snow-Spirit never comes here!
MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 25fi
The down from his wing is as white as the pearl
Thy lips for their cabinet stole,
And it falls on the green earth as melting, my girl,
As a murmur of thine on the soul !
Oh ! fly to the clime, where he pillows the death
As he cradles the birth of the year ;
Bright are your bowers and balmy their breath,
But the Snow-Spirit cannot come here !
How sweet to behold him, when borne on the gale,
And brightening the bosom of morn,
He flings, like the priest of Diana, a veil
O'er the brow of each virginal thorn !
Yet think not, the veil he so chillingly casts,
Is the veil of a vestal severe ;
No, no, thou wilt see, what a moment it lasts,
Should the Snow-Spirit ever come here !
But fly to his region lay open thy zone,
And he'll weep all his brilliancy dim,
To think that a bosom, as white as his own,
Should not melt in the day-beam like him !
Oh 1 lovely the print of those delicate feet
O'er his luminous path will appear
Fly ! my beloved ! this island is sweet,
But the Snow-Spirit cannot come here !
VII.
I STOLE along the flowery bank,
While many- a bending sea-grape* drank
The sprinkle of the feathery oar
That wing'd me round this fairy shore !
'Twas noon; and every orange bud
Hung languid o'er the crystal flood,
Faint as the lids of maiden eyes
Beneath a lover's burning sighs !
Oh for a naiad's sparry bower,
To shade me in that glowing hour !
A little dove, of milky hue,
Before me from a plantain flew,
And, light along the water's brim,
I steer'd my gentle bark by him ;
The sea-side or mangrove grape, a native of the West Indiea
256 MOORE'S POEMS.
For fancy told me, love had sent
This snowy bird of blandishment,
To lead me, where my soul should meet
I knew not what, but something sweet !
Blest be the little pilot dove !
He had indeed been sent by love,
To guide me to a scene so dear,
As Fate allows but seldom here ;
One of those rare and brilliant hours,
Which, like the aloe's lingering flowers,
May blossom to the eye of man
But once in all his weary span !
Just where the margin's opening shade
A vista from the waters made,
My bird repos'd his silver plume
Upon a rich banana's bloom.
Oh vision bright ! oh spirit fair !
"What spell, what magic rais'd her there ?
'Twas Nea ! slumbering calm and mild,
And bloomy as the dimpled child,
Whose spirit in Elysium keeps
Its playful sabbath, while he sleeps !
The broad banana's green embrace
Hung shadowy round each tranquil grace ;
One little beam alone 1 could win
The leaves to let it wander in,
And, stealing over all her charms,
From lip to cheek, from neck to arms,
In glowing pencillings of light,
All trembling, pour'd its radiance bright !
Her eyelid's black and silken fringe
Lay on her cheek, of vermil tinge,
Like the first ebon cloud, that closes
Dark on evening's heaven of roses !
Her glances, though in slumber hid,
Seem'd glowing through their ivory lid,
And o'er her lip's reflecting dew
A soft and liquid lustre threw,
Such as, declining dim and faint,
The lamp of some beloved saint
Doth shed upon a flowery wreath,
Which pious hands have hung beneath I
MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 257
VIII.
BEHOLD, my love, the curious gem
Within this simple ring of gold ;
'Tis hallow'd by the touch of them
Who liv'd in classic hours of old.
Some fair Athenian girl, perhaps,
Upon her hand this gem display'd,
Nor thought that time's eternal lapse
Should see it grace a lovelier maid!
IX.
THEKE'S not a look, a word of thine
My soul hath e'er forgot ;
Thou ne'er hast hid a ringlet shine,
Nor giv'n thy locks one graceful twine
Which I remember not 1
There never yet a murmur fell
From that beguiling tongue,
Which did not, with a lingering spell,
Upon my charmed senses dwell,
Like something heaven had sung
Ah ! that I could, at once, forget
All, all that haunts me so
And yet, thou witching g^irl ! and yet,
To die were sweeter, than to let
The lov'd remembrance go !
No ; if this slighted heart must see
Its faithful pulse decay,
Oh ! let it die, remembering thee,
And, like the burnt aroma, be
Conaum'd in sweets away !
MOOKE'S POEMS.
TO JOSEPH ATKINSON, ESQ.
FKOM BERMUDA.
Marck,
" THE daylight is gone but, before we depart,
One cup shall go round to the friend of my heart,
To the kindest, the dearest oh ! judge by the tear,
That I shed while I name him, how kind and how deur I"
'Twas thus, by the shade of a calabash-tree,
With a few, who could feel and remember like mo,
The charm, that to sweeten my goblet I threw,
Was a tear to the past and a blessing on you !
Oh ! say, do you thus, in the luminous hour
Of wine and of wit, when the heart is in flower
And shoots from the lip, under Bacchus 's dew,
In blossoms of thought ever springing and new !
Do you sometimes remember, and hallow the brim
Of your cup with a sigh, as you crown it to him,
Who is lonely and sad in these valleys so fair,
And would pine in Elysium, if friends were not there 1
Last night, when we came from the calabash-troe,
When my limbs were at rest and my spirit was free,
The glow of the grape and the dreams of the day
Put the magical springs of my fancy in play,
And oh ! such a vision as haunted me then
I could slumber for ages to witness again !
The many I like, and the few I adore,
The friends, who were dear and beloved before,
But never till now so beloved and dear,
At the call of my fancy surrounded me here !
Soon, soon did the flattering spell of their smile
To a paradise brighten the blest little isle ;
Serener the wave, as they look'd on it, flow'd,
And warmer the rose, as they gather'd it, glow'd
Not the valleys Hersean (though water'd by rills
Of the pearliest flow, from those pastoral hills,*
Where the song of the shepherd, primaeval and wild,
Was taught to the nymphs by their mystical child)
Could display such a bloom of delight, as was given
By the magic of love to this miniature heaven !
* Mountains of Sicily, upon which Daphnis, the first inventor of bucolic
poetry, was nursed by t lie nymphs.
L
MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 259
Oh magic of love ! unombollish'd by you,
Has the garden a blush or the herbage a hue ?
Or blooms there a prospect in nature or art,
Like the vista that shines through the eye to the heai t ?
Alas ! that a vision so happy should fade !
That, when morning around me in brilliancy play'd,
The rose and the stream I had thought of at night
Should still be before me, unfadingly bright ;
While the friends, who had seem'd to hang over the stream,
And to gather the roses, had fled with my dream !
But see, through the harbour, in floating array,
The bark that must carry these pages away,
Impatiently flutters her wing to the wind,
And will soon leave the bowers of Ariel behind !
What billows, what gales is she fated to prove,
Ere she sleep in the lee of the land that I love !
Yet pleasant the swell of those billows would be,
And the sound of those gales would be music to me !
Not the tranquillest air that the winds ever blew,
Not the silvery lapse of the summer-eve dew,
Were as sweet as the breeze, or as bright as the foam
Of the wave, that would carry your wanderer home !
THE STEERSMAN'S SONG.
WEITTEN ABOABD THE BOSTON FRIGATE, 28th APRIL.
WHEN freshly blows the northern gale,
And under courses snug we fly ;
When lighter breezes swell the sail,
And royals proudly sweep the sky ;
'Longside the wheel, unwearied still
I stand, and as my watchful eye
Doth mark the needle's faithful thrill,
I think of her I love, and cry,
Port, my boy ! port.
When calms delay, or breezes blow
Right from the point we wish to steer ;
When by the wind close-haul'd we go,
And strive in vain the port to near ;
I think 'tis thus the fates defer
My bliss with one that's far away,
And while remembrance springs to her,
I watch the sails, and sighing say,
Thus, my boy! thus.
R
260 MOORE'S POEMS.
But see, the wind draws kindly aft,
All hands are up the yards to square,
And now the floating stu'n-sails waft
Our stately ship through waves and air.
Oh ! then I think that yet for me
Some breeze of fortune thus may spring,
Some breeze to waft me, love, to thee !
And in that hope I smiling sing,
Steady, boy ! so.
TO THE FIRE-FLY.
THIS morning, when the earth and sky
Were burning with the blush of spring,
I saw thee not, thou humble fly !
Nor thought upon thy gleaming wing.
But now the skies have lost their hue,
And sunny lights no longer play,
I see thee, and I bless thee too
For sparkling o'er the dreary way.
Oh ! let me hope that thus for me,
"When life and love shall loose their bloom,
Some milder joys may come, like thee,
To light, if not to warm, the gloom !
TO LORD VISCOUNT FORBES.
FROM THK CITY OF WASHINGTON.
IF former times had never left a trace
Of human frailty in their shadowy race,
Nor o'er their pathway written, as they ran,
One dark memorial of the crimes of man ;
If every age, in new unconscious prime,
Rose, like a phoenix, from the fires of time,
To wing its way unguided and alone,
The future smiling and the past unknown ;
Then ardent man would to himself be now,
Earth at his foot and heaven within his view,
"Well might the novice hope, the sanguine scheme
MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 201
Of full perfection prompt his daring dream,
Ere cold experience, with her veteran lore,
Could tell him, fool's had dream'd as much before !
But, tracing as we do, through age and clime,
The plans of virtue 'midst the deeds of crime,
The thinking follies and the reasoning rage
Of man^ at once the idiot and the sage ;
When still we see, through every varying frame
Of arts and polity, his course the same,
And know that ancient fools but died, to make
A space on earth for modern fools to take ;
'Tis strange, how quickly we the past forget ;
That Wisdom's self should not be tutor'd yet,
Nor tire of watching for the monstrous birth
Of pure Perfection 'midst the sons of earth !
Oh ! nothing but that soul which God has given,
Could lead us thus to look on earth for heaven ;
O'er dross without to shed the flame within,
And dream of virtue while we gaze on sin !
Even here, beside the proud Potowmac's stream,
Might sages still pursue the flattering theme
Of days to come, when man shall conquer fate,
Kise o'er the level of his mortal state,
Belie the monuments of frailty past,
And stamp perfection on this world at last.
" Here," might they say, " shall Power's divided roign
Evince that patriots have not bled in vain.
Here godlike Liberty's herculean youth,
Cradled in peace, and nurtur'd up by Truth
To full maturity of nerve and mind,
Shall crush the giants that bestride mankind !
Here shall Religion's pure and balmy draught,
In form no more from cups of state be quaff'd,
But flow for all, through nation, rank, and sect,
Free as that heaven its tranquil waves reflect.
Around the columns of the public shrine
Shall growing Arts their gradual wreath entwine,
Nor breathe corruption from their flowering braid,
Nor mine that fabric which they bloom to shade.
No longer here shall Justice bound her view,
Or wrong the many, while she rights the few ;
But take her range through all the social frame,
Pure and pervading as that vital flame,
Which warms at once our best and meanest part,
And thrills a hair while it expands a heart!"
Z62 MOORE'S POEMS.
Oh golden dream ! what soul that loves to scan
The brightness rather than the shades of man.
That owns the good, while smarting with the ill,
And loves the world with all its frailty still
"What ardent bosom does not spring to meet
The generous hope with all that heavenly heat,
Which makes the soul unwilling to resign
The thoughts of growing, even on earth, divine !
Yes, dearest Forbes, I see the glow to think
The chain of ages yet may boast a link
Of purer texture than the world has known,
And fit to bind us to a Godhead's throne !
But, is it thus ? doth even the glorious dream
Borrow from Truth that dim, uncertain gleam,
Which bids us give such dear delusion scope,
As kills not Keason, while it nurses Hope ?
No, no, believe me, 'tis not so ev'n now,
While yet upon Columbia's rising brow
The showy smile of young Presumption plays,
Her bloom is poison'd and her heart decays !
Even now, in dawn of life, her sickly breath
Burns with the taint of empires near their death,
And, like the nymphs of her own withering clime,
She's old in youth, she's blasted in her prime !*
Already has the child of Gallia's school,
The foul Philosophy that sins by rule,
With all her train of reasoning, damning arts,
Begot by brilliant heads on worthless hearts,
Like things that quicken, after Nilus' flood,
The venom 'd birth of sunshine and of mud !
Already has she pour'd her poison here *
O'er every charm that makes existence dear,
Already blighted, with her blackening trace,
The opening bloom of every social grace,
And all those courtesies, that love to shoot
Bound Virtue's stem, the flow'rets of her fruit !
Oh ! were these errors but the wanton tide
Of young Luxuriance or unchasten'd Pride ;
The fervid follies and the faults of such
As wrongly feel, because they feel too much,
Then might Experience make the fever less,
* " What will be the old age of this government, if it is thus early do
crepitl" Such was the remark of Fauchet, the French Minister at Phila-
delphia, in that famous dispatch to his government, which wfts intercepted
by one of our cruisers in the year 1794.
MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 263
Nay, graft a virtue on each warm excess :
But no ; 'tis heartless, speculative ill,
All youth's transgression with all age's chill,
The apathy of wrong, the bosom's ice,
A slow and cold stagnation into vice I
Long has the love of gold, that meanest rage f
And latest folly of man's sinking age,
Which, rarely venturing in the van of life,
While nobler passions wage their heated strife,
Comes skulking last, with selfishness and fear,
And dies, collecting lumber in the rear !
Long has it palsied every grasping hand
And greedy spirit through this bartering land ;
Turn'd life to traffic, set the demon gold
So loose abroad, that Virtue's self is sold,
And Conscience, Truth, and Honesty are made
To rise and fall, like other wares of trade !
Already in this free, this virtuous state,
Which, Frenchmen tell us, was ordain'd by Fate,
To show the world, what high perfection springs
From rabble senators, and merchant kings
Even here already patriots learn to steal ,
Their private perquisites from public weal,
And, guardians of the country's sacred fire,
Like Afric's priests, they let the flame for hire !
Those vaunted demagogues, who nobly rose
From England's debtors to be England's foes,*
Who could their monarch in their purse forget,
And break allegiance, but to cancel debt,
Have prov'd at length the mineral's tempting hue,
Which makes a patriot, can unmake him too.
Oh ! Freedom, Freedom, how I hate thy cant
Not eastern bombast, not the savage rant
Of purpled madmen, were they number'd all
From Roman Nero down to Russian Paul,
Could grate upon my ear so mean, so base,
As the rank jargon of that factious race,
Who poor of heart and prodigal of words,
Born to be slaves and struggling to be lords,
But pant for licence, while they spurn controui,
And shout for rights, with rapine in their soul !
Who can, with patience, for a moment see
* I trust I shall not be suspected of a wish to justify those arbitrary
steps of the English Government which the Colonies found it so necessary
to resist; my only object here is to expose the selfish motives of some oi
the leading American demagogues.
204 MOORE'S POEMS.
The medley mass of pride and misery,
Of whips and charters, manacles and rights;
Of slaving blacks and democratic whites,
And all the pyebald polity that reigns
In free confusion o'er Columbia's plains?
To think that man, thou just and gentle God !
Should stand before thee, with a tyrant's rod
O'er creatures like himself, with souls from thee,
Yet dare to boast of perfect liberty ;
Away, away I'd rather hold my neck
By doubtful tenure from a sultan's beck,
In climes, where liberty has scarce been nam'd,
Nor any right but that of ruling claim'd,
Than thus to live, where bastard freedom waves
Her fustian flag in mockery over slaves ;
Where (motley laws admitting no degree
Betwixt the vilely slav'd and madly free)
Alike the bondage and the licence suit
The brute made ruler and the man made brute !
But, oh my Forbes ! while thus, in floweiiess song,
I feebly paint, what yet I feel so strong,
The ills, the vices of the land, where first
Those rebel fiends, that rack the world, were nurst !
Where Treason's arm by Koyalty was nerv'd,
And Frenchmen learn'd to crush the throne they serv'd-
TLou gently lull'd in dreams of classic thought,
By bards illumiu'd and by sages taught,
Pant'st to be all, upon this mortal scene,
That bard hath fancied, or that sage hath been !
Why should I wake thee ? why severely chase
The lovely forms of virtue and of grace,
That dwell before thee, like the pictures spread
By Spartan matrons round the genial bed,
Moulding thy fancy, and with gradual art
Brightening the young conceptions of thy heart !
Forgive me, Forbes and should the song destroy
One generous hope, one throb of social joy,
One high pulsation of the zeal for man,
Which few can feel, and bless that few who can !
Oh ! turn to him, beneath whose kindred eyes
Thy talents open, and thy virtues rise,
Forget where Nature has been dark or dim,
And proudly study all .her lights in him !
Yes, yes in him the erring world forget,
And feel that man may reach perfection yet !
MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 2(55
TO THOMAS HUME, ESQ., M.D.
FROM THE CITY OF WASHINGTON.
'Tis evening now ; the heats and cares of day
In twilight dews are calmly wept away.
The lover now, heueath the western. star,
Sighs through the medium of his sweet segar,
And fills the ears of some consenting she
With puffs and vows, with smoke and constancy t
In fancy now, beneath the twilight gloom,
Come, let me lead thee o'er this modern Koine!*
Where tribunes rule, where dusky Davi bow,
And what was Goose-Creek once is Tiber now ! t
This fam'd metropolis, where Fancy sees
Squares in morasses, obelisks in trees ;
Which travelling fools and gazetteers adorn
With shrines unbuilt and heroes yet unborn.
And look, how soft in yonder radiant wave,
The dying sun prepares his golden grave !
Oh great Potowmac ! oh you banks of shade !
You mighty scenes, in Nature's morning made,
While still, in rich magnificence of prime,
She pour'd her wonders, lavishly sublime,
Nor yet had learn'd to stoop, with humbler care,
From grand to soft, from wonderful to fair !
Say were your towering hills, your boundless floods,
Your rich savannas and majestic woods,
Where bards should meditate and heroes rove,
And woman charm and man deserve her love !
Oh ! was a world so bright but born. to grace
Its own half-organiz'd, half-minded racet
Of weak barbarians, swarming o'er its breast,
Like vermin, gender'd on the lion's crest?
Were none but brutes to call that soil their home,
Where none but demigods should dare to roam ?
Or worse, thou mighty world ! oh ! doubly worse,
Did Heaven design thy lordly land to nurse
The motley dregs of every distant clime,
* On the original location of the ground now allotted for the seat of the
federal city (says Mr Weld), the identical spot ou which the capitol now
stands was called Rome.
t A little stream runs through the city, which, with intolerahle affecta-
tion, they have styled the Tiber. It was originally called Goose-Creek.
J The picture which liuffon and De Pauw have drawn of the American
Indian, though very humiliating, is, as far as I can judge, much more
i the flattering representations which Mr Jefferson has givcu us.
266 MOORE'S POEMS.
Each blast of anarchy and taint of crime,
Which Europe shakes from her perturbed sphere,
In full malignity to rankle here ?
But hush ! observe that little mount of pines,
Where the breeze murmurs and the fire-fly shines,
There let thy fancy raise, in bold relief,
The sculptur'd image of that veteran chief,*
Who lost the rebel's in the hero's name,
And stept o'er prostrate loyalty to fame ;
Beneath whose sword Columbia's patriot train
Cast of their monarch, that their mob might reign !
How shall we rank thee upon glory's page ?
Thou more than soldier and just less than sage !
Too form'd for peace to act a conqueror's part,
Too train'd in camps to learn a statesman's art,
Nature design'd thee for a hero's mould,
But, ere she cast thee, let the stuff grow cold !
While warmer souls command, nay, make their fate,
Thy fate made thee and forc'd thee to be great,
Yet Fortune, who so oft, so blindly sheds
Her brightest halo round the weakest heads,
Found thee undazzled, tranquil as before,
Proud to be useful, scorning to be more ;
Less prompt at glory's than at duty's claim,
Eenown the meed, but self-appla\ise the aim ;
All thou hast been reflects less fame on thee,
Far less than all thou hast forborne to be !
Now turn thine eye where faint the moonlight falls
On yonder dome and in those princely halls,
If thou canst hate, as, oh ! that soul must hate,
Which loves the virtuous and reveres the great,
If thou canst loath and execrate with me
That Gallic garbage of philosophy,
That nauseous slaver of these frantic times,
With which false liberty dilutes her crimes !
If thou hast got, within thy free-born breast,
One pulse, that beats more proudly than the rest,
With honest scorn for that inglorious soul,
Which creeps and winds beneath a mob's control,
Which courts the rabble's smile, the rabble's nod,
And makes, like Egypt, every beast its god !
There, in those walls but, burning tongue, forbear !
Hank must be reverenc'd, even the rank that's there :
On a small hill, near the capitol, there is to be an equestrian statue of
General Washington.
_J
MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 267
So here I pause and now, my Hume ! wo part ;
But oh ! full oft, in magic dreams of heart,
Thus let us meet, and mingle converse dear
By Thames at home, or by Potowmac here !
O'er lake and marsh, through fevers and through fogs,
Midst bears and yankees, democrats and frogs,
Thy foot shall follow me, thy heart and eyes
"With me shall wonder, and with me despise !
While I, as oft, in witching thought shall rove
To thee, to friendship, and that land I love,
"Where, like the air that fans her fields of green,
Her freedom spreads, unfever'd and serene ;
Where sovereign man can condescend to see
The throne and laws more sovereign still than he 1
LINES,
WRITTEN ON LEAVING PHILADELPHIA.
Alone by the Schuylkill a wanderer rov'd,
And bright were its flowery banks to his eye ;
But far, very far were the friends that he lov'd,
And he gaz'd on its flowery banks with a sigh !
Oh Nature ! though blessed and bright are thy rays,
O'er the brow of Creation enchantingly thrown,
Yet faint are they all to the lustre, that plays
In a smile from the heart that is dearly our own !
Nor long did the soul of the stranger remain
Unblest by the smile he had languish'd to meet ;
Though scarce did he hope it would soothe him again,
Till the threshold of home had been kiss'd by his feet !
But the lays of his boyhood had stol'n to their ear,
And they lov'd what they knew of so humble a name,
And they told him, with flattery welcome and dear,
That they found in his heart something sweeter than fame
Nor did woman oh woman ! whose form and whose soul
Are the spell and the light of each path we pursue
Whether sunn'd in the tropics or chill'd at the pole,
If woman be there, there is happiness too !
Nor did she her enamouring magic deny,
That magic his heart had relinquish'd so long,
Like eyes he had lov'd was her eloquent eye,
Like them did it soften and weep at his song 1
268 MOOKE'S POEMS.
Oh ! blest be the tear, and in memory oft
May its sparkle be shed o'er his wandering dream !
Oh ! blest be that eye, and may passion as soft,
As free from a pang, ever mellow its beam !
The stranger is gone but he will not forget,
When at home he shall talk of the toil he has known,
To tell, with a sigh, what endearments he met,
As he stray'd by the wave of the Schuylkill alone !
LINES,
WRITTEN AT THE COHOS, OK FALLS OF THE MOHAWK RIVER.
FROM rise of morn till set of sun
I've seen the mighty Mohawk run,
And as I mark'd the woods of pine
Along his mirror darkly shine,
Like tall and gloomy forms that pass
Before the wizard's midnight glass ;
And as I view'd the hurrying pace
"With which he ran his turbid race,
Rushing, alike untir'd and wild
Through shades that frown'd and flowers that smil'd,
Flying by every green recess
That woo'd him to its calm caress,
Yet, sometimes turning with the wind,
As if to leave one look behind !
Oh ! I have thought, and thinking sigh'd
How like to thee, thou restless tide !
May be the lot, the life of him,
Who roams along thy water's brim !
Through what alternate shades of woo,
And flowers of joy my path may go
How many an humble, still retreat
May rise to court my weary feet,
While still pursuing, still uublest,
I wander on, nor dare to rest !
But, urgent as the doom that calls
Thy water to its destin'd falls,
I see the world's bewildering force
Hurry my heart's devoted course
From lapse to lapse, till life be done,
And the lost current cease to run !
Oh, may my falls be bright as thine !
May Heaven's forgiving rainbow shine
Upon the mist that circles me,
As soft, as now it hangs o'er thee 1
MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 269
SONG OF THE EVIL SPIRIT OF THE WOODS.
Now the vapour hot and damp,
Shed by day's expiring lamp,
Through the misty ether spreads
Every ill the white man dreads ;
Fiery fever's thirsty thrill.
Fitful ague's shivering chill !
Hark ! I hear the traveller's song,
As he winds the woods along !
Christian ! 'tis the song of fear ;
"Wolves are round thee, night is near,
And the wild, thou dar'st to roam
Oh ! 'twas once the Indian's home 1 *
Hither, sprites, who love to harm,
Wheresoe'er you work your charm,
By the creeks, or by the brakes,
Where the pale witch feeds her snakes,
And the cayman t loves to creep,
Torpid, to his wintry sleep :
Where the bird of carrion flits,
And the shuddering murderer sits,
Lone beneath a roof of blood,
While upon his poison'd food,
From the corpse of him he slew
Drops the chill and gory dew !
Hither bend you, turn you hither
Eyes that blast and wings that wither !
Cross the wandering Christian's way,
Lead him, ere the glimpse of day,
Many a mile of mad'ning error
Through the maze of night and terror,
Till the morn behold him lying
O'er the damp earth, pale and dying !
Mock him, when his eager sight
Seeks the cordial cottage-light ;
* The Five Confederated Nations (of Indians) were settled along the
banks of the Susquelumna and the adjacent country until the year 1779,
when General Sullivan, with an army of four thousand men, drove them
from their country to Niagara, where, being obliged to live on salted pro-
visions, to which they were unaccustomed, great numbers of them died.
Two hundred of them, it is said, were buried in one grave, where they had
encamped. Morse's American Geography.
f The alligator, who is supposed to lie in a torpid state all the winter,
In the bank of some creek or pond, having previously swallowed a large
number of pine-knots, which art hia only sustenance during the time.
270 MOORE'S POEMS.
Gleam then, like the lightning-bug,
Tempt him to the den that's dug
For the foul and famish'd brood
Of the she- wolf, gaunt for blood !
Or, unto the dangerous pass
O'er the deep and dark morass,
"Where the trembling Indian brings
Belts of porcelain, pipes, and rings,
Tributes, to be hung in air,
To the Fiend presiding there !
Then, when night's long labour past,
Wilder'd, faint, he falls at last,
Sinking where the causeway's edge
Moulders in the slimy sedge,
There let every noxious thing
Trail its filth and fix its sting ;
Let the bull-toad taint him over,
Eound him let nmsquitoes hover,
In his ears and eye-balls tingling,
"With his blood their poison mingling,
Till, beneath the solar fires,
Rankling all, the wretch expires !
TO THE HONOURABLE W. R. SPENCER.
FROM BUFFALO, UPON LAKE ERIE.
Tnou oft hast told me of the fairy hours
Thy heart has number'd, in those classic bowers,
"Where fancy sees the ghost of ancient wit
'Mid cowls and cardinals profanely flit,
And pagan spirits, by the Pope unlaid,
Haunt every stream and sing through every shade !
There still the bard, who (if his numbers be
His tongue's light echo) must have talk'd like thee,
The courtly bard, from whom thy mind has caught
Those playful, sunshine holidays of thought,
In which the basking soul reclines and glows,
Warm without toil and brilliant in repose.
There still he roves, and laughing loves to see
How modern monks with ancient rakes agree ,
There, too, are all those wandering souls of song,
With whom thy spirit hath commun'd so long,
Whose rarest gems are, every instant, hung
By memory's magic on thy sparkling tongue.
MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 271
But hero, alas 1 by Erie's stormy lake,
As, far from thee, my lonely course 1 take,
No bright remembrance o'er the fancy plays,
No classic dream, no star of other days
Has left that visionary glory here,
That relic of its light, so soft, so dear,
Which gilds and hallows even the rudest scene,
The humblest shed, where genius once has been I
All that creation's varying mass assumes
Of grand or lovely, here aspires and blooms ;
Bold rise the mountains, rich the gardens glow,
Bright lakes expand and conquering* rivers flow;
Mind, mind alone, without whose quickening ray,
The world's a wilderness and man but clay,
Mind, mind alone, in barren, still repose,
Nor blooms, nor rises, nor expands, nor flows !
Take Christians, Mohawks, Democrats, and all
From the rude wigwam to the congress-hall,
From man the savage, whether slav'd or free,
To man the civiliz'd, less tame than he I
'Tis one dull chaos, one unfertile strife
Betwixt half-polish'd and half-barbarous life ;
Where every ill the ancient world can brew
Is mix'd with every grossness of the new ;
Where all corrupts, though little can entice,
And nothing's known of luxury, but vice !
Is this the region then, is this the clime
For golden fancy ? for those dreams sublime,
Which all their miracles of light reveal
To heads that meditate and hearts that feel ?
No, no the Muse of inspiration plays
O'er every scene ; she walks the forest-maze,
And climbs the mountain ; every blooming spot
Burns with her step, yet man regards it not !
She whispers round, her words are in the air,
But lost, unheard, they linger freezing there,
Without one breath of soul, divinely strong,
One ray of heart to thaw them into song !
Yet, yet forgive me, oh you sacred few !
Whom late by Delaware's green banks I knew ;
Whom, known and lov'd through many a social eve,
'Twas bliss to live with, and 'twas pain to leave !
Less dearly welcome were the lines of lore
The exile saw upon the sandy shore,
* This epithet was suggested by Charlevoix's striking description of tbfl
confluence of the Missouri with the Mississippi.
272 MOORE'S POEMS.
When his lone heart but faintly hop'd to find
One print of man, one blessed stamp of mind !
Less dearly welcome than the liberal zeal,
The strength to reason and the warmth to feel,
The manly polish and the illumin'd taste,
Which, 'mid the melancholy, heartless waste
My foot has wander'd, oh you sacred few !
I found by Delaware's green banks with you.
Long may you hate the Gallic dross that runs
O'er your fair country and corrupts its sons ;
Long love the arts, the glories which adorn
Those fields of freedom, where your sires were born.
Oh ! if America can yet be great,
If neither chain'd by choice, nor damn'd by fate
To the mob-mania which imbrutes her now,
She yet can raise the bright but temperate brow
Of single majesty, can grandly place
An empire's pillar upon freedom's base,
Nor fear the mighty shaft will feebler prove
For the fair capital that flowers above !
If yet, releas'd from all that vulgar throng,
So vain of dulness and so pleas'd with wrong,
Who hourly teach her, like themselves, to hide
Folly in froth, and barrenness in pride,
She yet can rise, can wreathe the attic charms
Of soft refinement round the pomp of arms,
And see her poets flash the fires of song,
To light her warriors' thunderbolts along !
It is to you, to souls that favouring Heaven
Has made like yours, the glorious task is given
Oh ! but for such, Columbia's days were done ;
Rank without ripeness, quicken'd without sun,
Crude at the surface, rotten at the core,
Her fruits would fall, before her spring were o'er !
Believe me, Spencer, while I wing'd the hours
Where Schuylkill undulates through banks of flowery
Though few the days, the happy evenings few,
So warm with heart, so rich with mind they flew.
That my full soul forgot its wish to roam,
And rested there, as in a dream of home !
And looks I met, like looks I lov'd before,
And voices too, which as they trembled o'er
The chord of memory, found full many a tone
Of kindness there in concord with their own!
Oh! we had nights of that communion free,
That flush of heart, which I have known with thee
MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 273
So oft, so warmly ; nights of mirth and mind,
Of whims that taught and follies that refin'd !
When shall we both renew them ? when, restor'd
To the pure feast and intellectual board,
Shall I once more enjoy with thee and thine
Those whims that teach, those follies that refine?
Even now, as, wandering upon Erie's shore,
I hear Niagara's distant cataract roar,
I sigh for England oh ! these weary feet
Have many a mile to journey, ere we meet !
BALLAD STANZAS.
I KNEW by the smoke, that so gracefully curl'd
Above the green elms, that a cottage was near,
And I said, " If there's peace to be found in the world,
A heart that was humble might hope for it here !"
It was noon, and on flowers that languish'd around
In silence repos'd the voluptuous bee ;
Every leaf was at rest, and I heard not a sound
But the woodpecker tapping the hollow beech-tree.
And " Here in this lone little wood," I exclaim'd,
" With a maid who was lovely to soul and to eye,
Who would blush when I prais'd her, and weep if I blam'd,
How blest could I live, and how calm could I die !
By the shade of yon sumach, whose red berry dips
In the gush of the fountain, how sweet to recline,
And to know that I sigh'd upon innocent lips,
Which had never been sigh'd on by any but mine !"
A CANADIAN BOAT-SONG.
WRITTEN ON THE RIVER ST LAWRENCE.
FAINTLY as tolls the evening chime,
Our voices keep tune and our oars keep time.
Soon as the woods on shore look dim,
We'll sing at St Ann's our parting hymn.
How, brothers, row, the stream runs fast,
The rapids are near, and the day-light's past I
Why should we yet our sail unfurl ?
There is not a breath the blue wave to curl !
<T4 MOORE'S POEMS.
But, when the wind blows off the shore,
Oh ! sweetly we'll rest our weary oar.
Blow, breezes, blow, the stream runs fast,
The rapids are near, and the day-light's past !
Utawas tide ! this trembling moon
Shall see us float over thy surges soon.
Saint of this green isle ! hear our prayers,
Oh ! grant us cool heavens and favouring airs.
Blow, breezes, blow, the stream runs fast,
The rapids are near, and the day-light's past!
TO THE LADY CHARLOTTE RAWDON.
PROM THE BANKS OF THE ST LAWRENCE.
NOT many months have now been dream 'd away
Since yonder sun (beneath whose evening ray
We rest our boat among these Indian isles)
Saw me, where mazy Trent serenely smiles
Through many an oak, as sacred as the groves
Beneath whose shade the pious Persian roves,
And hears the soul of father, or of chief,
Or loved mistress, sigh in every leaf !
There listening, Lady ! while thy lip hath sung
My own unpolish'd lays, how proud I've hung
On every mellow'd number ! proud to feel
That notes like mine should have tho fate to steal,
As o'er thy hallowing lip they sigh'd along,
Such breath of passion and such soul of song.
Oh ! I have wonder'd, like the peasant boy
Who sings at eve his sabbath strains of joy,
And when he hears the rude, luxuriant note
Back to his ear on softening echoes float,
Believes it still some answering spirit's tone,
And thinks it all too sweet to be his own !
I dream 'd not then that, ere the rolling year
Had fill'd its circle, I should wander here
In musing awe ; should tread this wond'rous world,
See all its store of inland waters huiTd
In one vast volume down Niagara's steep,
Or calm behold them, in transparent sleep,
Where the blue hills of old Toronto she,H
Their evening shadows o'er Ontario's bed !
Should trace the grand Cadaraqui, and glide
Down the white rapids of his lordly tide
MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 275
Through massy woods, through islets flowering fair,
Through shades of bloom, where the first sinful pair
For consolation might have weeping trod,
When banish'd from the garden of their God !
Oh, Lady ! these are miracles, which mail
Cag'd in the bounds of Europe's pigmy plan.
Can scarcely dream of ; which his eye must see
To know how beautiful this world can be 1
But soft ! the tinges of the west decline,
And night falls dewy o'er these banks of pine
Among the reeds, in which our idle boat
Is rock'd to rest, the wind's complaining note
Dies, like a half-breath'd whispering of flutes ;
Along the wave the gleaming porpoise shoots,
And I can trace him, like a watery star,*
Down the steep current, till he fades afar
Amid the foaming breakers' silvery light,
Where yon rough rapids sparkle through the night !
Here, as along this shadowy bank I stray,
And the smooth glass-snaket gliding o'er my way,
Shews the dim moonlight through his scaly form,
Fancy, with all the scene's enchantment warm,
Hears in the murmur of the nightly breeze,
Some Indian Spirit warble words like these :
From the clime of sacred doves, J
Where the blessed Indian roves
Through the air on wing, as white
As the spirit-stones of light,
"Which the eye of morning counts
On the Apallachian mounts !
Hither oft my flight I take
Over Huron's lucid lake,
Where the wave, as clear as dew,
Sleeps beneath the light canoe,
Which, reflected, floating there,
Looks, as if it hung in air !
Then, when I have stray'd awhile
Through the Manataulin isle,l
Breathing all its holy bloom,
Swift upon the purple
the purple plume
Anburey, in his Travels, has noticed this shooting illumination which
porpoises diffuse at night through the St Lawrence. Vol. i. p. 29.
t The glass-snake is brittle and transparent.
j " The departed spirit goes into the Country of Souls, where, according
to some, it is transformed into a dove."
The mountains appeared to be sprinkled with white stones, which
glistened in the sun, and were called by the Indians " Manetoe aseniah,'
or spirit-stones. Mackenzie's Journal.
| "Manataulin" signifies a Place of Spirits, and this island in Lake
Huron is held sacred by the Indians.
MOOKE'S POEMS.
Of my Wakon-Bird* I fly
Where, beneath a burning sky,
O'er the bed of Erie's lake
Slumbers many a water snake,
Basking in the web of leaves,
Which the weeping lily weaves, f
Then I chase the flow'ret-king
Through his bloomy wild of spring ;
See him now, while diamond hues
Soft his neck and wings suffuse,
In the leafy chalice sink,
Thirsting for his balmy drink :
Now behold him, all on fire,
Lovely in his looks of ire,
Breaking every infant stem,
Scattering every velvet gem,
Where his little tyrant lip
Had not found enough to sip I
Then my playful hand I steep
Where the gold-threadj loves to creap,
Cull from thence a tangled wreath,
Words of magic round it breathe,
And the sunny chaplet spread
O'er the sleeping fly-bird's head,
Till, with dreams of honey blest,
Haunted in his downy nest
By the garden's fairest spells,
Dewy buds and fragrant bells,
Fancy all his soul embowers
In the fly-bird's heaven of flowers !
Oft, when hoar and silvery flakes
Melt along the ruffled lakes ;
When the grey moose sheds his horns,
When the track, at evening, warns
Weary hunters of the way
To the wigwam's cheering ray,
Then, aloft through freezing air,
With the snow-bird soft and fair
* The Wakon-Bird, which probably is of the same species with the Bird
of Paradise, receives its name from the ideas the Indians have of its
superior excellence ; the Wakon-Bird being, in their language, the Bird
of the Great Spirit. Morse.
t The islands of Lake Erie are surrounded to a considerable distance by
the large pond-lily, whose leaves spread thickly over the surface of the
lake, and form a kind of bed for the water-snakes in summer.
t The gold-thread is of the vine kind, and grows in swamps. The roots
spread themselves just under the surface of the morasses, and are easily
drawn out by handfuls. They resemble a large entangled skein of silk,
and are of a bright yellow. Morse.
L'oiseaumouche, gros comme un hanneton, est de toutes couleurs, vives
t changeantes : il tire sa subsistence des fleurs commes les abeilles ; son
lid est fait d'un cotton tresfin suspendu b, une branche d'arbre. Voyagei
ciixlndes Occiden tales, par M. fiossu, second part, lett. xx.
MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 277
As the fleece that heaven flings
O'er his little pearly wings,
Light above the rocks 1 play,
Where Niagara's starry spray,
Frozen on the cliff, appears
Like a giant's starting tears !
There, amid the island-sedge,
Just upon the cataract's edge,
Where the foot of living man
Never trod since time began,
Lone I sit, at close of day,
While, beneath the golden ray,
Icy columns gleam below,
Feather'd round with falling snow,
And an arch of glory springs,
Brilliant as the chain of rings
Round the neck of virgins hung,
Virgins, who have wander'd young
O'er the waters of the west
To the land, where spirits rest !
Thus have I charrn'd, with visionary lay,
The lonely moments of the night away ;
And now, fresh day-light o'er the water beams !
Once more, embark'd upon the glittering streams,
Our boat flies light along the leafy shore,
Shooting the falls, without a dip of oar
Or breath of zephyr, like the mystic bark
The poet saw, in dreams divinely dark,
Borne, without sails, along the dusky flood,*
While on its deck a pilot angel stood,
And, with his wings of living light unfurl'd,
Coasted the dim shores of another world I
Yet oh ! believe me, in this blooming maze
Of lovely nature, where the fancy strays
From charm to charm, where every flow'ret's hue
Hath something strange, and every leaf is new !
I never feel a bliss so pure and still,
So heavenly calm, as when a stream or hill,
Or veteran oak, like those remember'd well,
Or breeze or echo or some wild-flower's smell
(For who can say what small and fairy tics,
The memory flings o'er pleasure, as it flies !)
Reminds my heart of 'many a sylvan dream
I once indulg'd by Trent's inspiring stream ;
Of all my sunny morns and moonlight nights
On Donington's green lawns and breezy heights !
* Dante, Pvrmtor. cant. 1L
MOORE'S POEMS.
"Whether I trace the tranquil moments o'er
When I have seen thee cull the blooms of lore,
"With him, the polish'd warrior, by thy side,
A sister's idol and a nation's pride !
When thou hast read of heroes, trophied high
In ancient fame, and I have seen thine eye
Turn to the living hero, while it read,
For pure and brightening comments on the dead !
Or whether memory to my mind recalls
The festal grandeur of those lordly halls,
When guests have met around the sparkling board,
And welcome warm'd the cup that luxury pour'd ;
When the bright future Star of England's Throne,
With magic smile, hath o'er the banquet shone,
Winning respect, nor claiming what he won,
But tempering greatness, like an evening sun
Whose light the eye can tranquilly admire,
Glorious but mild, all softness yet all fire !
Whatever hue my recollections take,
Even the regret, the very pain they wake
Is dear and exquisite ! but oh ! no more
Lady I adieu my heart has linger'd o'er
These vanish'd times, till all that round me lies,
Stream, banks, and bowers, have faded on my eyes 1
IMPROMPTU,
AFTEB A VISIT TO MKS , OF MONTKEAL.
'TwAS but for a moment and yet in that time
She crowded th' impressions of many an hour :
Her eye had a glow, like the sun of her clime,
Which wak'd every feeling at once into flower !
Oh ! could we have spent but one rapturous day,
To renew such impressions again and again,
The things we should look and imagine and say
Would be worth all the life we had wasted till then !
What we had not the leisure or language to speak,
We should find some ethereal mode of revealing,
And, between us, should feel just as much in a week
As others would take a millenium in feeling 1
MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 27fi
WRITTEN ON PASSING DEAD-MAN'S ISLAND,*
THE GULF OF ST LAWKENCE, LATE IN THE EVENING, SEPT. 18C4.
SEE you, beneath yon cloud so dark,
Fast gliding along, a gloomy bark ?
Her sails are full, though the wind is still,
And there blows not a breath her sails to fill !
Oh ! what doth that vessel of darkness bear ?
The silent calm of the grave is there,
Save now and again a death-knell rung,
And the flap of the sails, with night-fog hung !
There lieth a wreck on the dismal shore
Of cold and pitiless Labrador ;
Where, under the moon, upon mounts of frost,
Full many a mariner's bones are tost !
Yon shadowy bark hath been to that wreck,
And the dim blue fire, that lights her deck,
Doth play 011 as pale and livid a crew,
As ever yet drank the church-yard dew !
To Dead-Man's Isle, in the eye of the blast,
To Dead-Man's Isle, she speeds her fast ;
By skeleton shapes her sails are furl'd,
And the hand that steers is not of this world !
Oh ! hurry thee on oh ! hurry thee on,
Thou terrible bark ! ere the night be gone,
Nor let morning look on so foul a sight
As would blanch for ever her rosy light !
TO THE BOSTON FRIGATE,
COMMANDED BY CAPTAIN J. E. DOUGLAS,
ON LEAVING HALIFAX FOB ENGLAND, OCTOBEE 1804.
WITH triumph, this morning, oh Boston ! I hail
The stir of thy deck and the spread of thy sail,
For they tell me I soon shall be wafted, in thee,
To the flourishing isle of the brave and the free,
* This is one of the Magdalen Islands, and, singularly enough, la th
property of Sir Isaac Coffin. The above lines were suggested by a super-
ttltion very common among sailors, who call this ghost ship, I think,
"The Flying Dutchman."
280 MOORE'S POEMS.
And that chill Nova Scotia's unpromising strand
Is the last I shall tread of American land.
Well peace to the land ! may the people, at length,
Know that freedom is bliss, but that honour is strength ;
That though man have the wings of the fetterless wind,
Of the wantonest air that the north can unbind,
Yet if health do not sweeten the blast with her bloom,
Nor virtue's aroma its pathway perfume,
Unblest is the freedom and dreary the flight,
That but wanders to ruin and wantons to blight !
Farewell to the few I have left with regret,
May they sometimes recall, what 1 cannot forget,
That communion of heart and that parley of soul
Which has lengthen'd our nights and illumin'd our bowl,
When they've ask'd me the manners, the mind, or the mien,
Of some bard I had known or some chief I had seen,
Whose glory, though distant, they long had ador'd,
Whose name often hallow'd the juice of their board !
And still as, with sympathy humble but true,
I told them each luminous trait that I knew,
They have listen'd and sigh'd that the powerful stream
Of America's empire should pass like a dream,
Without leaving one fragment of genius, to say
How sublime was the tide which had vanish'd away !
Farewell to the few though we never may meet
On this planet again, it is soothing and sweet
To think that, whenever my song or my name
Shall recur to their ear, they'll recall me the same
I have been to them now, young, unthoughtful, and blest,
Ere hope had dcceiv'd me or sorrow deprest !
But, Douglas ! while thus I endear to my mind
The elect of the land we shall soon leave behind,
I can read in the weather- wise glance of thine eye,
As it follows the rack flitting over the sky,
That the faint coming breeze will be fair for our flight,
And shall steal us away, ere the falling of night.
Dear Douglas ! thou knowest, with thee by my side,
With thy friendship to soothe me, thy courage to guide,
There is not a bleak isle in those summerless seas,
Where the day conies in darkness, or shines but to freeze,
Not a track of the line, not a barbarous shore,
That I could not with patience, with pleasure explore !
Oh ! think then how happy I follow thee now,
When hope smooths the billowy path of our prow,
And each prosperous sigh of the west-springing wind
Takes me nearer the home where my heart is enshriii'd;
MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 281
Where the smile of a father shall meet me again,
And the tears of a mother turn bliss into pain !
Where the kind voice of sisters shall steal to my heart,
And ask it, in sighs, how we ever could part !
But see ! the bent top-sails are ready to swell
To the boat I am with thee Columbia farewell!
BLACK AND BLUE EYES.
THE brilliant black eye
May in triumph let fly
All its darts without caring who feels 'em ;
But the soft eye of blue,
Though it scatter wounds too,
Is much better pleas'd when it heals 'em
Dear Fanny !
The soft eye of blue,
Though it scatter wounds too,
Is much better pleas'd when it heals 'em.
The black eye may say,
" Come and worship my ray
" By adoring, perhaps, you may move me I"
But the blue eye, half hid,
Says, from under its lid,
" I love, and am yours, if you love me !"
Dear Fanny !
The blue eye, half hid,
Says, from under its lid,
" I love, and am yours, if you love me !"
Then tell me, oh, why,
In that lovely blue eye,
Not a charm of its tint I discover ;
Or why should you wear
The only blue pair
That ever said "No" to a lover?
Dear Fanny !
Oh, why should you wear
The only blue pair
That ever said "No" to a lovor?
282 MOORE'S POEMS.
DEAR FANNY.
" SHE lias beauty, but still you must keep your heart cool
She has wit, but you mustn't be caught so :"
Thus Eeason advises, but Reason's a fool,
And 'tis not the first time I have thought so,
Dear Fanny,
'Tis not the first time I have thought so.
*' She is lovely ; then love her, nor let the bliss fly ;
'Tis the charm of youth's vanishing season :"
Thus Love has advis'd me, and who will deny
That Love reasons much better than Eeason,
Dear Fanny ?
Love reasons much better than Reason.
FROM LIFE WITHOUT FREEDOM.
FROM life without freedom, oh, who would not fly ?
For one day of freedom, oh ! who would not die !
Hark ! hark ! 'tis the trumpet ! the call of the brave,
The death-song of tyrants, and dirge of the slave.
Our country lies bleeding oh, fly to her aid ;
One arm that defends is worth hosts that invade.
In death's kindly bosom our last hope remains
The dead fear no tyrants, the grave has no chains.
On, on to the combat ; the heroes that bleed
For virtue and mankind are heroes indeed.
And oh, ev'n if Freedom from this world be driven,
Despair not at least we shall find her in heaven.
HERE'S THE BOWER.
HERE'S the bower she lov'd so much,
And the tree she planted ;
Here's the harp she used to touch
Oh, how that touch enchanted 1
MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 288
Hoses now unheeded sigh ;
Where's the hand to wreathe them ?
Songs around neglected lie ;
Where's the lip to breathe them ?
Here's the bower, &c.
Spring may bloom, but she we lov'd
Ne'er shall feel its sweetness ;
Time, that once so fleetly mov'd,
Now hath lost its fleetness.
Years were days, when here she stray 'd,
Days were moments near her ;
Heav'n ne'er form'd a brighter maid,
Nor pity wept a dearer !
Here's the bower, &c.
I SAW THE MOON KISE CLEAR.
A FINLAND LOVB SONG.
I SAW the moon rise clear
O'er hills and vales of snow,
Nor told my fleet rein-deer
The track I wish'd to go.
But quick he bounded forth ;
For well rny rein-deer knew
I've but one path on earth
That path which leads to you.
The gloom that winter cast
How soon the heart forgets,
When summer brings, at last,
Her sun that never sets I
So dawn'd my love for you ;
And chasing every pain,
Than summer sun more true,
'Twill never set again.
284 MOORE'S POEMS.
LOVE AND THE SUN-DIAL.
YOUNQ Love found a Dial once in a dark shade,
"Where man ne'er had wander'd nor sun-beam play'd ;
" Why thus in darkness lie," whisper'd young Love ;
" Thou whose gay hours in sunshine should move?"
" I ne'er," said the Dial, " have seen the warm sun,
So noonday and midnight to me, Love, are one."
Then Love took the Dial away from the shade,
And placed her where Heav'n's beam warmly play'd.
There she reclin'd, beneath Love's gazing eye,
While all mark'd with sunshine, her hours flew by.
" Oh, how," said the Dial, " can any fair maid,
That's born to be shone upon, rest in the shade ?"
But night now comes on, and the sunbeam's o'er,
And Love stops to gaze on the Dial no more.
Then cold and neglected, while bleak rain and winda
Are storming around her, with sorrow she finds
That Love had but number'd a few sunny hours,
And left the remainder to darkness and showers !
LOVE AND TIME.
'Tis said but whether true or not
Let bards declare who've seen 'em
That Love and Time have only got
One pair of wings between 'em.
In courtship's first delicious hour,
The boy full well can spare 'em ;
So, loit'ring in his lady's bower,
He lets the grey-beard wear 'em.
Then is Time's hour of play ;
Oh, how he flies away !
But short the moments, short as bright,
When he the wings can borrow ;
If Time to-day has had his flight,
Love takes his turn to-morrow.
All ! Time and Love, your change is then
The saddest and most trying.
MISCELLANEOUS POKViS. 285
When one begins to limp again,
And t'other takes to flying.
Then is Love's hour to stray ;
Oh, how he flies away !
But there's a nymph, whose chains I feel,
And bless the silken fetter,
Who knows, the dear one, how to deal
With Love and Time much better.
So well she checks their wanderings,
So peacefully she pairs 'em,
That Love with her ne'er thinks of wings,
And Time for ever wears 'em.
This is Time's holiday ;
Oh, how he flies away 1
LOVE'S LIGHT SUMMER-CLOUD.
P^N and sorrow shall vanish before us
zouth may wither, but feeling will last ;
All the shadow that e'er shall fall o'er us,
Love's light summer-cloud sweetly shall cast.
Oh, if to love thee more
Each hour I number o'er
If this a passion be
Worthy of thee,
Then be happy, for thus I adore thee.
Charms may wither, but feeling shall last :
All the shadow that e'er shall fall o'er thee,
Love's light summer-cloud sweetly shall cast.
Rest, dear bosom, no sorrows shall pain theo,
Sighs of pleasure alone shalt thou steal ;
Beam, bright eyelid, no weeping shall stain thee,
Tears of rapture alone shalt thou feel.
Oh, if there be a charm
In love, to banish harm-
If pleasure's truest spell
Be to love well
Then be happy, for thus I adore thee.
Charms may wither, but feeling shall last:
All the shadow that e'er shall fall o'er tlicc,
Love's light summer-cloud sweetly shall cast.
286 MOORE'S POEMS.
LOVE, WAND'RING THROUGH THE GOLDEN MAZE,
LOVE, wand'ring through the golden maze
Of my beloved's hair,
Trac'd every lock with fond delays,
And, doting, linger'd there.
And soon he found 'twere vain to fly ;
His heart was close confin'd,
And every curlet was a tie
A chain by beauty twin'd.
MERRILY EVERY BOSOM BOUNDETH.
THE TYBOLESE SONG OF LIBEETY.
MEKEILY every bosom boundeth,
Merrily, oh !
Where the song of Freedom souudeth,
Merrily, oh !
There the warrior's arms
Shed more splendour ;
There the maiden's charms
Shine more tender ;
Ev'ry joy the land surroundeth,
Merrily, oh ! merrily, oh !
Wearily every bosom pineth,
Wearily, oh !
Where the bond of slavery twineth
Wearily, oh !
There the warrior's dart
Hath no fleetness ;
There the maiden's heart
Hath no sweetness
Ev'ry flower of life declineth,
Wearily, oh ! wearily, oh !
Cheerily then from hill and valloy,
Cheerily, oh !
Like your native fountains sally,
Cheerily, oh !
MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 237
If a glorious death,
Won by bravery,
Sweeter be than breath
Sigh'd in slavery,
Round the flag of Freedom rally,
Cheerily, oh 1 cheerily, oh 1
REMEMBER THE TIME.
THE CASTILIAN MAID.
OH remember the time, in La Mancha's shades,
When our moments so blissfully flew ;
When you call'd me the flower of Castilian maida^
And I blush 'd to be call'd so by you ;
When I taught you to warble the gay seguadille,
And to dance to the light castanet ;
Oh, never, dear youth, let you roam where you will,
The delight of those moments forget.
They tell me, you lovers from Erin's green isle,
Every hour a new passion can feel ;
And that soon, in the light of some lovelier smile,
You'll forget the poor maid of Castile.
But they know not how brave in the battle you are,
Or they never could think you would rove ;
For 'tis always the spirit most gallant in war
That is fondest and truest in love.
OH, SOON RETURN.
THE white sail caught the ev'ning ray,
The wave beneath us seem'd to burn,
When all my weeping love could say
Was, " Oh, soon return !"
Through many a clime our ship was driven,
O'er many a billow rudely thrown ;
Now chill'd beneath a northern heaven,
Now sunn'd by summer's zone :
Yet still, where'er our course we lay,
When evening bid the west wave burn,
I thought I heard her faintly say,
" Oh, soon return I"
883 MOORE'S POEMS.
If ever yet my bosom found
Its thoughts one moment turn'd from thee,
'Twas wnen the combat rag'd around,
And .brave men look'd to me.
But though 'mid battle's wild alarm
Love's gentle power might not appear,
He gave to Glory's brow the charm,
Which made even danger dear.
And then, when vict'ry's calm came o'er
The hearts where rage had ceas'd to burn,
I heard that farewell voice once more,
" Oh, soon return 1"
LOVE THEE.
OH yes? so well, so tenderly
Thou'rt lov'd, ador'd by me,
Fame, fortune, wealth, and liberty,
Were worthless without thee.
Though brimm'd with blessings pure and rare,
Life's cup before.me lay,
Unless thy love were mingled there,
I'd spurn the draught away.
Love thee ? so well, so tenderly
Thou'rt lov'd, ador'd by me.
Fame, fortune, wealth, and liberty,
Are worthless without thee.
Without thy smile, how joylessly
All glory's meeds I see,
And even the wreath of victory
Must owe its bloom to thee.
Those worlds, for which the conqu'ror sighs,
For me have now no charms ;
My only world those radiant eyes
My throne those circling arms !
Oh, yes, so well, so tenderly
Thou'rt lov'd, ador'd by me,
Whole realms of light and liberty
Were worthless without the.
MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 288
ONE DEAK SMILE.
COTJLDST thou look as dear as when
First I sigh'd for thee ;
Couldst thou make me feel again
Ev'ry wish I breath'd thee then,
Oh, how blissful life would be !
Hopes, that now beguiling leave me,
Joys, that lie in slumber cold
All would wake, couldst thou but give me
One dear smile like those of old.
Oh there's nothing left us now,
But to mourn the past ;
Vain was every ardent vow
Never yet did Heaven allow
Love so warm, so wild, to last.
Not even Hope could now deceive mo
Life itself looks dark and cold :
Oh, thou never more canst give me
One dear smile like those of old.
THE DAY OF LOVE.
THE beam of morning trembling
Stole o'er the mountain brook,
"With timid ray resembling
Affection's early look.
Thus love begins sweet morn of love !
The noon-tide ray ascended,
And o'er the valley's stream
Diffus'd a glow as splendid
As passion's riper dream.
Thus love expands warm noon of lo\e !
But evening came, o'ershading
The glories of the sky,
Like faith and fondness fading
From passion's alter'd eye.
Thus love declines cold eve of love !
290 MOORE'S POEMS.
THE SONG OF WAR.
THE song of war shall echo through our mountains,
Till not one hateful link remains
Of slavery's lingering chains ;
Till not one tyrant tread our plains,
Nor traitor lip pollute our fountains.
No ! never till that glorious day
Shall Lusitania's sons be gay,
Or hear, oh Peace, thy welcome lay
Resounding through her sunny mountains.
The song of war shall echo through our mountains,
Till Victory's self shall, smiling, say,
"'Your cloud of foes hath pass'd away,
And Freedom comes, with new-horn ray,
To gild your vines and light your fountains."
Oh, never till 'that glorious day
Shall Lusitania's sons be gay,
Or hear, oh Peace, thy welcome lay.
Resounding through her sunny mountains.
TEE YOUNG ROSE.
THE young rose which I give thee, so dewy and bright,
Was the flow'ret most dear to the sweet bird of night,
"Who oft, by the moon, o'er her blushes hath hung,
And thrill'd ev'ry leaf with the wild lay he sung.
Oh, take thou this young rose, and let her life be
Prolong'd by the breath she will borrow from thee ;
For, while o'er her bosom thy soft notes shall thrill,
She'll think the sweet night-bird is courting her still.
MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 201
WHEN MIDST THE GAY I MEET.
WHEN mrdst the gay I meet
That blessed smile of thine,
Though still on me it turns most sweet,
I scarce can call it mine :
But when to me alone
Your secret tears you show,
Oh, then I feel those tears my own,
And claim them while they flow.
Then still with bright looks bless
The gay, the cold, the free ;
Give smiles to those who love you lesa,
But keep your tears for me.
The snow on Jura's steep
Can smile with many a beam,
Yet still in chains of coldness sleep,
How bright soe'er it seem.
But, when some deep-felt ray,
Whose touch is fire, appears,
Oh, then, the smile is warm'd away,
And, melting, turns to tears.
Then still with bright looks bless
The gay, the cold, the free ;
Give smiles to those who love you lesa,
But keep your tears for me.
WHEN TWILIGHT DEWS.
WHEN twilight dews are falling soft
Upon the rosy sea, love,
I watch the star, whose beam so oft
Has lighted me to thee, love.
And thou too, on that orb so dear,
All dost thou gaze at even,
And think, though lost for ever here,
Thou'lt yet be mine in heaven.
292 MOORE'S POEMS.
There's not a garden walk I tread,
There's not a flower I see, love.
But brings to mind some hope that's fled,
Some joy I've lost with thee, love.
And still I wish that hour was near,
When, friends and foes forgiven,
The pains, the ills we've wept through here,
May turn to smiles in heaven.
FANNY, DEAREST.
OH! had I leisure to sigh and mourn,
Fanny, dearest, for thee I'd sigh :
And every smile on my cheek should turn
To tears when thou art nigh.
But, between love, and wine, and sleep,
So busy a life I live,
That even the time it would take to weep
Is more than my heart can give.
Then bid me not to despair and pine,
Fanny, dearest of all the dears !
The Love that's order'd to batho in wino,
"Would be sure to take cold in tears.
Keflerted bright in this heart of mine,
Fanny, dearest, tliy imago lies ;
But oh, the mirror would cease to shine,
If dim'd too often with sighs.
They lose the half of beauties light,
Who view it through sorrow's tear ;
And 'tis but to see thee truly bright
That I keep my eye-beam clear.
Then wait no longer till tears shall flow,
Fanny, clearest the hope is vain ;
If sunshine cannot dissolve thy snow,
I shall never attempt it with rain.
MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 293
SIGH NOT THUS.
Sren not thus, oh simple boy,
Nor for woman languish ;
Loving cannot boast a joy
"Worth one hour of anguish.
Moons have faded fast away,
Stars have ceased their shining ;
Woman's love, as bright as they,
Feela as quick declining.
Then, Love, vanish hence,
Fye, boy, banish hence
Melancholy thoughts of Cupid's lore ;
Hours soon fly away,
Charms soon die away,
Then the silly dream of the heart is o'er.
'TIS LOVE THAT MURMURS.
'Tis Love that murmurs in my breast,
And makes me shed the secret tear ;
Nor day nor night my heart has rest,
For night and day, his voice I hear.
Oh ! bird of Love, with song so drear,
Make not my soul the nest of pain ;
Oh ; let the wing which brought thee here,
In pity waft thee hence again I
YOUNG ELLA.
YOUNG Ella was the happiest maid
That ever hailed the infant spring,
Her carol charmed the blissful shade,
Love taught his favourite nymph to sing.
But ah ! that sorrow's preying worm,
Should nip the tender buds of peace ;
NDW wan with woe is Ella's form,
And all her notes of rapture cease.
Alas, poor Ella 1
204 MOORE'S POEMS.
Oh ! she was like the silver rose
That drinks the early tears of heaven,
Bright as the dewy star that glows
Upon the blushing brow of even
How could 'at thou, faithless Edmund, leave
A nymph so true, so brightly fair,
In horror's darkling cell to weave
The gloomy cypress of despair ?
Alas, poor Ella!
No longer now the hamlet train,
Her beauty, life, and sense admire,
Bewilder'd is her aching brain,
And quenched is all that lively fire.
Where shadows veil the mountain height,
And fiends of darkness murmur low,
On every sobbing breeze of night
Is heard the maniac's 'plaint of woe.
Alas, poor Ella I
Fond maid when from these ills severe,
Death steals thee to his lonely bower,
Pity shall drop her angel tear,
And twine thy grave with many a flower.
The story of thy hapless doom,
Shall deck the rustic poets lay,
And as they pass thy simple tomb,
The village hinds shall weeping say,
Alas, poor Ella !
THE PILGRIM.
HOLT be the pilgrim's sleep,
From the dreams of terror free ;
And may all who wake to weep,
Rest to-night as sweet as he.
" Hark ! hark, did I hear a vesper swell
It is, my love, some pilgrim's prayer
" No, no, 'tis but the convent bell,
That toll'd upon the midnight air !"
" Now, now again, the voice I hear.
Some holy man is wandering near :
MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 296
pilgrim, where hast tliou been roaming;,
Dark is the way, and midnight's coming ;"
" Stranger I've been o'er moor and mountain,
To tell my beads at Agnes' fountain!"
" And, pilgrim, say where art thou going,
Dark is the way, the winds are blowing ;"
" Weary with wandering, weak, I falter,
To breathe my vows at Agnes' altar !"
Strew then, oh strew his bed of rushes,
Here he shall rest till morning blushes !
(Dirge heard from the Convent within.)
Peace to them whose days are done,
Death their eyelids closing;
Hark ! the burial rite's begun,
'Tis time for our reposing.
(Pilgrim throwing off his disguise.)
" Here then, my pilgrim's course is o'er,"
" 'Tis my master, 'tis my master,
Welcome! welcome, home once more!"
WILT THOU SAY FAKEWELL, LOVE?
" WILT thou say farewell, love ;
And from Zelinda part?
Zelinda's tears will tell, love,
The anguish of her heart."
" I'll still be thine, and thou'lt be mine,
I'll love thee though we sever ;
Oh ! say, can I e'er cease to sigh,
Or cease to love, oh never?"
" Wilt thou think of me, love,
When thou art far away ?"
" Oh ! I'll think of thce, love
Never, never, stray !"
" Let not other wiles, love,
Thy ardent heart betray ;
Remember Zelinda's smile, love,
Zelinda, fax away !"
296 MOORE'S POEMS.
CEASE, OH CEASE TO TEMPT.
CEASE, oh cease to tempt,
My tender heart to love,
It never, never, can
So wild a flame approve.
All its joys and pains,
To others I resign ;
But be the vacant heart,
The careless bosom mine.
Say, oh say no more,
That lovers' pains are sweet ;
I never, never, can,
Believe the fond deceit.
Weeping day and night,
Consuming life in sighs ;
This is the lover's lot,
And this I ne'er could prize.
JOYS THAT PASS AWAY.
JOYS that pass away like this,
Alas ! are purchased dear ;
If every beam of bliss
Is followed by a tear.
Fare-thee-well ! oh, fare-thce-well !
Soon, too soon, thou hast broke the spell
Oh ! I ne'er can love again,
The girl whose faithless art
Could break so clear a chain,
And with it break my heart !
Once when truth was in those eyes,
How beautiful they shone ;
But now that lustre flies,
For truth, alas, is gone !
Fare-thee-wcll ! oh, fare-thee-well !
How I've lov'd my hate shall tell;
r
MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 297
Oli ! how lorn, how lost, would prove
Thy wretched victim's fate ;
If, when deceived in love,
He could not fly to hate 1
MY MARY.
LOVE, my Mary, dwells with thee,
On thy cheek his hed I see ;
No, that cheek is pale with care,
Love can find no roses there.
Tis not on the cheek of rose
Love can find the best repose ;
In my heart his home thou'lt see,
There he lives, and lives for thee !
Love, my Mary, ne'er can roam,
While he makes that eye his home
No, the eye with sorrow dim,
Ne'er can be a home for him.
Yet, 'tis not in beaming eyes
Love for ever warmest lies ;
In my heart his home thou'lt see,
Here ho lives, and lives for thee !
NOW LET THE WARRIOR.
Now let the warrior wave his sword afar,
For the men of the East, this clay shall bleed,
And the sun shall blush with war.
Victory sits on the Christian's helm,
To guide her holy band ;
The Knight of the Cross, this day shall whelm
The men of the Pagan land.
Oli ! blest who in the battle dies,
God will eushrine him in the skies !
298 MOORE'S POEMS.
LIGHT SOUNDS THE HARP.
LIGHT sounds the harp when the combat is over,
When heroes are resting, and joy is in bloom ;
"When laurels hang loose from the brow of the lover,
And Cupid makes wings of the warrior's plume.
But, when the foe returns,
Again the hero burns ;
High flames the sword in his hand once more :
The clang of mingling arms
Is then the sound that charms,
And brazen notes of war, by thousand trumpets sung ;
Oh then comes the Harp, when the combat is over,
When heroes are resting, and joy is in bloom
When laurels hang loose from the brow of the lover,
And Cupid makes wings of the warrior's plume.
Light went the Harp when the War-God, reclining,
Lay lull'd on the white arm of Beauty to rest,
When round his rich armour the myrtle hung twining,
And flights of young doves made his helmet their nest.
But, when the battle came,
The hero's eye breath'd flame :
Soon from his neck the white arm was flung ;
While, to his wak'ning ear,
No other sounds were dear
But brazen notes of war, by thousand trumpets sung.
But then came the light Harp, when danger was ended,
And Beauty once more lull'd the War-God to rest ;
When tresses of gold with his laurels lay blended,
And flights of young doves made his helmet their nest
A MELOLOGUE UPON NATIONAL MUSIC,
ADVERTISEMENT.
THESE verses were written for a Benefit at the Dublin
Theatre, and were spoken by Miss Smith, with a degree
of success, which they owed solely to her admirable man-
ner of reciting them. I wrote them in haste ; and it very
rarely happens that poetry, which has cost but little labour
to the writer, is productive of any great pleasure to the
reader. Under this impression, I should not have pub-
lished them if they had not found their way into some of
the newspapers, with such an addition of errors to their
own original stock, that I thought it but fair to limit their
responsibility to those faults alone which really belong to
them.
"With respect to the title which I have invented for this
Poem, I feel even more than the scruples of the Emperor
Tiberius, when he humbly asked pardon of the Roman
Senate for using "the outlandish term monopoly" But
the truth is, having written the Poem with the sole view
of serving a Benefit, I thought that an unintelligible word
of this kind would not be without its attraction for the
multitude, with whom, " If 'tis not sense, at least 'tis
Greek." To some of my readers, however, it may not be
superfluous to say, that by "Melologue," I mean that
mixture of recitation and music, which is frequently adopt-
ed in the performance of Collin's Ode on the Passions, and
of which the most striking example I can remember is the
prophetic speech of Joad in the Athalie of Racine.
T. M.
MELOLOGUE,
INTRODUCTORY MUSIC.
THERE breathes a language, known and felt
Far as the pure air spreads its living zone ;
Wherever rage can rouse, or pity melt,
That language of the soul is felt and known.
From those meridian plains,
"Where oft, of old, on some high tow'r,
The soft Peruvian pour'd his midnight strains,
And call'd his distant love with such sweet pow'r,
That, when she heard the lonely lay,
Not worlds could keep her from his arms away,
To the bleak climes of polar night,
"Where, beneath a sunless sky,
The Lapland lover bids his rein-deer fly,
And sings along the lengthening waste of snow,
As blithe as if the blessed light
Of vernal Phoebus burn'd upon his brow ;
Oh Music ! thy celestial claim
Is still resistless, still the same ;
And, faithful as the mighty sea
To the pale star that o'er its realm presides,
The spell-bound tides
Of human passion rise and fall for thee 1
GREEK AIR.
LIST ! 'tis a Grecian maid that sings,
While, from llissus' silv'ry springs,
She draws the cool lymph in her graceful urn ;
And by her side, in Music's charm dissolving,
Some patriot youth, the glorious past revolving,
Droams of bright days that never can return ;
When Athens nurs'd her olive bough,
With hands by tyrant pow'r unchain'd ;
A MELOLOOUE UPON NATIONAL MUSIC. 301
And braided for the Muse's brow
A wreath by tyrant touch unstain'd.
"When heroes trod each classic field
Where coward feet now faintly falter ;
When ev'ry arm was Freedom's shield,
And ev'ry heart was Freedom's altar.
FLOURISH OF TRUMPETS.
HARK, 'tis the sound that charms
The war-steed's wak'ning ears !
Oh ! many a mother folds her arms
Round her boy-soldier when that call she hears ;
And, though her fond heart sink with fcara,
Is proud to feel his young pulse bound
With valour's fever at the sound.
See, from his native hills afar
The rude Helvetian flies to war ;
Careless for what, for whom he fights,
For slave or despot, wrongs or rights ;
A conqueror oft a hero never
Yet lavish of his life-blood still,
As if 'twere like his mountain rill,
And gush'd for ever 1
Oh t Music, here, even here,
Amid this thoughtless, wild career,
Thy soul-felt charm asserts its wondrous pow'r.
There is an air which oft, among the rocks
Of his own loved land, at ev'ning hour,
Is heard, when shepherds homeward pipe their flocks,
Oh, every note of it would thrill his mind
With tend'rest thoughts ; would bring around his knees
The rosy children whom he left behind,
And fill each little angel eye
With speaking tears, that ask him why
He wander'd from his hut for scenes like these.
Vain, vain is then the trumpet's brazen roar ;
Sweet notes of home, of love, are all he hears ;
And the stern eyes, that look'd for blood before,
Now melting, mournful, lose themselves in tears.
SWISS AIR. " RANZ DBS V ACHES."
BUT, wake the trumpet's blast again,
And rouse the ranks of warrior-men !
Oh War, when Truth thy arm employs,
802 MOORE'S POEMS.
And Freedom's spirit guides the labouring storm,
'Tis then thy vengeance takes a hallow'd form,
And, like Heaven's lightning, sacredly destroys,
Nor, Music, through thy breathing sphere,
Lives there a sound more grateful to the ear
Of Him who made all harmony,
Than the bless'd sound of fetters breaking,
And the first hymn that man, awaking
From Slavery's slumber, breathes to Liberty.
SPANISH CHORUS.
HARK ! from Spain, indignant Spain,
Bursts the bold, enthusiast strain,
Like morning's music on the air :
And seems, in every note, to swear
By Saragossa's ruin'd streets,
By brave Gerona's deathful story,
That while one Spaniard's life-blood beats,
That blood shall stain the conq'ror's glory.
SPANISH AIR." YA DESPERTO."
BUT all ! if vain the patriot's zeal,
If neither valour's force nor wisdom's light
Can break or melt that blood-cemented seal,
Which shuts so close the book of Europe's right-
What Song shall then in sadness tell
Of broken pride, of prospects shaded,
Of buried hopes, remember'd well,
Of ardour quench'd, and honour faded?
What Muse shall mourn the breathless bravo,
In sweetest dirge at Memory's shrine ?
What Harp shall sigh o'er Freedom's grave?
Oh, Erin, thine !
THE ODES OF AHACREOH.
THE ODES OF ANACKEOfi.
[!T may be necessary to mention that, in arranging the Odes, the
Translator has adopted the order of the Vatican 313. The number if
given of each Ode in Barnes and the other editions.]
ODE I.
ioat> f&e.
(The 63d in Barnes)
I SAW the smiling bard of pleasure,
The minstrel of the Teian measure ;
Twas in a vision of the night,
He beam'd upon nay wondering sight
I heard his voice, and warmly prest
The dear enthusiast to my breast.
His tresses wore a silvery die,
But beauty sparkled in his eye ;
And, as with weak and reeling feet,
He came my cordial kiss to meet,
An infant, of the Cyprian band,
Guided him on with tender hand.
Quick from his glowing brows he drew
His braid, of many a wanton hue ;
I hung it o'er my thoughtless brow,
And ah ! I feel its magic now !
I feel that e'en his garland's touch
Can make the bosom love too much I
;,00 MOORE'S POEMS.
ODE II.
Ai*re pot "hvpnv
(The 48A m Barnes.)
GIVE me the harp of epic song,
Which Homer's finger thrill'd along ;
But tear away the sanguine string,
For war is not the theme I sing.
Proclaim the laws of festal rite,
I'm monarch of the board to-night;
And all around shall brim as high,
And quaff the tide as deep as I !
And when the cluster's mellowing dews
Their warm, enchanting balm infuse,
Our feet shall catch th' elastic bound,
And reel us through the dance's round.
Oh Bacchus ! we shall sing to thee,
In wild but sweet ebristy ! .
And flash around such sparks of thougtit.
As Bacchus could alone have taught !
Then give the harp of epic song,
Which Homer's finger thrill'd along ;
But tear away the sanguine string,
For war is not the theme I sing 1
ODE III.
Ays, ^6)yp6i(f)uy ocptffrt.
(The 49& in Barnes.)
LISTEN to the Muse's lyre,
Master of the pencil's fire !
Sketch'd in painting's bold display,
Many a city first portray ;
Many a city, revelling free,
Warm with loose festivity.
Picture then a rosy train,
Bacchants straying o'er the plain;
Piping as they roam along,
Roundelay or shepherd-song.
Paint me next, if painting may
Such a theme as this portray,
All the happy heaven of lovo,
These elect of Cupid prove.
THE ODES OF ANACREON. 30f
ODE IV.
To* apyvpoif ropsvuv.
(The 17 tk in Barnes.)
VULCAN I hear your glorious task ;
I do not from your labours ask
In gorgeous panoply to shine,
For war was ne'er a sport of mine.
No let me have a silver bowl,
Where I may cradle all my soul :
But let not o'er its simple frame
Your mimic constellations flame ;
Nor grave upon the swelling side
Orion, scowling o'er the tide.
I care not for the glitt'ring Wain,
Nor yet the weeping sister train.
But oh ! let vines luxuriant roll
Their blushing tendrils round the bowl.
While many a rose-lip'd bacchant maid
Is culling clusters in their shade.
Let sylvan gods, in antic shapes,
Wildly press the gushing grapes ;
And flights of loves, in wanton ringlets,
Flit around on golden winglets ;
While Venus, to her mystic bower,
Beckons the rosy vintage-Power.
ODE V.
(The 18th in Barnes.)
GRAVE me a cup with brilliant grace,
Deep as the rich and holy vase,
Which on the shrine of Spring reposes.
When shepherds hail that hour of rosea.
Grave it with themes of chaste design,
Form'd for a heavenly bowl like mine.
Display not there the barbarous rites,
In which religious zeal delights ;
Nor any tale of tragic fate,
Which history trembles to relate !
c
808 MOORE'S POEMS.
No cull thy fancies from above,
Themes of lieav'n and themes of love.
Let Bacchus, Jove's ambrosial boy,
Distil the grape in drops of joy.
ODE VI.
it'hzx.av KOT evpov.
(The 5Qth in Barnes.)
As late I sought the spangled bowers,
To cull a wreath of matin flowers,
Where many an early rose was weeping,
I found the urchin Cupid sleeping.
I caught the boy, a goblet's tide
"Was richly mantling by my side, "
I caught him by his downy wing,
And whelm'd him in the racy spring.
Oh ! then I drank the poison 'd bowl,
And Love now nestles in my soul !
Yes, yes, my soul is Cupid's nest,
I feel him fluttering in my breast.
ODE VII.
(The llth in Barnes.)
THE women tell me every day
That all my bloom has passed away.
"Behold," the pretty creatures cry,
" Behold this mirror with a sigh ;
The locks upon thy brow are few,
And, like the rest, they're withering too I"
Whether decline has thinn'd my hair,
I'm sure I neither know nor care ;
But this I know, and this I feel,
As onward to the tomb I steal,
That still as death approaches nearer,
The joys of life are sweeter, dearer ;
And had I but an hour to live,
That little hour to bliss I'd give!
THE ODES OF ANACREON. 309
ODE VIII.
Of ft ot fts'hsi rex, Tyyoi/.
(The Uth in Barnes.)
I CAKE not for the idle state
Of Persia's king, the rich, the great !
I envy not the monarch's throne,
Nor wish the trcasur'd gold my own.
But oh ! be mine the rosy braid,
The fervour of my brows to shade ;
Be mine the odours, richly sighing,
Amidst my hoary tresses flying.
To-day I'll haste to quaff my wine,
As if to-morrow ne'er should shine ;
But if to-morrow comes, why then
I'll, haste to quaff my wine again.
And thus while all our days are bright,
Nor time has dimm'd thcdr bloomy light,
Let us the festal hours beguile
"With mantling cup and cordial smile ;
And shed from every bowl of wine
The richest drop on Bacchus' shrine !
For Death may come, with brow unpleasant,
May come, when least we wish him present,
And beckon to the sable shore,
And grimly bid us drink no more !
ODE IX.
A(pf pi Tovg Stov; cot,
(The Z\st in Barnes.)
I PEAY thee, by the gods above,
Give me the mighty bowl I love.
And let me sing, in wild delight.
" I will I will be mad to-night !"
Alcrnseon once, as legends tell,
"Was frenzied by the fiends of heli ;
Orestes too, with naked tread.
Frantic pac'd the mountain-head ;
And why? a murder'd mother s shade
Before their conscious fancy play'd.
310 MOORE'S POEMS.
But I can ne'er a murderer be,
The grape alone shall bleed by me ;
Yet can I rave in wild delight,
" I will I will be mad to-night."
The son of Jove, in days of yore,
Imbru'd his hands in youthful gore,
And brandish'd, with a maniac joy,
The quiver of th' expiring boy :
And Ajax, with tremendous shield,
Infuriate scour'd the guiltless field.
But I, whose hands no quiver hold,
No weapon but this flask of gold ;
The trophy of whose frantic hours
Is but a scatter'd wreath of flowers ;
Yet, yet can sing with wild delight,
" I will I will be mad to-night I"
ODE X.
T/ ffOt SA
(The 12th in Barnes)
TELL me how to punish thee,
For the mischief done to me !
Silly swallow ! prating thing,
Shall I clip that wheeling wing t
Or, as Tereus did of old
(So the fabled tale is told),
Shall I tear that tongue away,
Tongue that utter'd such a lay ?
How unthinking hast thou been I
Long before the dawn was seen,
When I slumber'd in a dream,
Love was the delicious theme !
Just when I was nearly blest,
Ah I thy matin broke my rest J
ODE XI.
xypivov rig.
(The 10th in Barnes.')
" TELL me, gentle youth, I pray thee,
"What in purchase shall I pay thee
THE ODES OF ANACREON. 311
For this little waxeu toy,
Image of the Papliian boy?"
Thus I said the other day,
To a youth who pass'd my way :
" Sir" (he answer 'd, and the while
Answer'd all in Doric style),
" Take it, for a trifle take it ;
Think not yet that I could make it ;
Pray, believe it was not I ;
No it cost me many a sigh,
And I can no longer keep
Little gods, who murder sleep !"
" Here, then, here" (I said with joy),
" Here is silver for the boy :
He shall be my bosom guest,
Idol of my pious breast!"
Little Love ! thou now art mine,
Warm me with that torch of thine.
ODE XII.
O; ftsy xothTfiv KI/J>JHJ/,
(Tla 13th in Barnes.)
THEY tell how Atys, wild with love,
Roams the mount and haunted grove :
Cybele's name he howls around,
The gloomy blast returns the sound!
Oft too by Glares' hallo w'd spring,
The votaries of the laurell'd king
Quaff the inspiring, magic stream,
And rave in wild prophetic dream.
But frenzied dreams are not for me,
Great Bacchus is my deity !
Full of mirth, and full of him,
While waves of perfume round me swim
While flavour'd bowls are full supplied,
And you sit blushing by my side,
I will be mad and raving too
Mad, my girl ! witli love for you !
812 MOORK'S POEMS.
ODE XIII.
(The Uth in Barnes.')
I WILL ; I will ; the conflict's past,
And I'll consent to love at last.
Cupid has long, with smiling art,
Invited me to yield my heart ;
And I have thought that peace of mind
Should not be for a smile resign'd !
And I've repell'd the tender lure,
And hop'd my heart should sleep secure,
But, slighted in his boasted charms,
The angry infant flew to arms ;
He slung his quiver's golden frame,
He took his bow, his shafts of flame,
And proudly summon'd me to yield,
Or meet him on the martial field,
And what did I unthinking do ?
I took to arms, undaunted too ;
Assum'd the corslet, shield, and spear,
And, like Pelides, smil'd at fear,
Then (hear it, all you powers above !)
I fought with Love ! I fought with Lovu !
And now his arrows all were shed
And I had just in terrors fled
When, heaving an indignant sigh,
To see me thus unwounded fly,
And having now no other dart,
He glanc'd himself into my heart !
My heart alas the luckless day !
Keceiv'd the god, and died away.
Farewell, farewell, my faithless shield 1
Thy lord at length is forc'd to yield.
Vain, vain, is every outward cure,
My foe's within, and triumphs there.
ODE XIV.
(The Qt/i in Barnes.)
TELL me, why, my sweetest dove,
Thus your humid pinions move,
THE ODES OF ANACREON. 313
Shedding through the air in showers,
Essence of the balmiest flowers '?
Tell me whither, whence you rove,
Tell me all, my sweetest dovo.
Curious stranger ! I belong
To the bard of Teian song ;
With his mandate now I fly
To the nymph of azure eye ;
Ah ! that eye has madden'd many,
But the poet more than any !
Venus, for a hymn of love,
Warbled in her votive grove
fTwas in sooth a gentle lay),
Gave me to the bard away.
See me now his faithful minion,
Thus with softly-gliding pinion,
To his lovely girl I bear
Songs of passion through the air,
Oft he blandly whispers me,
" Soon, my bird, I'll set you free."
But in vain he'll bid me fly,
I shall serve him till I die.
Never could my plumes sustain
Ruffling winds and chilling rain,
O'er the plains, or in the dell,
On the mountain's savage swell ;
Seeking in the desert wood
Gloomy shelter, rustic food.
Now I lead a life of ease,
Far from such retreats as these ;
From Anacreon's hand I eat
Food delicious, viands sweet ;
Flutter o'er his goblet's brim,
Sip the foamy wine with him.
Then I dance and wanton round
To the lyre's beguiling sound !
Or with gently-fanning wings
Shade the minstrel while ho sings :
On his harp then sink in slumbeva,
Dreaming still of dulcet numbers !
This is all away away
You have made me waste the day.
How I've chatter d ! prating crow
Never yet did chatter so.
S3 4 MOORE'S POEMS.
ODE XV.
Ayg, ^aypctQuv otpi$TS.
(The 28th in Barnes.)
THOU, whose soft and rosy hues
Mimic form and soul infuse ;
Best of painters ! come portray
The lovely maid that's far away.
Far away, my soul ! thou art,
But I've thy beauties all by heart.
Paint her jetty ringlets straying,
Silky twine in tendrils playing ;
And, if painting hath the skill
To make the spicy balm distil,
Let every little lock exhale
A sigh of perfume on the gale.
Where her tresses' curly flow
Darkles o'er the brow of snow,
Let her forehead beam to light,
Burnish'd as the ivory bright.
Let her eyebrows sweetly rise
In jetty arches o'er her eyes,
Gently in a crescent gliding,
Just commingling, just dividing.
But hast thou any sparkles warm,
The lightning of her eyes to form ?
Let them effuse the azure ray
With which Minerva's glances play,
And give them all that liquid fire
That Venus' languid eyes respire.
O'er her nose and cheek be shed
Flushing white and mellow'd red ;
Gradual tints, as when there glows
In snowy milk the bashful rose.
Then her lip, so rich in blisses !
Sweet petitioner for kisses !
Then beneath the velvet chin,
Whose dimple shades a love within,
A charm may peep, a hue may beam,
And leave the rest to Fancy's dream.
Enough 'tis she ! 'tis all I seek ;
It glows, it lives, it soon will speak I
THE ODES OT 1 ANACREON. 315
ODE XVI.
ftoi Bfit$vAAoj> ovra.
(The 29th in Barnes.)
AND now with all thy pencil's truth,
Portray Bathyllus, lovely youth 1
Let his hair, in lapses bright,
Fall like streaming rays of light ;
And there the raven's die confuse
"With the yellow sunbeam's hues.
Let not the braid, with artful twine,
The flowing of his locks confine ;
But loosen every golden ring,
To float upon the breeze's wing.
Beneath the front of polish 'd glow,
Front, as fair as mountain snow,
And guileless as the dews of dawn,
Let the majestic brows be drawn,
Of ebon dies, enrich'd by gold,
Such as the scaly snakes unfold.
Mingle in his jetty glances,
Power that awes, and love that trances ;
Steal from Venus bland desire,
Steal from Mars the look of fire,
Blend them in such expression here,
That we by turns may hope and fear !
Now from the sunny apple seek
The velvet down that spreads his cheek ;
And there let Beauty's rosy ray
In flying blushes richly play ;
Blushes, of that celestial flame
Which lights the cheek of virgin shame.
Then for his lips, that ripely gem
But let thy mind imagine them !
Paint, where the ruby cell uncloses,
Persuasion sleeping upon roses ;
And give his lip that speaking air,
As if a word was hovering there 1
His neck of ivory splendour trace,
Moulded with soft but manly grace ;
Fair as the neck of Paphia's boy,
Where Paphia's arms have hung in joy.
Give him the winged Hermes' hand,
With which he waves his snaky wand ;
T16 MOORE'S POEMS.
Let Bacchus then the breast supply,
And Leda's son the sinewy thigh.
Thy pencil, though divinely bright,
Is envious of the eye's delight,
Or its enamour'd touch would show
His shoulder, fair as sunless snow,
Which now in veiling shadow lies,
Remov'd from all but Fancy's eyes.
Now, for his feet but hold forbear
I see a godlike portrait there ;
So like Bathyllus ! sure there's none
So like Bathyllus but the Hun !
Oh ! let this pictur'd god be mine,
And keep the boy for Samos' shrine ;
Phoebus shall then Bathyllus be,
Bathyllus then the deity !
ODE XVII.
Aorg ^o/, "bore
(The 21s in Barnes.)
Now the star of day is high,
Fly, my girls, in pity fly,
Bring me wine in brimming urns,
Cool my lip, it burns, it burns !
Sunn'd by the meridian fire,
Panting, languid I expire !
Give me all those humid flowers,
Drop them o'er my brow in showers.
Scarce a breathing chaplet now
Lives upon my feverish brow ;
Every dewy rose I wear
Sheds its tears, and withers there.
But for you, my burning mind !
Oh! what shelter shall I find?
Can the bowl, or flow'ret's dew,
Cool the flame that scorches you?
THE ODES OF ANACREON. 317
CUE XVIII.
(The 22d in Barnes.)
HERE recline you, gentle maid,
Sweet is this imbowering shade ;
Sweet the young, the modest trees,
Euffled by the kissing breeze !
Sweet the little founts that weep,
Lulling bland the mind to sleep ;
Hark ! they whisper as they roll,
Calm persuasion to the soul 1
Tell me, tell me, is not this
All a stilly scene of bliss ?
Who, my girl, would pass it by ?
Surely neither you nor I !
ODE XIX.
(The BOth in Barnes.)
ONE day, the Muses twin'd the hands
Of baby Love, with flow'ry bands ;
And to celestial Beauty gave
The captive infant as her slave.
His mother comes with many a toy,
To ransom her beloved boy ;
His mother sues, but all in vain !
He ne'er will leave his chains again.
Nay, should they take his chains away,
The little captive still would stay.
" If this," he cries, " a bondage be,
Who could wish for liberty !"
818 MOORS' S POEMS.
ODE XX.
H ye ftthoiivct,
(The 19th in Barnes.)
OBSERVE when mother earth is dry,
She drinks the droppings of the sky ;
And then the dewy cordial gives
To ev'ry thirsty plant that lives.
The vapours, which at evening weep,
Are beverage to the swelling deep ;
And when the rosy sun appears,
He drinks the ocean's misty tears.
The moon too quaffs her paly stream
Of lustre from the solar beam.
Then, hence with alj your sober thinking I
Since Nature's holy law is drinking ;
I'll make the laws of Nature mine,
And pledge the universe in wine !
ODE XXI.
H ToiTSt'hOV 9TOT fffTY],
(The 20th in Barnes.)
THE Phrygian rock, that braves the storm,
Was once a weeping matron's form ;
And Progna, hapless, frantic maid,
Is now a swallow in the shade.
Oh ! that a mirror's form were mine,
To sparkle with that smile divine ;
And like my heart I then should be,
Reflecting thee, and only thee !
I wish I were the zone, that lies
Warm to thy breast, and feels its sighs !
Or like those envious* pearls that show
So faintly round that neck of snow,
Yes, I would be a happy gem,
Like them to hang, to fade like them.
What more would thy Anacreon be ?
Oh ! any thing that touches thee.
Nay, sandals for those airy feet
Thus to be press'd by thee were sweet !
THE ODES OF ANACREftN. 319
ODE XXII.
(The 1st in Barnes.)
I OFTEN wish this languid lyre,
This warbler of my soul's desire,
Could raise the breath of song sublime,
To men of fame, in former time.
But when the soaring theme I try,
Along the chords my numbers die,
And whisper, with dissolving tone,
" Our sighs are given to love alone!"
Indignant at the feeble lay,
I tore the panting chords away,
Attun'd them to a nobler swell,
And struck again the breathing shell ;
In all the glow of epic fire,
To, Hercules I wake the lyre!
But still its fainting sighs repeat,
" The tale of love alone is sweet!"
Then fare-thee-well, seductive dream,
That mad'st me follow Glory's theme;
For tliou my lyre, and thou my heart,
Shall never more in spirit part ;
And thou the flame shalt feel as well
As thou the flame shalt sweetly tell!
ODE XXIII.
rot.vpot$.
(The 2d in Barnes.)
To all that breathe the airs of heaven,
Some boon of strength has Nature given.
When the majestic bull was born,
She fenc'd his' brow with wreathed horn.
She arm'd the courser's foot of air,
And wing'd with speed the panting haro.
She gave the lion fangs of terror,
And, on the ocean's crystal mirror,
Taught the unnumber'd scaly throng
To trace their liquid path along ;
MOORE'S POEMS.
While for the umbrage of the grove,
She plum'd the warbling world of love.
To man she gave the flame refin'd,
The spark of heav'n a thinking mind !
And had she no surpassing treasure,
For thee, oh woman ! child of pleasure ?
She gave thee beauty shaft of eyes,
That every shaft of war outflies !
She gave thee beauty blush of fire,
That bids the flames of war retire !
Woman ! be fair, we must adore thee ;
Smile, and a world is weak before thee !
ODE XXIV.
2f ftsv (p/Ayj -fcthibav.
(The 33d m Barnes)
ONCE in each revolving year,
Gentle bird ! we find thee here.
When Nature wears her summer-vest,
Thou com'st to weave thy simple nest ;
But when the chilling winter lowers,
Again thou seek'st the genial bowers
Of Memphis, or the shores of Nile,
Where sunny hours of verdure smile.
And thus thy wing of freedom roves,
Alas ! unlike the plumed loves
That linger in this hapless breast,
And never, never change their nest !
Still every year, and all the year,
A flight of loves engender here ;
And some their infant plumage try,
And on a tender winglet fly ;
While in the shell, impregn'd with fires,
Cluster a thousand more desires ;
Some from their tiny prisons peeping,
And some in formless embryo sleeping.
My bosom, like the vernal groves,
Resounds with little warbling loves ;
One urchin imps the other's feather,
Then twin-desires they wing together,
But is there then no kindly art,
To chase these Cupids from my heart?
No, no ! I fear, alas ! I fear
They will fur ever nestle here !
THE ODES OF ANACKKON. 321
ODE XXV.
(The IQth in Barnes.)
THY harp may sing of Troy's alarms,
Or tell the tale of Theban arms ;
With other wars my song shall burn,
For other wounds my' harp shall mourn.
'Twas not the crested warrior's dart,
Which drank the current of my heart ;
Nor naval arms, nor mailed steed,
Have made this vanquished bosom bleed
No from an eye of liquid blue,
A host of quiver'd cupids flew ;
And now my heart "all bleeding liea
Beneath this army of the eyes !
ODE XXVI.
E/ ta^lQlg [AtV I'TTTTOt.
(The 55th in Barnes.)
WE read the flying courser's name
Upon his side in marks of flame ;
And, by their turban'd brows alone,
The warriors of the East are known.
But in the lover's glowing eyes,
The inlet to his bosom lies ;
Through them we see the small faint mark,
Where Love has dropp'd his burning spark !
ODE XXVII.
O ctyYii> 6 T
(The 45th in Barnes.)
As in the Lemnian caves of lire,
The mate of her who nurs'd Desire
Moulded the glowing steel, to form
Arrows for Cupid, th rilling warm;
322 MOORE'S POEMS.
"While Venus every barb imbues
"With droppings of her honied dews ;
And Love (alas the victim-heart !)
Tinges with gall the burning dart ;
Once, to this Lemnian cave of flame,
The crested lord of battles came ;
'Twas from the ranks of war he rush'd,
His spear with many a life-drop blush'd !
He saw the mystic darts, and smil'd
Derision on the archer-child.
""And dost thou smile?" said little Love;
' Take this dart, and thou may'st prove,
That though they pass the breeze's flight,
My bolts are not so feathery light."
He took the shaft and oh ! thy look,
Sweet Venus ! when the shaft he took
He sigh'd, and felt the urchin's art ;
He sigh'd, in agony of heart,
" It is not light I die with pain !
Take take thy arrow back again."
" No," said the child, " it must not be,
That little dart was made for thee I"
ODE XXVIII.
fie
(The 46th in Barnes.)
YES loving is a painful thrill,
And not to love more painful still ;
But surely 'tis the worst of pain,
To love, and not be lov'd again !
Affection now has fled from earth,
Nor fire of genius, light of birth,
Nor heavenly virtue, can beguile
From beauty's cheek one favouring smile,
Gold is the woman's only theme,
Gold is the woman's only dream.
Oh I never be that wretch forgiven
Forgive him not, indignant Heaven !
"Whose groveling eyes could first adore,
Whose heart could pant for sordid ore.
Since that devoted thirst began,
Man has forgot to feel for man ;
r.
THE ODES OF ANACREON. 823
The pulse of social life is dead,
And all its fonder feelings fled !
War too has sullied Nature's charms,
For gold provokes the world to arms !
And oh ! the worst of all its art,
I feel it breaks the lover's heart !
ODE XXIX.
(The Uth in Barnes.)
'TWAS in an airy dream of night,
I fancied that I wing'd my flight
On pinions fleeter than the wind,
While little Love, whose feet were twin'd
(I know not why) with chains of lead,
Pursued me as I trembling fled ;
Pursued and could I e'er have thought ?
Swift as the moment I was caught !
What does the wanton fancy mean
By such a strange, illusive scene ?
I fear she whispers to my breast,
That you, my girl, have stol'n my rest ;
That though my fancy, for awhile,
Has hung on many a woman's smile,
I soon disolv'd the passing vow,
And ne'er was caught by love till now
ODE XXX.
(The 1th in Barnes)
ABM'D with hyacinthine rod
(Arms enough for such a god),
Cupid bade me wing my pace,
And try with him the rapid race.
O'er the wild torrent, rude and deep,
By tangled brake and pendent steep,
With weary foot I panting flew,
My brow was chill with drops of dew.
And now my soul, exhausted, dying,
To my lip was faintly flying ;
x
S24 MOORE'S POEMS.
And now I thought the spark had fled,
When Cnpid hover'd o'er my head,
And fanning light his breezy plume,
Eecall'd me from my languid gloom ;
Then said, in accents half-reproving,
" Why hast thou been a foe to loving
ODE XXXI.
(The 4th in Barnes.)
STEEW me a breathing bed of leaves,
Where lotus with the myrtle weaves;
And while in luxury's dream I sink,
Let me the balm of Bacchus drink 1
In this delicious hour of joy,
Young Love shall be my goblet-boy ;
Folding his little golden vest,
With cinctures, round his snowy breast,
Himself shall hover by my side,
And minister the racy tide !
Swift as the wheels that kindling roll,
Our life is hurrying to the goal :
A scanty dust, to feed the wind,
Is all the trace 'twill leave behind.
Why do we shed the rose's bloom
Upon the cold insensate tomb ?
Can flowery breeze, or odour's breath,
Affect the slumbering chill of death ?
No, no ; I ask no balm to steep
With fragrant tears my bed of sleep :
But now, while every pulse is glowing,
Now let me breathe the balsam flowing ;
Now let the rose, with blush of fire,
Upon my brow its scent expire.
ODE XXXII.
(The 3d in Barnes.)
'TWAS noon of night, when round the pole
The sullen Boar is seen to roll;
THE ODES OF ANACREON. 825
And mortals, wearied with the day,
Are slumbering all their cares away :
An infant, at that dreary hour,
Came weeping to my silent bower,
And wak'd me with a piteous prayer,
To save him from the midnight air !
"And who art thou," I waking cry,
" That bid'st my blissful visions fly ?"
" gentle sir !" the infant said,
" In pity take me to thy shed ;
Nor fear deceit : a lonely child
I wander o'er the gloomy wild.
Chill drops the rain, and not a ray
Illumes the drear and misty way !"
I hear the baby's tale of woe ;
I hear the bitter night- winds blow ;
And sighing for his piteous fate,
I trimm'd my lamp and op'd the gate.
'Twas Love ! the little wandering sprite,
His pinion sparkled through the night !
I knew him by his bow and dart ;
I knew him by my fluttering heart ! .
I take him in, and fondly raise
The dying embers' cheering blaze ;
Press from his dank and clinging hair
The crystals of the freezing air,
And in my hand and bosom hold
His little fingers thrilling cold.
And now the embers' genial ray
Had warm'd his anxious fears away ;
" I pray thee," said the wanton child
(My bosom trembled as he smil'd),
*' I pray thee let me try my bow,
For through the rain I've wander'd so,
That much I fear, the ceaseless shower
Has injur'd its elastic power."
The fatal bow the urchin drew ;
Swift from the string the arrow flew;
Oh ! swift it flew as glancing flame,
And to my very soul it came !
"Fare-thee-well," I heard him say,
As laughing wild he wing'd away ;
" Fare-thee-well, for now I know
The rain has not relax'd my bow ;
It still can send a madd'ning dart,
As thou shalt own with all thy heart I"
MOORE'S POEMS.
ODE XXXIII.
(The 43d in Barnes.)
On thou, of all creation blest,
Sweet insect ! that delight'st to rest
Upon the wild wood's leafy tops,
To drink the dew that morning drops,
And chirp thy song with such a glee,
That happiest kings may envy thee !
"Whatever decks the velvet field,
"Whate'er the circling seasons yield,
"Whatever buds, whatever blows,
For thee it buds, for thee it grows.
Nor yet art thou the peasant's fear,
To him thy friendly notes are dear ;
For thou art mild as matin dew,
And still, when summer's flowery hue
Begins to paint the bloomy plain,
We hear thy sweet prophetic strain ;
Thy sweet, prophetic strain we hear,
And bless the notes and the revere !
The Muses love thy shrilly tone ;
Apollo calls thee all his own ;
'Twas he who gave that voice to thee,
'Tis he who tunes thy minstrelsy.
Unworn by age's dim decline,
The fadeless blooms of youth are thine.
Melodious insect ! child of earth !
In wisdom mirthful, wise in mirth :
Exempt from every weak decay,
That withers vulgar frames away ;
With not a drop of blood to stain
The current of thy purer vein ;
So blest an age is pass'd by thee,
Thou seem'st a little deity I
ODE XXXIV.
TOT ev o(5o;07.
(The 40t/i in Barnes.)
CL-PID once upon a bed
Of roses laid his weary head
THE ODES OP" AXACREON.
Luckless urchin, not to see
Within the leaves a slumbering bee 1
The bee awak'd with anger wild
The bee awak'd, and stung the child.
Loud and piteous are his cries ;
To Venus quick he runs, he flies !
"Oh mother! I am wounded through
I die with pain in sooth I do !
Stung by some little angry thing,
Some serpent on a tiny wing
A bee it was for once, I know
I heard a rustic call it so."
Thus he spoke, and she the while
Heard him with a soothing smile ;
Then said, " My infant, if so much
Thou feel the little wild-bee's touch,
How must the heart, ah Cupid ! be,
The hapless heart that's stung by thee 1"
ODE XXXV.
O TrAovTOf sr/s %pvoov.
(The 23d in Barnes.)
IF hoarded gold possessed a power
To lengthen life's too fleeting hour,
And purchase from the hand of death
A little span, a moment's breath,
How I would love the precious ore !
And every day should swell my store ;
That when the Fates would send their minion,
To waft me off on shadowy pinion,
I might some hours of life obtain,
And bribe him back to hell again.
But, since we ne'er can charm away
The mandate of that awful day,
Why do we vainly weep at Fate,
And sigh for life's uncertain date ?
The light of gold can ne er illume
The dreary midnight of the tomb!
And why should 1 then pant fur treasures?
Mine be the brilliant round of pleasures ;
The goblet rich, the board of friends,
Whose flowing souls the goblet blends !
MOORE'S POEMS.
ODE XXXVI.
(T/ie 8th in Barnes.)
'TWAS night, and many a circling "bowl
Had deeply warm'd my swimming soul ;
As lull'd in slumber I was laid,
Bright visions o'er my fancy play'd !
With virgins, blooming as the dawn,
I seem'd to trace the opening lawn ;
Light, on tiptoe bath'd in dew,
"VVe flew, and sported as we flew !
Some ruddy striplings, young and sleek,
With blush of Bacchus on their cheek,
Saw me trip the flowery wild
With dimpled girls, and slily smil'd ;
Smil'd indeed with wanton glee,
But, ah ! 'twas plain they envied mo.
ODE XXXVII.
(The 41st in Barnes)
LET us drain the nectar'd bowl,
Let us raise the song of soul,
To him, the god who loves so well
The nectar'd bowl, the choral swell !
Him, who instructs the sons of earth
To thrid the tangled dance of mirth ;
Him, who was nurs'd with infant Love,
And cradled in the Paphiun grove ;
Him, that the snowy Queen of Charms
Has fondled in her twining arms.
From him that dream of transport flows,
Which sweet intoxication knows ;
With him, the brow forgets to darkle,
And brilliant graces learn to sparkle.
Behold ! my boys a goblet bear,
Whose sunny foam bedews the air.
Where are now the tear, the sigh ?
To the winds they fly, they fly 1
THE ODES OF ANACKEON. 329
Grasp the bowl ; in nectar sinking
Man of sorrow, drown thy thinking !
Oh ! can the tears we lend to thought
In life's account avail us aught ?
Can we discern, with all our lore,
The path we're yet to journey o'er?
No, no ! the walk of life is dark ;
'Tis wine alone can strike a spark 1
Then let me quaff the foamy tide,
And through the dance meandering glide ;
Let me imbibe the spicy breath
Of odours chaf d to fragrant death ;
To souls that court the phantom Care,
Let him retire and shroud him there ;
While we exhaust the nectar'd bowl,
And swell the choral song of soul
To him, the god who loves so well
The nectar'd bowl, the choral swell !
ODE XXXVIII.
(The 47 th in Barnes?)
How I love the festive boy, ^
Tripping wild the dance of joy !
How I love the mellow sage,
Smiling through the veil of ago !
And whene'er this man of years
In the dance of joy appears,
Age is on his temples hung,
But his heart his heart is young !
ODE XXXIX.
ETS/SKJ fiporo;
(The 24f& in Barnes.)
I KNOW that Heaven ordains me hero,
To run this mortal life's career ;
The scenes which I have journied o'er,
Keturn no more alas ! no more ;
S30 MOORE'S POEM&.
And all the path I've yet to go,
I neither know nor ask to know.
Then surely, Care, thou canst not twiuu
Thy fetters round a soul like mine;
No, no ! the heart that feels with me,
Can never be a slave to thee !
And oh ! before the vital thrill,
Which trembles at my heart, is still,
I'll gather Joy's luxuriant flowers,
And gild with bliss my fading hours ;
Bacchus shall bid my winter bloom,
And Venus dance me to the tomb !
ODE XL.
Tt KOthOlt SffTl
(The 66th in Barnes.)
WHEN Spring begems the dewy scene,
How sweet to walk the velvet green,
And hear the Zephyr's languid sighs,
As o'er the scented mead he flies !
How sweet to mark the pouting vine,
Eeady to fall in tears of wine ;
Where the imbowering branches meet
Oh ! is not this divinely sweet '?
ODE XLI.
Ilodsa ff.es/
(The 42d m Barnes.)
YES, be the glorious revel mine,
Where humour sparkles from the wine J
Around me, let the youthful choir
Eespond to my beguiling lyre ;
And while the red cup circles round,
Mingle in soul as well as sound !
My soul, to festive feeling true,
One pang of envy never knew ;
And little has it learn'd to dread
The gall that Envy's tongue can shed.
THE ODES 01 ANACREON. 331
Away I hate the slanderous dart,
Which steals to woiind th' unwary heart
And oh ! I hate, with all my soul,
Discordant clamours o'er the bowl,
Where every cordial heart should be
Attun'd to peace and harmony.
Come, let us hear the soul of song
Expire the silver harp along ;
Thus simply happy, thus at peace,
Sure such a life should never ceaso 1
ODE XLII.
(The 6th in Barnes.)
WHILE our rosy fillets shed
Blushes o'er each fervid head,
With many a cup and many a smile
The festal moments we beguile.
And while the harp, impassion'd, flings
Tuneful rapture from the strings,
Some airy nymph, with fluent limbs,
Through the dance luxuriant swims,
Waving, in her snowy hand,
The leafy Bacchanalian wand,
Which, as the tripping wanton flies,
Shakes its tresses to her sighs !
A youth the while, with loosen'd hair,
Floating on the listless air,
Sings, to the wild harp's tender tone,
A tale of woes, alas ! his own ;
And then what nectar in his sigh,
As o'er his lip the murmurs die I
Surely never yet has been
So divine, so blest a scene !
Has Cupid left the starry sphere,
To wave his golden tresses here ?
Oh yes ! and Venus, queen of wiles,
And" Bacchus, shedding rcey smiles,
All, all are here, to hail with me
The genius of festivity I
882 MOORE'S POEMS.
ODE XLIII.
To gofioj/ TO tuv tparav.
(The 5th in Sanies.)
Bros of roses, virgin flowers,
Cull'd from Cupid's balmy bowers,
In the bowl of Bacchus steep,
Till with crimson drops they weep !
Twine the rose, the garland twine,
Every leaf distilling wine ;
Drink and smile, and learn to think
That we were born to smile and drink.
Hose ! thou art the sweetest flower
That ever drank the amber shower ;
Rose ! thou art the fondest child
Of dimpled Spring, the wood-nymph wild !
E'en the gods, who walk the sky,
Are amorous of thy scented sigh.
Cupid too, in Paphian shades,
His hair with rosy fillet braids,
Then bring me, showers of roses bring,
And shed them round me while I sing.
ODE XLIV.
'TtlVdi TOV OIVOV-
(The 25f/4 in Barnes.)
WITHIN this goblet, rich and deep,
I cradle all my woes to sleep.
Why should we breathe the sigh of fear,
Or pour the unavailing tear ?
For death will never heed the sigh,
Nor soften at the tearful eye ;
And eyes that sparkle, eyes that weep,
Must all alike be sealed in sleep ;
Then let us never vainly stray,
In search of thorns, from pleasure's way ;
Oh ! let us quaff the rosy wave,
Which Bacchus loves, which Bacchus gave;
And in the goblet, rich and deep,
Cradle our crying woes to sleep !
THE DDKS OF ANACREON. 838
ODE XLV.
IBs, ira$ expos (potvsvTo;.
(The olth in Barnes.)
SEE the young, the rosy Spring,
Gives to the breeze her spangled wing ;
"While virgin Graces, warm with May,
Fling roses o'er her dewy way !
The murmuring billows of the deep
Have languished into silent sleep ;
And mark! the flitting sea-birds lave
Their plumes in the reflecting wave ;
While cranes from hoary winter fly
To flutter in a kinder sky.
Now the genial star of day
Dissolves the murky clouds away ;
And cultur'd field, and winding stream,
Are sweetly tissued by his beam.
Now the earth prolific swells
"With leafy buds and flowery bells ;
Gemming shoots the olive twine,
Clusters ripe festoon the vine ;
All along the branches creeping,
Through the velvet foliage peeping.
Little infant fruits we see
Nursing into luxury !
ODE XL VI.
EydJ yspuv psy siftt.
(The 3Sf/4 in Barnes.)
'Tis true, my fading years decline,
Yet I can quaff the brimming wine,
As deep as any stripling fair,
Whose cheeks the flush of morning wear ;
And if, amidst the merry crew,
I'm call'd to wind the dance's clue,
Thou shalt behold tin's vigorous hand,
Not faltering on the Bacchant's wand,
But brandishing a rosy flask,
The only thyrsus e'er I'll ask 1
334 MOORE'S POEMS.
Let those who pant for Glory's charms,
Embrace her in the Held of arms ;
While my inglorious, placid soul
Breathes not a wish beyond the bowl.
Then fill it high, my ruddy slave,
And bathe me in its honied wave !
For though my fading years decay,
And though my bloom has pass'd away,
Like old Silenus, sire divine,
With blushes borrow'd from my wine,
I'll mingle 'mid the dancing train,
And live my follies all again !
ODE XL VI I.
(The 26th in Barnes.)
WHEN my thirsty soul I steep,
Every sorrow's lull'd to sleep.
Talk of mouarchs ! I am then
Eichest, happiest, first of men ;
Careless o'er my cu-p I sing,
Fancy makes me more than king ;
Gives me wealthy Croesus' store,
Can I, can I wish for more ?
On my velvet couch reclining,
Ivy leaves my brow entwining,
While my soul dilates with glee,
What are kings and crowns to me?
If before my feet they lay,
I would spurn them all away !
Arm you, arm you, men of might,
Hasten to the sanguine fight ;
Let me, oh my budding vine,
Spill no other blood than thine.
Yonder brimming goblet see,
That alone shall vanquish me.
Oh ! I think it sweeter far
To fall in banquet than in war
THE ODES OF ANACREON. 336
ODE XLVIII.
Toy Ato; 6 wo
(The 27th in Barnes.)
WHEN Bacchus, Jove's immortal boy,
The rosy harbinger of joy,
"Who, with the sunshine of the bowl,
Thaws the winter of our soul ;
When to my inmost core he glides,
And bathes it with his ruby tides,
A flow of joy, a lively heat,
Fires my brain, and wings my feet !
'Tis surely something sweet, I think.
Nay, something heavenly sweet, to drink !
ODE XLIX.
Or e f /6) 'Tria TOV
(The Mth in Barnes.)
WHEN I drink, I feel, I feel,
Visions of poetic zeal !
Warm with the goblet's fresh'ning dews,
My heart invokes the heavenly Muso.
When I drink, my sorrow's o'er ;
I think of doubts and fears no more ;
But scatter to the railing wind
Each gloomy phantom of the mind !
When I drink, the jesting boy
Bacchus himself partakes my joy ;
And while we dance through breathing boxvurs,
Whose every gale is rich witli flowers,
In bowls he makes my senses swim,
Till the gale breathes of nought but him !
When I drink, I deftly twine
Flowers, begem 'd with tears of wine ;
And, while with festive hand I spread
The smiling garland round my head,
Something whispers in my breast.
How sweet it is to live at rest!
When I drink, my heart refiner
And rises as the cup declines ;
Rises in the genial flow,
330 MOORE S POEMS.
That none but social spirits know,
When youthful revellers, round the bowl^
Dilating, mingle soul with soul I
When I drink, the bliss is mine ;
There's bliss in every drop of wine !
All other joys that I have known,
I've scarcely dar'd to call my own ;
But this the Fates can ne'er destroy,
Till death o'ershadows all my joy I
ODE L.
M>? fte (pvyyi; opaocc.
(The 54th in Barnes.)
FLY not thus my brow of snow,
Lovely woman ! fly not so.
Though the wane of age is mine,
Though the brilliant flush is thino,
Still I'm doom 'd- to sigh for thee,
Blest, if thou couldst sigh for me !
See, in yonder flowery braid,
Cull'd for thee, my blushing maid.
How the rose, of orient glow,
Mingles with the lily's snow ;
Mark, how sweet their tints agree,
Just, my girl, like thee and me 1
ODE LI.
T/ ^6 TOV$ VOflO
(The 3Gth in Barnes.)
AWAY, away, you men of rules,
What have I to do with schools ?
They'd make me learn, they'd make me think,
But would they make me love and drink ?
Teach me this ; and let me swim
My soul upon the goblet's brim ;
Age begins to blanch my brow,
I've time for nought but pleasure now.
-. :
; , aimling .n i
X iwiin- lJn> bcraicL
iutik of s-ommers lose
eon |i 137
THE ODES OF ANACRKON. 387
Fly, and cool my goblet's glow
At yonder fountain's gelid flow ;
I'll quaff, my boy, and calmly sink
This soul to slumber as I drink I
Soon, too soon, my jocund slave,
You'll deck your master's grassy grave ;
And there's an end for ah! you know
They drink but little wine below 1
ODE LII.
Or ya veav
(The 54th in Barnes.)
WHEN I behold the festive train
Of dancing youth, I'm young again!
Memory wakes her magic trance,
And wings me lightly through the dance.
Come, Cybeba, smiling maid !
Cull the flower and twine the braid ;
Bid the blush of summer's rose
Burn upon my brow of snows ;
And let me, while the wild and young
Trip the mazy dance along,
Fling my heap of years away,
And be as wild, as young as they.
Hither haste, some cordial soul !
Give my lips the brimming bowl ;
Oh ! you will see this hoary sage
Forget his locks, forget his age.
He still can chant the festive hymn,
He still can kiss the goblet's brim.
ODE LIU.
rotvpog ovrog a TTXI.
(The 35th in Barnes.)
METHINKS, the pictur'd bull we B^H
Is amorous Jove it must be he !
How fondly blest he seems to boar
That fairest of Phoenician fair !
MOORE'S POEMS.
How proud he breasts the foamy tide,
And spurns the billowy surge aside!
Could any beast of vulgar vein,
Undaunted thus defy the main ?
No : he descends from climes above,
He looks the god, he breathes of Jove !
ODE LIV.
(The 53d in Barnes.)
WHILE we invoke the wreathed Spring,
Resplendent rose ! to thee we'll sing ;
Resplendent rose, the flower of flowers,
"Whose breath perfumes Olympus' bowers ;
Whose virgin blush, of chasten'd dye,
Knchants so much our mortal eye.
When pleasure's bloomy season glows,
The Graces love to twine the rose ;
The rose his warm Dione's bliss,
And flushes like Dione's kiss !
Oft has the poet's magic tongue
The rose's fair luxuriance sung ;
And long the Muses, heavenly maids,
Have rear'd it in their tuneful shades^
When, at the early glance of morn,
It sleeps upon the glittering thorn,
'Tis sweet to dare the tangled fence,
To cull the timid flow'ret thence.
And wipe with tender hand away
The tear that on its blushes lay !
'Tis sweet to hold the infant stems,
Yet dropping with Aurora's gems,
And fresh inhale the spicy sighs
That from the weeping buds arise.
When revel reigns, when mirth is high,
And Bacchus beams in every eye,
Our rosy fillets scent exhale,
And fill with balm the fainting gale!
Oh ! there is nought in nature bright,
Where roses do not shed their light !
When morning paints the orient skieu,
Her fingers burn with roseate dies ;
THE ODES OF ANACREON. 838
The nymphs display the rose's charms,
It mantles o'er their graceful arms ;
Through Cytherea's form it glows,
And mingles with the living snows.
The rose distils a healing balm,
The beating pulse of pain to calm ;
Preserves the cold inurned clay,
And mocks the vestige of decay.
And when at length, in pale decline,
Its florid beauties fade and pine,
Sweet as in youth, its balmy breath
Diffuses odour e'en in death !
Oh ! whence could sTicli a plant have sprung?
Attend for thus the tale is sung.
When, humid, from the silvery stream,
Effusing beauty's warmest beam,
Venus appear'd, in flushing hues,
Mellow'd by ocean's briny dews ;
When, in the starry courts above,
The pregnant brain of mighty Jovo
Diselos'd the nymph of azure glance,
The nymph who shakes the martial lance !
Then, then, in strange eventful hour,
The earth produc'd an infant flower,
Which sprung, with blushing tinctures drest
And wanton'd o'er its parent breast.
The gods beheld this brilliant birth,
And hail'd the Rose, the boon of earth !
With nectar drops, a ruby tide,
The sweetly orient buds they dyed,
And bade them bloom, the flowers divine
Of him who sheds the teeming vine ;
And bade them on the spangled thorn
Expand their bosoms to the morn.
ODE LV
O TOJ> tV 7TOJ/0/; XT&tplf).
(The >Qth in Barnes.)
HE, who instructs the youthful crew
To bathe them in the brimmer's dew,
And taste, undoy'd by rich excesses,
All the bliss that wine possesses!
340 MOORE'S POEMS.
He, who inspires the youth to glance
In winged circlets through the dance ;
Bacchus, the god again is here,
And leads along the blushing year;
The blushing year with rapture teems,
Heady to shed those cordial streams,
Which, sparkling in the cup of mirth,
Illuminate the sons of earth !
And when the ripe and vermil wine,
Sweet infant of the pregnant vine,
Which now in mellow clusters swells,
Oh ! when it bursts its rosy cells,
The heavenly stream shall mantling flow,
To balsam every mortal woe !
No youth shall then be wan or weak,
For dimpling health shall light the cheek;
No heart shall then desponding sigh,
For wine shall bid despondence fly !
Thus till another autumn's glow
Shall bid another vintage flow 1
ODE LVI.
Ap Ti; ropsvffi
(The 51st in Barnes)
AND whose immortal hand could shed
Upon this disk the ocean's bed?
And, in a frenzied flight of soul
Sublime as heaven's eternal pole,
Imagine thus, in semblance warm,
The Queen of Love's voluptuous form
Floating along the silvery sea
In beauty's glorious majesty !
Light as the leaf, that summer's breeze
Has wafted o'er the glassy seas,
She floats upon the ocean's breast,
Which undulates in sleepy rest,
And stealing on, she gently pillows
Her bosom on the dancing billows.
Her bosom, like the humid rose,
Her neck, like dewy-sparkling snows,
Illume the liquid path she traces,
And burn within the stream's embraces!
THE ODES OP ANACREON. 841
In languid luxury soft she glides,
Encircled by the azure tides,
Like some fair lily, faint with weeping
Upon a bed of violets sleeping !
Beneath their queen's inspiring glance,
The dolphins o'er the green sea dance,
While, sparkling on the silver waves,
The tenants of the briny caves
Around the pomp in eddies play,
And gleam along the watery way.
ODE LVII.
(The G5th in Barnes.)
WHEN gold, as fleet as zephyr's pinion,
Escapes like any faithless minion,
And flies me (as he flies me ever),
Do I pursue him? never, never 1
No, let the false deserter go,
For who would court his direst foe ?
But, when I feel my lighten 'd mind
No more by ties of gold confin'd,
I loosen all my clinging cares,
And cast them to the vagrant airs.
Then, then I feel the Muse's spell,
And wake to life the dulcet shell ;
The dulcet shell to beauty sings,
And love dissolves along the strings !
Thus, when my heart is sweetly taught
How little gold deserves a thought,
The winged slave returns once more,
And with him wafts delicious store
Of racy wine, whose balmy art
In slumber seals the anxious heart !
Again he tries my soul to sever
From love and song, perhaps for ever !
Away, deceiver ! why pursuing
Ceaseless thus my heart's undoing?
Sweet is the song of loving fire ;
Sweet are the sighs that thrill the lyre ;
Oh ! sweeter far than all the gold
The waftage of thy wings can hold.
I well remember all thy wiles ;
They wither'd Cupid's flowery smiles,
842 MOORE'S POEMS.
And o'er hia harp such garbage shed,
I thought its aiigel breath was fled !
They tainted all his bowl of blisses,
His bland desires and hallow'd kiases.
Oh ! fly to haunts of sordid men,
But rove not near the bard again !
Thy glitter in the Muse's shade,
Scares from her bower the tuneful maid ;
And not for worlds would I forego
That moment of poetic glow,
"When my full soul, in Fancy's stream.
Pours o'er the lyre its swelling theme.
Away, away ! to worldlings hence,
"Who feel not this diviner sense,
And with thy gay, fallacious blaze,
Dazzle their unrefined gaze.
ODE LYIII.
Tov ftshavoxparot fiorpw.
(The 52d in Barnes.)
SABIED by the solar beam,
Now the fiery clusters toem,
In osier baskets, borne along
By all the festal vintage throng
Of rosy youths and virgins fair,
Ripe as the melting fruits they bear.
Now, now they press the pregnant grapes,
And now the captive stream escapes,
In fervid tide of nectar gushing,
And for its bondage proudly blushing !
While round the vat's impurpled brim,
The choral song, the vintage hymn
Of rosy youths and virgins fair,
Steals on the cloy'd and panting air.
Mark, how they drink, with all their eyes,
The orient tide that sparkling flies ;
The infant balm of all their fears,
The infant Bacchus, born in tears !
When ho, whose verging years decline
As deep into the vale as mine,
When he inhales the vintage-spring,
His heart is fire, his foot's a wing ;
And as he flies, his hoary hair
Plays truant with the wanton air 1
THE ODES OF ANACKEON.
ODE LIX.
Avcc. fiaptsiT
(The 64t/j, in Barnes.)
AWAKE to life, my dulcet shell,
To Phoebus all thy sighs shall swell ;
And though no glorious prize be thine,
No Pythian wreath around thee twine,
Yet every hour is glory's hour
To him who gathers wisdom's flower !
Then wake thee from thy magic slumbers,
Breathe to the soft and Phrygian numbers^
"Which, as my trembling lips repeat,
Thy chords shall echo back as sweet.
The cygnet thus, with fading notes,
As down Cayster's tide he floats,
Plays with his snowy plumage fair
Upon the wanton murmuring air,
Which amorously lingers round,
And sighs responsive sound for sound!
Muse of the Lyre ! illume my dream,
Thy Phoebus is my fancy's dream ;
And hallow'd is the harp I bear,
And hallow'd is the wreath I wear,
Hallow'd by him, the god of lays,
Who modulates the choral maze !
I sing the love which Daphne twin'd
Around the godhead's yielding mind ;
I sing the blushing Daphne's flight
From this aethereal youth of light ;
And how the tender, timid maid
Flew panting to the kindly shade,
Resigu'd a form, too tempting fair,
And grew a verdant laurel there ;
Whose leaves, with sympathetic thrill,
In terror seem'd to tremble still !
The god pursu'd, with wing'd desire;
And when his hopes were all on fire,
He only heard the pensive air
Whispering ;uni<l her leafy hair!
But, oh my soul ! no more no more !
Enthusiast, whither do I soar?
This sweetljr-mad'uing dream of soul
Has hurried me beyond the goal.
344 MOOKK'S POEMS.
Why should I sing the mighty darts
Which fly to wound celestial hearts,
When sure the lay, with sweeter tone,
Can tell the darts that wound my own ?
Still be Anacreon, still inspire
The descant of the Teian lyre :
Still let the nectar'd numbers float,
Distilling love in every note !
And when the youth, whose burning soid
Has felt the Paphian star's control,
When he the liquid lays shall hear,
His heart will flutter to his ear,
And drinking there of song divine,
Banquet on intellectual wine 1
ODE LX.
IIoX/o; ftsv yjftti/ j^5.
(Tlie 56t/i in Barnes.)
GOLDEN hues of youth are fled ;
Hoary locks deform rny head.
Bloomy graces, dalliance gay,
All the flowers of life decay.
Withering ago begins to trace
Sad memorials o'er my face ;
Time has shed its sweetest bloom,
All the future must be gloom !
This awakes my hourly sighing ;
Dreary is the thought of dying !
Pluto's is a dark abode,
Sad the journey, sad the road :
And, the gloomy travel o'er,
Ah I we can return no more !
ODE LXI.
Ays B-/J, *psp nftiv, a TTCII.
(The 57th in Barnes.)
FILL me, boy, as deep a draught,
As e'er was fill'd, as e'er was quaifd ;
THE ODES OF ANACREON. 3-15
But let the water amply flow,
To cool the grape's intemperate glow ;
For though the bowl's the grave of sadness,
Oh ! be it ne'er the birth of madness !
No, banish from our board to-uight
The revelries of rude delight !
To Scythians leave these wild excesses,
Ours be the joy that soothes and blesses !
And while the temperate bowl we wreathe,
Our choral hymns shall sweetly breathe,
Beguiling every hour along
With harmony of soul and song 1
ODE LXII.
Toy EpaTct, yap rov a.%poi/.
(The 58th in Barnes.)
To Love, the soft and blooming child,
I touch the harp in descant wild ;
To Love, the babe of Cyprian bowers,
The boy, who breathes and blushes flowers}
To Love, for heaven and earth adore him,
And gods and mortals bow before him !
ODE LXIII.
(The 60*/i in Barnes)
HASTE thee, nymph, whose winged spear
Wounds the fleeting mountain-deer !
Dian, Jove's immortal child,
Huntress of the savage wild !
Goddess with the sun-bright hair!
Listen to a people's prayer.
Turn, to Lethe's river, turn,
There thy vanquished people mourn!
Come to Lethe's wavy shore,
There thy people's pmce restore.
Thine their hearts, their altars thine ;
Dian! must they must they pine?
546
ODE LXIV.
o' OVT av
(The 68th in Barnes.)
RICH in bliss, I proudly scorn
The stream of Amaltliea's horn !
Ncr should I ask to call the throne
Of the Tartessian prince ray own ;
To totter through his train of years,
The victim of declining fears.
One little hour of joy to me
Is worth a dull eternity 1
ODE LXV.
(The IGth and 81st in Barnes.)
Now Neptune's sullen month appears,
The angry night-cloud swells with tears ;
And savage storms, infuriate driven,
Fly howling in the face of heaven !
Now, now, my friends, the gathering gloom
With roseate rays of wine illume :
And while our wreaths of parsley spread
Their fadeless foliage round our head,
We'll hymn th' almighty power of wine,
And shed libations on his shrine !
ODE LXVI.
(The Ibth, 82d, and 8Sd in Barnes.)
THEY wove the lotus band to deck,
And fan with pensile wreath their neck ;
And every guest, to shade his head,
Three little breathing chaplets spread ;
And one was of Egyptian leaf,
The rest were roses, fair and brief !
While from a golden vase profound,
To all on flowery beds around,
A goblet-nymph, of heavenly shape,
Pour'd the rich weepings of the grape I
..J
"1.
THE ODES OF ANACREON. 847
ODE LXVII.
(The 8Qth in Barnes.)
A BROKEN cake, with, honey sweet,
Is all my spare and simple treat ;
And while a generous bowl I crown
To float my little banquet down,
I take the soft, the amorous lyre,
And sing of love's entrancing fire !
In mirthful measures, light and free,
I sing, dear maid, and sing for thee I
ODE LXVIII.
(The 8ith and 85th in Barnes.)
WITH twenty chords my lyre is hunjr.
And while I wake them all for thee.
Thou, virgin, wild and young,
Disport'st in airy levity.
The nursling fawn, that in some shade
Its autler'd mother leaves behind,
Is not more wantonly afraid,
More timid of the rustling wind I
ODE LXIX.
(The 81th in Barnes.)
FARE-thee-well, perfidious maid !
My soul, too long on earth delay'd,
Delay'd, perfidious girl ! by thee,
Is now on wing for liberty.
I fly to seek a kindlier sphere,
Since thou hast eeas'd to love me here I
348 MOORE'S POEMS.
ODE LXX.
(The 89th in Barnes.)
I BLOOM'D awhile, a happy flower,
Till Love approach 'd one fatal hour,
And made my tender branches feel
The wounds of his avenging steel.
Then, then, I feel, like some poor willow
That tosses on the wintry billow 1
ODE LXXI.
(The 93d in Barnes)
MONAECH Love ! resistless boy,
With whom the rosy Queen of Joy,
And nymphs, that glance ethereal blue,
Disporting tread the mountain-dew ;
Propitious, oh ! receive my sighs,
Which, burning with entreaty, rise,
That thou wilt whisper to the breast
Of her I love, thy soft behest ;
And counsel her to learn from thee
The lesson thou hast taught to me.
Ah ! if my heart no flattery tell,
Thou'lt own I've learu'd that lesson well 1
ODE LXXII.
(The 101st in Barnes.)
SPIRIT of Love, whose tresses shine
Along the breeze, in golden twine ;
Come, within a fragrant cloud,
Blushing with light, thy votary shroud ;
And, on those wings that sparkling play,
Waft, oh ! waft me hence away 1
Love ! my soul is full of thee,
Alive to all thy luxury.
But she, the nyinpii tor whom I glow,
The pretty Lesbian, mocks my woe ;
Smiles at the hoar and silver'd hues
Which Time upon my forehead strews.
THE ODES OF ANACKEON. 849
ODE LXXIII.
(The 119th and 12<ith in Barnes.)
HITHER, gentle Muse of mine,
Come and teach thy votary old,
Many a golden hymn divine,
For the nymph with vest of gold.
Pretty nymph, of tender age,
Fair thy silky locks unfold ;
Listen to a hoary sage,
Sweetest maid with vest of gold !
ODE LXXIV.
WOULD that I were a tuneful lyre,
Of burnish 'd ivory fair ;
Which, in the Dionysian choir,
Some blooming boy should bear I
Would that I were a golden vase,
And then some nymph should hold
My spotless frame, with blushing grace,
Herself as pure as gold 1
ODE LXXV.
(The md in Barnes).
WHEN Cupid sees my beard of snow,
Which blanching Time has taught to flow,
Upon his wing of golden light
He passes with an eaglet's flight,
And flitting on he seems to say,
Fare-thee-well, thou'sthad thy day!"
ODE LXXVI.
(The 125/t in Barnes.)
CUPID, whose lamp has lent the ray,
Which lightens our meandering way
Cupid, within my bosom stealing,
Excites a strange and mingled feeling,
Which pleases, though severely teasing,
And teases, though divinely pleasing !
350 MOORE'S POEMS.
ODE LXXVII.
(The 69th in Barnes.)
LET me resign a wretched breath,
Since now remains to me
No other balm than kindly death
To soothe my misery !
ODE LXXVIII.
(The lid in Barnes.)
I KNOW thou lov'st a brimming measure,
And art a kindly, cordial host ;
But let me fill and drink at pleasure,
Thus I enjoy the goblet most.
ODE LXXIX.
(The 95tA in Barnes)
I FEAK that love disturbs my rest,
Yet feel not love's impassion'd care ;
I think there's. madness in my breast,
Yet cannot find that madness there
ODE LXXX.
(The 123d in Barnes.)
FEOM dread Leucadia's frowning steep,
I'll plunge into the whitening deep :
And there I'll float to waves resign'd,
For love intoxicates my mind !
ODE LXXXI.
Mix me, child, a cup divine,
Crystal water, ruby wine :
"Weave the frontlet, richly flushing,
O'er my wintry temples blushing.
Mix the brimmer Love and 1
Shall no more the gauntlet try.
Here upon this holy bowl,
I surrender all my soul !
AN ODE BY THE TRANSLATOR. 351
ODE BY THE TRANSLATOR.
EH I (HjllVOlC rXTTYlfft.
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n xxt ~h.VQito
xvrou 61 '
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O SH Asyxct
aw gooifft -rXso
tyav ytpovroc,"
H 2?
Sl'TTS'
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Toy aoQu
Kot'hsovffii/ 61
T;, yepay, rsoy fiiov pi
To/f fpaffi, ra Avxia,
K' ovx. epoi xpxrety
T; fyl'hYlpX TTfi;
T; x.v'Trs'h'hx rov Avxtov,
Aiet y frpvtpriffx;
Ovx tftovg voftov$
OVX, ffiOy "hX-fcUV XCiTTOV \
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y x.x'hay
Sg rspwx
flQS fiitoTOV
fyfhtu'j f4,x7:iaTX K
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T(g (jotpurtoos psy ton ;
852 MOORE'S POEMS.
EPIGEAMS OF THE ANTHOLOGIA,
[AMONG the Epigrams of the Anthologia, there are some panegyrics on
Anacreon, which I had translated, and originally intended as a kind of
Coronis to the work ; but I found, upon consideration, that they wanted
variety; a frequent recurrence of the same thought, within the limits of
an epitaph, to which they are confined, would render a collection of them
rather uninteresting. 1 shall take the liberty, however, of subjoining a
few, that I may not appear to have totally neglected those elegant tributes
to the reputation of Anacreon. The four epigrams which I give are im-
puted to Antipater Sidonius. They are rendered, perhaps, with too much
freedom; but, designing a translation of all that are on the ouhject, I
imagined it was necessary to enliven their uniformity by sometimes
Indulging in the liberties of paraphrase.]
tig
Ti Xn^tavcav
' Kpyivoivros a.vtt.fXioiv<ro ytx.XKx.To;,
rt KOU oa<r<at.
<p/Xs, f-.upGi'ro*, ta cruv o-.oica,
xcti ffuv tocari fttov.
AROTTND the tomb, oh bard divine !
Where soft thy hallow'd brow reposes,
Long may the deathless ivy twine,
And summer pour her waste of roses !
And many a fount shall there distil,
And many a rill refresh the flowers ;
But wine shall gush in every rill,
And every fount be milky showers.
Thus, shade of him, whom Nature taught
To tune his lyre and soul to pleasure,
Who gave to love his warmest thought,
Who gave to love his fondest measure !
Thus, after death, if spirits feel,
Thou may'st, from odours round thee streaming,
A pulse of past enjoyment steal,
And live again in blissful dreaming I
EPIGRAMS OF THE ANTHOLOGTA. 353
Toy osyroy, ei$ rov otvrov.
AvKxpiiMTog. o Tv't'o; ivSotS
Xtipioivri [AiXt^zTKi ix.fjt,<fi
^OC' X.KI xnrirov XtuKo;
l'^ns 001 tpUTO.S tt.Tl<7&<ITiV IV !>'
HEEE sleeps Anacreon, in tliis ivied shade ;
Here, mute in death, the Teian swan is laid.
And yet. oh Bard ! thou art not mute in death,
Still, still we catch thy lyre's delicious breath ;
And still thy songs of soft Bathylla bloom,
Green as the ivy round the mouldering tomb!
Nor yet has death obscur'd thy fire of love,
Still, still it lights thee thro' the Elysian grove ;
And dreams are thine, that ble.ss th' elect alone,
And Venus calls thee ev'n in death her own !
Toy XVTOV, tt$ roif xvrov.
Em, rottpov ffu.yx. ^irov Avoixgsiotros U
"Ei Tt ~oi X ,G/x&v yjXQiv UL
"Sivrnffov if^.^1 fftfootri, ffTiitrov ya.vo;^ otygtx xiv
OffTiot. ynQvffS rap*, vongofAtiu,
a.X%OU I%K TOUTOV 11-ffOlffU
Tov
OH stranger ! if Anacreon 's shell
Has ever taught thy heart to swell
"With passion's throb or pleasure's sigh,
In pity turn, as wandering nigh,
And drop thy goblet's richest tear
In exquisite libation here !
So shall my sleeping ashes thrill
With visions of enjoyment still.
854 MOORE'S POEMS.
I cannot ev'n in death resign
The festal joys that once were mine,
"When Harmony pursu'd my ways,
And Bacchus listened to my lays.
Oh ! if delight could charm no more,
If all the goblet's bliss were o'er,
When fate had once our doom decreed,
Then dying would be death indeed !
Nor could I think, unblest by wine,
Divinity itself divine !
Toy CX.VTOV, ei; TOV XVTQU.
EUUS iv <p0iu.fvoitrtv, Avoixgta
tv $/ ' fi y\vK<^Yt vuxriZ.tt.Xos
IVOlt XKI 'SfJLi^Slg, TO Tiofuv tXP, U ffV (A
tZugSir, KVfxgovou vixr(x./> ivagp
q'idtov ye*,/) Eguro; i<f>vg ffxowo?- tg
TO^K Tl XKI (rXoXltoS II%IV \X)]oXlKf.
AT length thy golden hours have wing'd their flight,
And drowsy death that eyelid steepeth ;
Thy harp, that whisper'd through each lingering night.
Now mutely in oblivion sleepeth !
She too, for whom that harp profusely shed
The purest nectar of its numbers,
She, the young spring of thy desires, has fled,
And with her blest Anacreon slumbers !
Farewell ! thou hudst a pulse for every dart
That Love could scatter from his quiver ;
And every woman found in thee a heart,
Which thou, with aJ ( thy soul, could 'st give her !
THE TWOPENNY POST-BAG,
INTERCEPTED LETTERS.
PREFACE.
THE Bag, from which the following Letters are selected, was
dropped by a Twopenny Postman about two months since, and
picked up by an emissary of the Society for the S-pp ss n of
V e, who, supposing it might materially assist the private re-
searches of that Institution, immediately took it to his employers,
and was rewarded handsomely for his trouble. Such a treasury
of secrets was worth a whole host of informers ; and, accordingly,
like the Cupids of the poet (if I may use so profane a simile) who
" fell at odds about the sweet-bag of a bee,''* those venerable
Suppressors almost fought with each other for the honour and
delight of first ransacking the Post-Bag. Unluckily, however, it
turned out upon examination, that the discoveries of profligacy
which it enabled them to make, lay chiefly in those upper regions
of society, which their well-bred regulations forbid them to molest
or meddle with. In consequence, they gained but very few vic-
tims by their prize, and, after lying for a week or two under Mr
H-tch d's counter, the Bag, with its violated contents, was sold
for a trifle to a friend of mine.
It happened that I had been just then seized with an ambition
(having never tried the strength of my wing but in a Newspaper)
to publish something or other in the shape of a Book ; and it
occurred to me that, the present being such a letter-writing era,
a few of these Twopenny Post Epistles, turned into easy verse,
would be as light and popular a task as I could possibly select for
a commencement. I did not think it prudent, however, to give
too many Letters at first, and, accordingly, have been obliged (in
order to eke out a sufficient number of pages) to reprint some o
those TRIFLES, which had already appeared in the public jour-
nals. As in the battles of ancient times, the shades of the de-
parted were sometimes seen among the combatants, so I thought
* Hcnick.
356 MOORE'S POEMS.
I might remedy the thinness of my ranks, by conjuring up a few
dead and forgotten ephemerons to fill them.
Such are the motives and accidents that led to the present pub-
lication ; and as this is the first time my Muse has ever ventured
out of the go-cart of a Newspaper, though I feel all a parent'**
delight at seeing little Miss go alone, 1 am also not without a
parent's anxiety, lest an unlucky fall should be the consequence
of the experiment ; and I need not point out the many living in-
stances there are, of Muses that have suffered severely in their
heads, from taking too early and rashly to their feet. Besides, a
Book is so very different a thing from a Newspaper ! in the for-
mer, your doggerel, without either company or shelter, must
stand shivering in the middle of a bleak white page by itself ;
whereas, in the latter, it is comfortably backed by advertise-
ments, and has sometimes even a speech of Mr St-ph-n's, or
something equally warm, for a chauffe-pie', so that, in general,
the^very reverse of " laudatur et dlgef" is its destiny.
Ambition, however, must run some risks, and I shall be very
well satisfied if the reception of these few Letters should have
the effect of sending me to the Post-Bag for more.
LETTER I.
FKOM THE PB-NC-SS CH E OF W -S TO THE LADY
B KB A A SHL Y.*
MY dear Lady Bab, you'll be shock'd, I'm afraid,
When you hear the sad rumpus your ponies have made ;
Since the time of horse-consuls (now long out of date)
No nags ever made such a stir in the state !
Lord Eld-n first heard and as instantly pray'd he
To God and his King that a Popish young lady
(For though you've bright eyes and twelve thousand a year,
It is still but too true you're a Papist, my dear)
Had insidiously sent, by a tall Irish groom,
Two priest-ridden ponies, just landed from Rome,
And so full, little rogues, of pontifical tricks,
That the dome of St Paul's was scarce safe from their kicks j
Off at once to papa, in a flurry, he flies
For papa always does what these statesmen advise,
On condition that they'll be, in turn, so polite
As, in no case whate'er, to advise him too right
" Pretty doings are here, Sir (he angrily cries,
While by dint of dark eyebrows he strives to look wise),
" 'Tis a scheme of the Romanists,
* This young lady, who is a Roman Catholic, has lately made a present
of some beautiful ponies to the Pr-nc-sa,
THE TW^l'ENNY POST-BAQ. 357
To ride over your most Royal Highness roughshod
Excuse, Sir, my tears they're from loyalty's scource
Bad enough 'twas for Troy to be sack'd by a horse,
But for us to be ruin'd by ponies still worse I"
Quick a Council is call'd the whole Cabinet sits
The Archbishops declare, frighten 'd out of their wits.
That if vile Popish ponies should eat at my manger,
From that awful moment the Church is in danger !
As, give them but stabling, and shortly no stalls
Will suit their proud stomachs but.those atSt Paul's.
The Docter and he, the devout Man of Leather,
V-ns-tt t, now laying their saint-heads .together,
Declare that these skittish young a-bominations
Are clearly foretold in chap. vi. Revelations
Nay, they verily think they could point out the one
Which the Doctor's friend Death was to canter upon !
Lord H-rr by, hoping that no one imputes
To the Court any fancy to persecute brutes,
Protests, on the word of himself and his cronies,
That had these said creatures been asses, not ponies,
The Court would have started no sort of objection,
As asses were, there, always sure of protection.
" If the Pr-nc-ss will keep them (says Lord C-stl-r gh) -
To make them quite harmless the only true way,
Is (as certain Chief-Justices do with their wives)
To flog them within half an inch of their lives
If they've any bad Irish blood lurking about,
This (he knew by experience) would soon draw it out."
Or if this be thought cruel his Lordship proposes
"The new Veto snaffle to bind down their noses
A pretty contrivance, made out of old chains,
Which appears to indulge, while it doubly restrains ;
Which, however high-mettled, their gamesomeness checks
(Adds his Lordship humanely), or else breaks their necks!"
This proposal receiv'd pretty general applause
From the statesmen around and the neck-breaking clause
Had a vigour about it, which soon reconcil'd
Even Eld-n himself to a measure so mild.
So the snaffles, my dear, were agreed to nem. con.
And my Lord C-stl-r gh, having so often shone
In the, fettering line, is to buckle them on.
I shall drive to yoiir door in these Vetos some day,
But, at present, adieu ! I must hurry away
To go see my Mamma, as I'm suflfer'd to meet her
For just half an hour by the Qu n's best repeater.
MOORE'S POEMS.
LETTER II.
FBOM COLONEL M'M-H-N TO G LD FK-NC-S L-CKIE, ESQ.
DEAR Sir, I've just had time to look
Into your very learned Book,*
Wherein as plain as man can speak,
Whose English is half modern Greek
You prove that we can ne'er intrench
Our happy isles against the French,
Till Royalty in England's made
A much more independent trade
In short, until the house of Guelph
Lays Lords and Commons on the shelf,
And boldly sets up for itself!
All, that can well he understood
In this said Book, is vastly good ;
And, as to what's incomprehensible,
I dare be sworn 'tis full as sensible.
But to your work's immortal credit
The P e, good Sir, the P e has read it
(The only Book, himself remarks,
Which he has read since Mrs Clarke's).
Last Levee-morn he look'd it through,
During that awful hour or two
Of grave tonsorial preparation,
Which, to a fond, admiring nation,
Sends forth, announc'd by trump and drum,
The best wigg'd P e in Christendom I
He thinks with you, th' imagination
Of partnership in legislation
Could only enter in the noddles
Of dull and ledger-keeping twaddles,
Whose heads on firms are running so,
They ev'n must have a King and Co.
And hence, too, eloquently show forth
On checks and balances and so forth.
But now, he trusts, we're coming near a
Better and more royal era ;
When England's monarch need but say
" Whip me those scoundrels, C-stl-r gh !"
Or " Hang me up those Papists, Elcl-n,"
And 'twill be done aye, faith, and well done.
* See the last Number of the Edinburgh Review.
THE TWOPENNY POST-BAG. 359
With view to which, I've his command __
To beg, Sir, from your travell'd hand,
(Round which the foreign Graces swarm)
A plan of radical Reform ;
Compil'd and chos'n, as best you can,
In Turkey or at Ispahan,
And quite upturning, branch and root,
Lords, Commons, and Burdett to boot !
But, pray, whate'er you may impart, write
Somewhat more brief than Major C-rtwr-ght.
Else, though the P e be long in rigging,
'Twould take, at least, a fortnight's wigging,
Two wigs to every paragraph
Before he well could get through half.
You'll send it also speedily
As, truth to say, 'twixt you and me,
His Highness, heated by your work.
Already thinks himself Grand Turk !
And you'd have laugh'd, had you seen how
He scar'd the Ch-nc-11-r just now,
When (on his Lordship's entering puff'd) he
Slapp'd his back and call'd him " Mufti !"
The tailors too have got commands,
To put directly into hands
All sorts of dulimans and pouches,
With sashes, turbans, and paboutches,
(While Y-rm th's sketching out a plan
Of new Moustache* a VOttomane)
And all things fitting and expedient
To turkify our gracious R-g-nt !
You, therefore, have no time to waste
So, send your System.
Your's, in haste.
POSTSCRIPT.
BEFORE I send this scrawl away,
I seize a moment, just to say,
There's some parts of the Turkish system
So vulgar, 'twere as well you miss'd 'em.
For instance in Seraglio matters
Your Turk, whom girlish fondness flatters,
Would fill his Haram (tasteless fool !)
With tittering, red-cheek'd tilings from school
But here (as in that fairy land,
360 MOORE'S POEMS.
"Where Love and Age went hand in hand ;*
Where lips, till sixty, shed no honey,
And Grandams were worth any money),
Our Sultan has much riper notions
So, let your list of ^-promotions
Include those only, plump and sage,
Who've reach'd the regulation-age ;
That is as near as one can fix
From Peerage dates full fifty-six !
This rule's for fatf 'rites nothing more
For, as to wives, a Grand Signer,
Though not decidedly without them,
Need never care one straw about them.
LETTER III,
FKOM G. B. TO THE E OF Y .t
WE miss'd yon last night at the "hoary old sinner's,"
Who gave us, as usual, the cream of good dinners
His soups scientific his fishes quite prime
His pates superb and his cutlets sublime !
In short, 'twas the snug sort of dinner to stir a
Stomachic orgasm in my Lord E gh,
Who set to, to be sure, with miraculous force,
And exclaim'd, between mouthfuls, "a Ae-cook, of course!
While you live (what's there under that cover, pray, look)
While you live (I'll just taste it) ne'er keep a she-cook.
'Tis a sound Salic law (a small bit of that toast)
Which ordains that a female shall ne'er rule the roast ;
For cookery's a secret (this turtle's uncommon)
Like Masonry, never found out by a woman !"
The dinner, you know, was in gay celebration
Of my brilliant triumph and H nt's condemnation ;
A compliment too to his Lordship the Judge
For his speech to the Jury and zounds! who would grudge
Turtle-soup, though it came to five guineas a bowl,
To reward such a loyal and complaisant soul ?
We were all in high gig Roman punch and tokay
TravelTd round, till our heads travell'd just the same way ;
* The learned Colonel must allude here to a description of the Mysterious
[sle, in the History of Abdulla, Son of Planif, Avhere such inversions of the
order of nature are said to have taken place.
t This letter, as the reader will perceive, was written the day after a
dinner given by the M of H ,
THE TWOPENNY POST-BAG. 3G1
And we car'd not for Juries or Libels no nor
Ev'n for the threats of last Sunday's Examiner !
More good things -were eaten than said but Tom T-rrh-t
In quoting Joe' Miller, you know, has some merit,
And, hearing the sturdy Justiciary Chief
Say sated with turtle" I'll now try the beef-
Tommy whisper'd him (giving his Lordship a sly hit)
" I fear 'twill be hung-beef, my Lord, if you try it !"
And C-md-n was there, who, that morning, had gone
To fit his new Marquis's coronet on ;
And the dish set before himoh, dish well-devis'd !
Was, what old Mother Glasse calls, " a calf 's-head surpris'd !"
The brains were near ; and once they'd been fine,
But, of late, they had lain so long soaking in wine,
That, however we still might, in courtesy, call
Them a fine dish of brains, they were no brains at all.
In short, not a soul till this morning would budge
We were all fun and frolic ! and even the J e
Laid aside, for the time, his juridical fashion,
And through the whole night was not once in a passion !
I write this in bed, while my whiskers are airing,
And M c has a sly dose of jalup preparing
For poor T-mmy T-rrh-t at breakfast to quaff
As I feel I want something to give me a laugh,
And there's nothing so good as old T-mmy, kept close
To his Cornwall accounts, after taking a dose !
LETTER IV.
FEOM THE EIGHT HON. P-TK-CK D-G-N-N TO THE BIGHT HON.
8IE J-HN N-CH-L.
Dublin.*
LAST week, dear N-ch-1, making merry
At dinner with our Secretary,
When all were drunk, or pretty near
(The time for doing business here),
Says he to me, " Sweet Bully Bottom !
These Papist dogs hiccup od rot 'em !
Deserve to be bespatter'd hiccup
With all the dirt ev'n you can pick up
* This letter, which contained some very heavy inclosures, seems to
have been sent to London by a private hand, and then put into the Two-
penny Post-office, to save trouble.
i'"G'2 MOORE'S POEMS.
But, as the P e (here's to him fill
Hip, hip, hurra !) is trying still
To humbug them with kind professions.
And, as you deal in strong expressions
' Rogue 1 ' traitor' hiccup and all that
You must be muzzled, Doctor Pat!
You must indeed hiccup that's flat."
Yes " muzzled" was the word, Sir John
These fools have clapp'd a muzzle on
The boldest mouth that e'er ran o'er
With slaver of the times of yore !*
Oh ! 'tis too much who now will be
The nightman of No-Popery ?
"What courtier, saint, or even bishop,
Such learned filth will ever fish up ?
If there among our ranks be one
To take my place, 'tis thou, Sir John
Thou who, like me, art dubb'd Plight Hon.
Like me, too, art a lawyer civil
That wishes Papists at the devil !
To whom then but to thee, my friend,
Should Patrick! his portfolio send '?
Take it 'tis thine his learn'd portfolio,
With all its theologic olio
Of bulls, half Irish and half Roman,
Of doctrines, now believ'd by no man
Of councils, held for men's salvation,
Yet always ending in damnation
(Which shows that, since the world's creation,
Your priests, whate'er their gentle shamming,
Have always had a taste for damning)
And many more such pious craps,
To prove (what we've long prov'd perhaps)
That, mad as Christians us'd to be
About the thirteenth century,
There's lots of Christians to be had
In this, the nineteenth, just as mad !
Farewell I send with this, dear N-ch-1 !
A rod or two I've had in pickle
Wherewith to trim old Gr-tt-n's jacket.
The rest shall go by Monday's packet.
P. I).
* In sending this sheet to the press, however, I learn that the "muzzle 1
has been taken off, and the right honourable doctor let loose again I
t This is a bad name for poetry ; but D geu-n is -worse.
i
THK TWOPENNY POST-BAG.
Among the Inclosures in the foregoing Letter was the following
" Unanswerable Argument against the Papists."
* * * *
TWins told the ancient Eoman nation
Made use of spittle in lustration*
(Vide Lactantium ap. Gallseumt
i. e., you need not read but see 'em)
Now, Irish Papists (fact surprising !)
Make use of spittle in baptizing,
Which proves them all, O'Finns, O'Fagans,
Connors, and Tooles, all downright Pagans !
This fact's enough -let no one tell us
To free such sad, salivous fellows
No No the man, baptiz'd with spittle,
Hath no truth in him not a tittle !
LETTER V.
FROM THE COUNTESS DOWAGER OF C
MY dear Lady ! I've been just sending out
About five hundred cards for a snug little rout
(By the bye, you've seen Eokeby ? this moment got mine
The Mail-Coach Edition! prodigiously fine !)
But I can't conceive how, in this very cold weather,
I'm ever to bring my five hundred together ;
As, unless the thermometer's near boiling heat,
One can never get half of one's hundreds to meet
(Apropos you'd have laugh 'd to see Townsend, last night,
Escort to their chairs, with his staff so polite,
The " three maiden Miseries," all in a fright !
Poor Townsend. like Mercury, filling two posts,
Supervisor of thieves, and chief-usher of ghosts .').
But, my dear Lady ! can't you hit on some notion,
At least for one night to set London in motion ?
* Lustralibus ante salivis cxpiat. I'rrs. Sat. 2.
t I have taken the trouble of examining the doctor's reference here,
and find him, for once, correct. The following are the words of his indig-
nant referee Gallseus: "Asserere non veix-mur sacrum baptismnm a
Papistis profanari, et sputi usum in peccatorum expiatione a Paganis non
a Christianis manasse."
t See Mr Murray's advertisement about the Mail-Coach copies of Uokeby
364 MOORE'S POEMS.
As to having the R-g-nt that show is gone by
Besides, I've remark'd that (between you and I)
The Marchesa and ho, inconvenient in more ways,
Have taken much lately to whispering in door-ways ;
Which consid'ring, you know, dear, the size of the two
Makes a block that one's company cannot get through,
And a house such as mine is, with door-ways so small,
Has no room for such cumbersome love-work at all !
(Apropos, though, of love-work you've heard it, I hope,
That Napoleon's old mother's to marry the Pope,
What a comical pair !) but, to stick to my rout,
'Twill be hard if some novelty can't be struck out.
Is there no Algerine, no Kamschatkan arriv'd ?
No Plenipo-Pacha, three-tail'd and ten-wiv'd ?
No Russian, whose dissonant consonant name
Almost rattles to fragments the trumpet of Fame ?
I remember the time, three or four winters back,
When provided their wigs were but decently black
A few patriot monsters, from Spain, were a sight
That would people one's house for one, night after night.
But whether the Ministers paw'd them too much
(And you know how they spoil whatsoever they touch)
Or, whether Lord G-rge (the young man about town)
Has, by dint of bad poetry, written them down
One has certainly lost one's peninsular rage,
And the only stray patriot seen for an age
Has been at such places (think, how the fit cools)
As old Mrs V n's or Lord L-v-rp 1's !
But, in short, my dear, names like Wintztschitstopschinzou
dhoff
Are the only things now make an ev'ning go smooth off
So, get me a Russian till death I'm your debtor
If he brings the whole alphabet, so much the better.
And indeed ! if he would but, in character, sup
Off his fish-oil and candles, he'd quite set me up !
Au revoir, my sweet girl I must leave you in haste
Little Gunter has brought me the liqueurs to tasto.
POSTSCRIPT.
By the bye, have you found any friend that can construe
That Latin account, t'other day, of a Monster?*
If we can't get a Russian, and that thing in Latin
Be not too improper, I think I'll bring that in
* Alluding, I suppose, to the Latin advertisement of a lusus naturae in
the newspapers lately.
THE TWOPENNY POST-BAG. 365
LETTEK VI.
FEOM ABDALLAH,* IN LONDON, TO MOHA6SAN, IN ISPAHAN.
WHILST thou, Mohassan (happy thou !
Dost daily bend thy loyal brow
Before our King our Asia's treasure !
Nutmeg of Comfort ! Rose of Pleasure !
And bear'st as many kicks and bruises
As the said Rose and Nutmeg chooses ;
Thy head still near the bowstring's borders,
And but left on till further orders !
Through London streets, with turban fair,
And caftan, floating to the air,
I saunter on the admiration
Of this short-coated population
This sew'd-up race this button'd nation
Who, while they boast their law so free,
Leave not one limb at liberty,
But live, with all their lordly speeches,
The slaves of buttons and tight breeches !
Yet, though they thus their knee-pans fetter
(They're Christians, and they know no better) ,t
In some things they're a thinking nation
And, on religious toleration,
I own I like their notions quite,
They are so Persian and so right !
You know our Sunnites,* hateful dogs !
Whom every pious Shiite flogs
Or longs to flog 'tis true, they pray
To God, but in an ill-bred way ;
With neither arms, nor legs, nor faces
* I have made many inquiries about this Persian gentleman, but cannot
satisfactorily ascertain who he is. From his notions of religious liberty,
however, I conclude that he is an importation of Ministers, and he is
arrived just in time to assist the P e and Mr L-ck-e in their new
oriental plan of Reform. (See the second of these Letters.) How Abdal-
lah's epistle to Ispahan found its way into the Twopenny Post-Bag is more
than I can pretend to account for.
t " C'est un honnete homme," said a Turkish governor of De Ruyter ;
"c'est grand dommage qu'il soit Chretien."
J Sunnites and Shiites are the two leading sects into which the Moham-
medan world is divided ; and they have gone on cursing and persecuting
each other, without any intermission, for about eleven hundred years.
The Sunni is the established sect in Turkey, and the Shia in Persia ; and
the differences between them turn chiefly upon those important points
which our pious friend Abdallah, in the true spirit of Shiite ascendancy,
reprobates in this Letter.
Les Sunnites, qui etoient comme les Catholiques de Musulmanisme.
D'Hcrbelot.
MOORE'S POEMS.
Stuck in their right, canonic places ! *
"Tis true, they worship Ali's namet
Their Heaven and ours are just the same
(A Persian's Heav'n is eas'ly made,
'Tis but black eyes and lemonade).
Yet though we've tried for centuries back
"We can't persuade the stubborn pack,
By bastinadoes, screws, or nippers,
To wear th' establish'd pea-green slippors !t
Then only think the libertines !
They wash their toes they comb their chins
"With many more such deadly sins !
And (what's the worst, though last I rank it)
Believe the Chapter of the Blanket !
Yet, spite of tenets so flagitious
(Which must, at bottom, be seditious ;
As no man living would refuse
Green slippers, but from treasonous views ;
Nor wash his toes, but with intent
To overturn the Government !),
Such is our mild and tolerant way,
We only curse them twice a day
(According to a form that's set),
And, far from torturing, only let
All orthodox believers beat' 'em,
And twitch their beards, where'er they meet 'em.
As to the rest, they're free to do
Whate'er their fancy prompts them to,
Provided they make nothing of it
Tow'rds rank or honour, power or profit ;
Which things, we nat'rally expect,
Belong to us, the establish'd sect,
Who disbelieve (the Lord be thanked !)
Th' aforesaid Chapter of the Blanket.
The same mild views of toleration
Inspire, I find, this button'd nation,
Whose Papists (full as giv'n to rogue,
And only Sunnites with a brogue)
* In contradistinction to the Sounis, who, in their prayers, cross their
hands on the lower part of the breast, the Schiahs drop their arms in
straight lines; and as the Sounis, at certain periods of the prayer, press
their foreheads on the ground or carpet, the Schiahs, &c. Forster's Voyage.
t Les Turcs ne detestent pas All reciproquement ; au contraire ils le
reconnoissent, <fcc., <fcc. Chanlin,
J The Shiites wear green slippers, which the Sunnites consider as a
great abomination. Mtiriti.
For these points of difference, as well as for the Chapter of the Blanket.
[ must refer the reader to Picart's Account of the Mohammedan Sects.
THE TWOPENNY POST-BAG. 367
Fare just as well, with all their fuss,
As rascal Sunnites do with us.
The tender Gazel I inclose
Is for my love, my Syrian Rose
Take it, when night begins to fall,
And throw it o'er her mother's wall.
GAZEL.
Rememberest thou the hour we past,
That hour, the happiest and the last!
Oh ! not so sweet the Siha thorn
To summer bees, at break of morn,
Not half so sweet, through dale and dell,
To camel's ears the tinkling bell,
As is the soothing memory
Of that one precious hour to me !
How can we live, so far apart ?
Oh ! why not rather, heart to heart,
United live and die
Like those sweet birds, that fly together,
"With feather always touching feather,
Link'd by a hook and eye 1*
LETTER VII.
FBOM MESSES L-CK GT-N AND CO. TO , ESQ.t
PER post, Sir, we send your MS. look'd it thro'
Very sorry but can't undertake 'twouldn't do.
Clever work, Sir ! would get up prodigiously well
Its only defect is it never would sell !
And though Statesmen may glory in being unbought,
In an Author, we think, Sir, that's rather a fault.
Hard times, Sir, most books are too dear to be read
Though the gold of Good-sense and Wit's small-change are flVd,
Yet the paper we Publishers pass, in their stead,
Rises higher each day, and ('tis frightful to think it)
Not even such names as F-tzg-r d's can sink it !
However, Sir if your for trying again,
And at somewhat that's vendible we are your men.
Since the Chevalier Carr took to marrying lately,
The trade is in want of a traveller greatly
* This will appear strange to an English reader, but it is literally trans-
lated from Abdalhih's Persian, and the curious bird to which he alludes is
the Juftak, of which I find an account in Richunlscn.
t From motives of delicacy, and, indeed, of fellow-feeling, I suppress the
name of the author whose rejected manuscript was inclosed in this letter.
868 MOORE'S POEMS.
No job, Sir, more easy your country once plami'd,
A month aboard ship and a fortnight on land
Puts your quarto of travellers, Sir, clean out of hand.
An East-India pamphlet's a thing that would tell
Arid a lick at the Papists is sure to sell well.
Or supposing you've nothing original in you
"Write parodies, Sir, and such fame it will win you,
5Tou'll get to the blue-stocking routs of Alb-n-a!*
(Mind not to her dinners a second-hand Muse
Must'nt think of aspiring to mess with the Blues.}
Or in case nothing else in this world you can do
You surely are fit, Sir, at least to review !
Should you feel any touch of poetical glow,
We've a scheme to suggest Mr Sc-tt, you must know
(Who, we're sorry to say it, now works for the Row)J
Having quitted the Borders, to seek new renown, '
Is coming, by long quarto stages, to town ;
And beginning with Rokeby (the job's sure to pay)
Means to do all the gentlemen's seats on the way.
Now, the scheme is (though none of our hackneys can beat him)
To start a fresh Poet through Highgate to meet him ;
Who, by means of quick proofs no revises long coaches
May do a few villas, before Sc-tt approaches
Indeed, if our pegasus be not very shabby,
He'll reach, without found'ring, at least Woburn-Abbey.
Such, Sir, is our plan if you're up to the freak,
'Tis a match ! and we'll put you in training next week
At present, no more in reply to this letter, a
Line will oblige very much
Your's, et cetera.
Temple of the Muses.
The Manuscript, which I found in the bookseller's letter, is
a Melodrama, in two acts, entitled " The Book," of which the
theatres, of course, had had the refusal, before it was presented
to Messrs L-ck-ngt-n and Co. This rejected drama, however,
possesses considerable merit, and I shall take the liberty of lay-
ing a sketch of it before my readers.
The first act opens in a very awful manner :Time, three o'clock
iu the morning Scene, the Bourbon chamber! in C-r-1-t-n
* This alludes, I believe, to a curious correspondence which is said to
have passed lately between Alb-n-a, Countess of B-ck gli-ms e, and a
certain ingenious Parodist.
t Paternoster Row.
J The Chamber, I suppose, which was prepared for the reception of the
Bourbons at the first grand fete, and which was ornamented (all " tor the
deliverance of Europe") with fleurs-de-lys.
THE TWOPENNY POST-BAG. 309
House. Enter the P e R-g t solus. After a few broken
sentences, he thus exclaims :
Away away
Thou haunt'st my fancy so, thou devilish Book !
I meet thee trace thee, wheresoe'er I look.
I see thy ink in Eld-n's brow
1 see thy foolscap upon H-rtf d's spouse
V-ns-tt- t's head calls thy leathern case,
And all thy blank-leaves stare from R-d r's face !
While, turning here (laying his hand on his heart) I find, ah
wretched elf !
Thy list of dire errata in myself.
( Walks the stage in considerable agitation?)
Oh Roman punch ! oh potent Curajoa !
Oh Mareschino ! Mareschino oh !
Delicious drams ! why have you not the art
To kill this gnawing Book-worm in my heart ?
He is here interrupted in his soliloquy by perceiving some
scribbled fragments of paper on the ground, which he collects,
and " by the light of two magnificent candelabras " discovers the
following unconnected words : " Wife neglected " " the Book "
" Wrong Measures" the Queen" " Afr Lambert" "the R-g t."
Ha ! treason in my House ! Curst words that wither
My princely soul (shaking the papers violently), what demon
brought you hither ?
" My wife ! " " the Book " too ! stay a nearer look
(Holding the fragments closer to the candelabras.)
Alas ! too plain B, double 0, K Book
Death and destruction !
He here rings all the bells, and a whole legion of valets enter.
A scene of cursing and swearing (very much in the German
style) ensues, in the course of which messengers are dispatched,
in different directions, for the L-rd Ch-nc-11-r, the D e
of C b 1 d, &c., &c. The intermediate time is filled up by
another soliloquy, at the conclusion of which the aforesaid per-
sonages rush on alarmed the D e with his stays only half-
laced, and the Ch-nc-11-r with his wig thrown hastily over an
old red night-cap, " to maintain the becoming splendour of his
office."* The R-g t produces the appalling fragments, upon
which the Ch-nc-11-r breaks out into exclamations of loyalty
and tenderness, and relates the following portentous dream :
'Tis scarcely two hours since
I had a fearful dream of thee, my P e !
Methought I heard thee, midst a courtly crowd,
* To enable the individual who holds the office of Chancellor to main-
tain it in becoming splendour. (A loud laugh.) Lord Castlereagh's Speech
upon the Vice-CJianceltor's BUL
870 MOORE'S POEMS.
Say from thy throne of gold, in mandate loud,
" Worship my whiskers !" (weeps) not a knee was there
But bent and worshipp'd the illustrious pair,
That curl'd in conscious majesty ! (pulls out his handkerchief}
while cries
Of ' Whiskers, whiskers " shook the echoing skies !
Just in that glorious hour, methought, there came,
With looks of injur'd pride, a princely dame,
And a young maiden, clinging to her side,
As if she fear'd some tyrant would divide
The hearts that nature and affection tied !
The Matron came within her right hand glow'd
A radiant torch ; while from her left a load
Of papers hung (wipes his eyes] collected in her veil
The venal evidence, the slanderous tale,
The wounding hint, the current lies that pass
From post to courier, form'd the motley mass ;
Which, with disdain, before the throne she throws,
And lights the pile beneath thy princely nose. ( Weeps)
Heavens, how it blaz'd ! I'd ask no livelier fire
( With animation) to roast a papist by, my gracious sire !
But ah ! the evidence (weeps again) I mourn'd to see
Cast, as it burn'd, a deadly light on thee !
And tales and hints their random sparkles flung,
And hiss'd and crackled, like an old maid's tongue ;
While Post and Courier, faithful to their fame,
Made up in stink for what they lack'd in flame !
When, lo, ye gods ! the fire, ascending brisker,
Now singes one, now lights the other whisker
Ah ! where was then the Sylphid, that unfurls
Her fairy standard in defence of curls ?
Throne, whiskers, wig soon vanish'd into smoke,
The watchman cried "past one," and I awoke.
Here his Lordship weeps more profusely than ever, and the
R-g t (who has been very much agitated during the recital of
the dream) by a movement as characteristic as that of Charles
XII. when he was shot, claps his hands to his whiskers to feel if
all be really safe. A Privy Council is held all the servants, &c.,
are examined and it appears that a tailor, who had come to mea-
sure the R-g t for a dress (which takes three whole pages of the
best superfine clinquant in describing) was the only person who
had been in the Bourbon chamber during the day. It is, accord-
ingly, determined to seize the tailor, and the Council breaks up
with a unanimous resolution to be vigorous.
The commencement of the second Act turns chiefly upon the
trial and imprisonment of two brothers ; but as this forms the under
plot of the drama, I shall content myself with extracting from it
the following speech, which is addressed to the two brothers, as
they " exeunt severally " to prison :
THE TWOPENNY POST-BAG. 371
Go to your prisons though the air of Spring
No mountain coolness to your cheeks shall bring ;
Though summer flowers shall pass unseen away,
And all your portion of the glorious day
May be some solitary beam that falls,
At morn or eve, upon your dreary walls
Some beam that enters, trembling as if aw'd,
To tell how gay the young world laughs abroad !
Yet go for thoughts, as blessed as the air
Of spring or summer flowers, await you there ;
Thoughts, such as he, who feasts his courtly crew
In rich conservatories, never knew !
Pure self-esteem the smiles that light within
The zeal, whose circling charities begin
With the few lov'd-ones Heaven has plac'd it near,
Nor cease, till all mankind are in its sphere !
The pride, that suffers without vaunt or plea,
And the fresh spirit, that can warble free,
Through prison-bars, its hymn to liberty !
The scene next changes to a tailor's work-shop, and a fanci-
fully-arranged group of these artists is discovered upon the shop-
board their task evidently of a royal nature, from the profusion
of gold-lace, frogs, &c.,that lie about. They all rise and conie
forward, while one of them sings the following stanzas to the tuiie
of " Derry Down :"
My brave brother tailors, come, straiten your knees,
For a moment, like gentlemen, stand up at ease,
While I sing of our P e (and a fig for his railers)
The shop-board's delight ! the Mecseiias of tailors !
Derry down, down, down derry down.
Some monarchs take roundabout ways into note,
But his short cut to fame is the cut of his coat !
Philip's son thought the world was too small for his soul,
While our R-g t's finds room in a lac'd button-hole !
Derry down, &c.
Look through all Europe's kin gs at least, those who go loose
Not a king of them all's such a friend to the goose.
So, he'll keep him increasing in size and renown,
Still the fattest and best-fitted P e about town !
Derry clown, c.
During the " Derry down" of this last verse, a messenger from
the S-c t y of S e's office, rushes on, and the singer (who,
luckily for the effect of the scene, is the very tailor suspected of
the mysterious fragments) is interrupted in the midst of his
laudatory exertions, and hurried away, to the no small surprise
and consternation of his comrades. The plot now hastens rapidly
in its development the management of the tailor'fc examination
2 A
372 MOORE'S POEMS.
is highly skilful ; and the alarm, which he is made to hetray, is
natural without being ludicrous. The explanation, too, which he
finally gives is not more simple than satisfactory. It appears
that the said fragments formed part of a self-exculpatory note,
which he had intended to send to Colonel M'M n upon sub-
jects purely professional, and the corresponding bits (which still
lie luckily in his pocket) being produced, and skillfully laid be-
side the others, the following billet-doux is the satisfactory result
of their juxtaposition :
Honour'd Colonel my Wife, who's the Queen of all slatterns,
Neglected to put up the Book of new patterns.
She sent the wrong Measures too shamefully wrong
They're the same us'd for poor Mr Lambert, when young ;
But, bless you ! they wouldn't go half round the K-g t
So, hope you'll excuse your's, till death, most obedient.
This fully explains the whole mystery the R-g t resumes hia
wonted smiles, and the drama terminates, as usual, to the satis-
faction of all parties.
LETTEK VIII.
FEOM COLONEL TH-M-S TO , ESQ.
COME to our Fete,* and bring with thee
Thy newest, best embroidery !
Come to our Fete, and show again
That pea-green coat, thou pink of men !
"Which charm'd all eyes, that last survey'd it ;
"When Br-mm-1's self inquir'd " who made it?"
When cits came wond'ring, from the East,
And thought the poet Pye at least I
Oh ! come (if haply 'tis thy week
For looking pale) with paly cheek ;
Though more we love thy roseate days,
"When the rich rouge-pot pours its blaze
Full o'er thy face, and, amply spread,
Tips ev'n thy whisker-tops with red
Like the last tints of dying day
That o'er some darkling grove delay !
Bring thy best lace, thou gay Philander !
(That lace, like H-rry Al-x-nd-r,
Too precious to be wash'd !) thy rings,
Thy seals in short, thy prettiest tilings !
Put all thy wardrobe's glories on,
And yield, in frogs and fringe, to none
Tliis letter enclosed a card for the grand Fete on the 5th of February 1 ,
THE TWOPENNY POST-BAG. 373
But the great R-g t's self alone 1
Who by particular desire-
For that night only, means to hire
A dress from Romeo C tes, Esquire
Something between ('twere sin to hack it)
The Romeo robe and hobby jacket !
Hail, first of actors I* best of R-g t's I
Born for each other's fond allegiance !
Both gay Lotharios both good dressers
Of serious farce both learn'd professors
Both circled round, for use or show,
"With cock's-combs, wheresoe'er they go !
Thou know'st the time, thou man of lore
It takes to chalk a ball-room floor
Thou know'st the time too, well-a-day I
It takes to dance that chalk away.t
The ball-room opens far and nigh
Comets and suns beneath us lie ;
O'er snowy moons and stars we walk,
And the floor seems a sky of chalk !
But soon shall fade the bright deceit,
When many a maid, with busy feet
That sparkle in the lustre's ray,
O'er the white path shall bound and play
Like nymphs along the Milky Way !
At every step a star is fled,
And suns grow dim beneath their tread 1
So passeth life (thus Sc-tt would write,
And spinsters read him with delight)
Hours are not feet, yet hours trip on,
Time is not chalk, yet time's soon gone ! J
But, hang this long digressive flight !
I meant to say, thou 'It see, that night,
What falsehood rankles in their hearts,
Who say the P e neglects the arts
Neglects the arts ! no S ! no ;
Thy Cupids answer " 'Tis not so ;"
* Quern tu, Melpomene, semel
Nascentem placido lumine, videris, &c. fforat.
The man upon whom thou hast deign'd to look funny,
Thou great Tragic Musel at the hour of his birth
Let them say what they will, that's the man for my money,
Give others thy tears, hut let me have thy mirth I
t To those who neither go to balls nor read the Morning Post, it may
be necessary to mention that the floors of ball-rooms, in general, are
chalked, for safety and for ornament, with various fanciful devices,
t " Hearts are not flint, yet flints are rent,
Hearts are not steel, yet steel is bent."
874 MOORE'S POEMS.
And every floor, that night, shall tell
How quick thou daubest, and how well !
Shine as thou may'st in French vermillion,
Thou'rt best beneath a French cotillion ;
And still com'st off, whate'er thy faults,
With flying colours in a waltz !
Nor need'st thou mourn the transient date
To thy best works assign'd by fate
While some chef-d'oeuvres live to weary one,
Thine boast a short life and a merry one ;
Their hour of glory past and gone
With " Molly, put the kettle on !"*
But, bless my soul ! I've scarce a leaf
Of paper left- so, must be brief.
This festive Fete, in fact, will be
The former Fete's/ac-sz'mz7e;t
The same long masquerade of rooms,
Trick'd in such different, quaint costumes
(These, P-rt-r, are thy glorious works !),
You'd swear Egyptians, Moors, and Turks,
Bearing good-taste some deadly malice
Had clubb'd to raise a pic-nic palace ;
And each, to make the olio pleasant,
Had sent a state-room as a present !
The same fauteuiU- and girandoles
The same gold asses,? pretty souls !
That, in this rich and classic dome,
Appear so perfectly at home !
The same bright river 'mongst the dishes,
But not ah ! not the same dear fishes
Late hours and claret kill'd the old ones I-
So, 'stead of silver and of gold ones
(It being rather hard to raise
Fish of that specie now-a-days),
Some Sprats have been, by Y-rm th's wish,
Promoted into Silver Fish,
And Gudgeons (so V-ns-tt t told
The R-g t) are as good as Gold!
So, pr'ythee, come our Fete will be
But half a Fete, if wanting thee 1
J. T.
* A popular country dance.
t C-rl-t-u H e will exhibit a complete foe-simile, in respect to
interior ornament, to what it did at the last fete. The same splendid
draperies, <fec., <fec. Morning Post.
J The salt-cellars on the P e's own table were in the form of an ass
with panniers.
TRIFLES.
THE INSURRECTION OF THE PAPERS.
F. would be impossible for his Royal Highness to disengage his person
from the accumulating pile of papers that encompassed it. Lord Caiiiv-
reayk's Speech upon Colonel M'Mahori's appointment.
LAST night I toss'd and turn'd in bed,
But could not sleep at length I said
" I'll think of Viscount C-stl-r gh,
And of his speeches that's the way."
And so it was, for instantly
I slept as sound as sound could he.
And then I dream'd oh, frightful dream !
Fuseli has no such theme ;
- never wrote or borrow'd
Any horror, half so horrid !
Methought the P - e, in whisker'd state.
Before me at his breakfast sate ;
On one side lay unread petitions,
On t'other, hints from five physicians
Here tradesmen's bills, official papers,
Notes from my lady, drams for vapours
There plans of saddles, tea and t.n;ist,
Death-warrants and the Morning Post.
When lo ! the papers, one and all,
As if at some magician's call,
Began to flutter of themselves
From desk and table, floor and shelves,
MOORE'S POEMS.
And, cutting each some different capers,
Advanc'd, oh, Jacobinic papers !
As though they said, " Our sole design is
To suffocate his Royal Highness !"
The leader of this vile sedition
Was a huge Catholic petition,
With grievances so full and heavy,
It threaten'd worst of all the bevy.
Then Common-Hall addresses came
In swaggering sheets, and took their aim
Right at the R-g t's well-dress'd head,
As if determined to be read !
Next tradesmen's bills began to fly,
And tradesmen's bills, we know, mount high ;
Nay ev'n death-warrants thought they'd best
Be lively too, and join the rest.
But, oh the basest of defections !
His letter about " predilections"
His own dear letter, void of grace,
Now flew up in its parent's face !
Shock'd with this breach of filial duty,
He just could murmur " et Tu, Brute ?"
Then sunk, subdued upon the floor
At Fox's bust, to rise no more !
I wak'd and pray'd, with lifted hand,
" Oh ! never may this dream prove true ;
Though paper overwhelms the land,
Let it not crush the Sovereign too !"
PARODY OF A CELEBRATED LETTER.
AT length, dearest Freddy, the moment is nigh,
When, with P-rc-v-1's leave, I may throw my chains by ;
And, as time now is precious, the first thing I do,
Is to sit down and write a wise letter to you.
I meant before now to have sent you this letter,
But Y-rm th and I thought perhaps 'twould be bettor
To wait till the Irish affairs were decided
That is, till both Houses had prosed and divided,
With all due appearance of thought and digestion
For, though H-rtf d House had long settled the question,
I thought it but decent, between me and you,
That the two other Houses should settle it too.
TRIFLES. 377
1 need not remind you how horribly bad
Our affairs were all looking, when father went mad ;
A strait waistcoat on him and restrictions on me,
A more limited monarchy could not well be.
I was call'd upon then, in that moment of puzzle,
To choose my own minister just as they muzzle
A playful young bear, and then mock his disaster,
By bidding him choose out his own dancing-master.
I thought the best way, as a dutiful son,
Was to do as Old Royalty's self would have done.
So I sent word to say, I would keep the whole batch in,
The same chest of tools, without cleansing or patching ;
For tools' of this kind, like Martinus's sconce,*
Would lose all their beauty, if purified once ;
And think only think if our father should find,
Upon graciously coming again to his mind,
That improvement had spoil'd any favourite adviser
That R-se was grown honest, or W-stm-rel-nd wiser
That R-d r was, ev'n by one twinkle, the brighter
Or L-v-rp 1's speeches but half a pound lighter
What a shock to his old royal heart it would be 1
No ! far were such dreams of improvement from me :
And it pleased me to find, at the house, where, you know
There's such good mutton cutlets, and strong cura9oa,t
That the Marchioness call'd me a duteous old boy,
And my Y-rm th's red whiskers grew redder for joy !
You know, my dear Freddy, how oft, if I would,
By the law of last Sessions I might have done good.
I might have witheld these political noodles
From knocking their heads against hot Yankee doodles ;
I might have told Ireland I pitied her lot,
Might have sooth 'd her with hope but you know T did not.
And my wish is, in truth, that the best of old fellows
Should not, on recovering, have cause to be jealous,
But find that, while he has been laid on the shelf,
We've been all of us nearly as mad as himself.
You smile at my hopes but the Doctors and I.
Are the last that can think the K-ng ever will die !
A new era's arriv'd though you'd hardly believe it
And all things, of course, must be new to receive it.
New villas, new fetes (which ev'n Waithman attends)
New saddles, new helmets, and why not new friends?
* The antique shield of Mnrtinus Scriblema, which, upon scouring;
turned out to l>e only an old si-oncc.
t The letter-writer's &Tourite luncheon.
378 MOORE'S POEMS.
I repeat it " New Friends" for I cannot describe
The delight I am in with this P-rc-v-1 tribe.
Such capering! Such vapouring ! Such rigour! Such
vigour !
North, South, East, and "West, they have cut such a figure,
That soon they will bring the whole world round our ears,
And leave us no friends but Old Nick and Algiers.
When I think of the glory they've beam'd on my chains,
"Pis enough quite to turn my illustrious brains !
It is true we are bankrupts in commerce and riches,
But think how we furnish our Allies with breeches !
We've lost the warm hearts of the Irish, 'tis granted,
But then we've got Java, an island much wanted, ,
To put the last lingering few who remain,
Of the Walcheren warriors, out of their pain.
Then how Wellington fights ! and how squabbles his brother !
For Papists the one, BH&with Papists the other;
One crushing Napoleon by taking a city,
While t'other lays waste a whole Cath'lic Committee !
Oh deeds of renown ! shall I boggle or flinch,
With such prospects before me ? by Jove, not an inch.
No let England's affairs go to rack, if they will,
We'll look after th' affairs of the Continent still,
And, with nothing at home but starvation and riot,
Find Lisbon in bread, and keep Sicily quiet.
I am proud to declare I have no predilections,
My heart is a sieve, where some scatter'd affections
Are just danc'd about for a moment or two,
And the finer they are, the more sure to run through :
Neither have I resentments, nor wish there should come ill
To mortal except (now I think on't) Beau Br-mm-11,
Who threaten'd, last year, in a superfine passion,
To cut me, and bring the old K-ng into fashion.
This is all I can lay to my conscience at present,
When such is my temper, so neutral, so pleasant,
So royally free from all troublesome feelings,
So little encumber'd by faith in my dealings
(And that I'm consistent the world will allow,
What I was at Newmarket, the same I am now).
When such are my merits (you know I hate cracking),
I hope, like the vender of best patent blacking,
" To meet with the gen'rous and kind approbation
Of a candid, enlighten'd, and liberal nation."
By the bye, ere I close this magnificent Letter
(No man, except Pole, could have writ you a better),
'Twould please me if those, whom I've humbug'd so long
TRIFLES. 379
With the notion (good men !) that I knew right from wrong,
Would a few of them join me mind, only a few
To let too much light in on me never would do ;
But even Grey's brightness sha'n't make me afraid,
While I've C-md-n and Eld-n to fly to for shade ;
Nor will Holland's clear intellect do us much harm,
"While there's W-stm-rel-nd near him to weaken the charm.
As for Moira's high spirit, if aught can subdue it,
Sure joining with H-rtf-rd and Y-rm th will do it !
Between R-d r and Wh-rt-n let Sheridan sit,
And the fogs will soon quench even Sheridan's wit ;
And against all the pure public feeling that glows
Ev'n in Whitbread himself we've a host in G rge R-se !
So, in short, if they wish to have places, they may,
And I'll thank you to tell all these matters to Grey,
Who, I doubt not, will write (as there's no time to lose)
By the Twopenny Post to tell Grenville the news ;
And now, dearest Fred (though I've no predilection),
Believe me your's always with truest affection.
P.S. A copy of this is to P-rc 1 going
Good lack ! how St Stephens will ring with his crowing
ANACREONTIC
TO A PLUMASSIEK.
FINE and feathery artisan !
Best of Plumists, if you can
With your art so far presume,
Make for me a P e's Plume
Feathers soft and feathers rare,
Such as suits a P e to wear !
First, thou downiest of men !
Seek me out a fine Pea-hen ;
Such a Hen, so tall and grand,
As by Juno's side might stand,
If there were no Cocks at hand !
Seek her feathers, soft as down,
Fit to shine on P e's crown ;
If thou can'st not find them, stupid!
Ask the way of Prior's Cupid.
Ranging these in order due,
Pluck me next an old Cuckoo
Emblem of the happy fates
Of easy, kind, conmted mates
380 MOORE'S POEMS.
Pluck him well be sure you do
Who would'nt be an old Cuckoo,
Thus to have his plumage blest,
Beaming on a K-y-1 crest ?
Bravo, Plumist ! now what bird
Shall we find for Plume the third ?
You must get a learned Owl,
Bleakest of black-letter fowl
Bigot bird, that hates the lig-ht,
Foe to all that's fair and bright !
Seize his quills (so formed to pen
Books, that shun the search of men ;
Books, that, far from every eye,
In " swelter'd venom sleeping" lie !)
Stick them in between the two,
Proud Pea-hen and old Cuckoo.
Now you have the triple feather,
Bind the kindred stems together
With a silken tie, whose hue
Once was brilliant buff and blue ;
Sullied now alas how much !
Only fit for Y-rm th's touch.
There enough thy task is done ;
Present worthy G ge's son !
Now, beneath, in letters neat,
Write " I serve," and all's complete.
EXTRACTS
FROM THE DIARY OF A POLITICIAN.
Wednesday.
THROUGH H-nch-st-r Square took a canter just now-
Met the old yellow chariot, and made a low bow.
This I did, of course, thinking 'twas loyal and civil,
But got such a look oh 'twas black as the devil !
How unlucky ! incog, he was trav'lling about,
And I, like a noddle, must go find him out !
Mem. When next by the old yellow chariot I ride,
To remember there is nothing princely inside.
Thursday.
At Levee to-day made another sad blunder
What can be come over me lately, I wonder ?
TRIFLES. 381
The P e was as cheerful, as if, all his life,
He had never been troubled with friends or a wife
" Fine weather," says he to which I, who must prato,
Answer'd " Yes, Sir, but changeable rather, of late."
He took it, I fear, for he look'd somewhat gruff,
And handled his new pair of whiskers so rough,
That before all the courtiers I fear'd they'd come oft',
And then, how Geramb would triumphantly scoff!
Mem. To buy for son Dicky some unguent or lotion
To nourish his whiskers sure road to promotion !*
Saturday.
Last night a concert vastly gay
Given by Lady C-stl-r gh.
My Lord loves music, and, we know,
Has two strings always to his bow.
In choosing songs, the E-g t nam'd
" Had I a heart for falsehood f ram' d."
While gentle H-rtf d begg'd and pray'd
For " Young I am and sore afraid"
EPIGEAM.
WHAT news, to-day ? " Oh ! worse and worse
M c is the Pr- e's privy purse !"
The Pr ce's Purse ! no, no, you fool,
You mean the Pr ce's .Ridicule.
KING CEACKt AND HIS IDOLS.
WRITTEN AFTER THE LATE NEGOCIATION FOR A NEW M-N-STRY.
KING Crack was the best of all possible Kings
(At least, so his courtiers would swear to you gladly),
But Crack now and then would do het'rodox things,
And, at last, took to worshipping images sadly.
* England is not the only country where merit of this kind is noticed
and rewarded. "I remember," says Tavernier, "to have seen one of ,he
King of Persia's porters, whose moustaches were so long that he could tie
them behind his neck, for which reason he had a double pension."
t One of those antediluvian princes with whom Manetho and Whiston
seem so intimately acquainted. If we had the Memoirs of Thoth, from
which Manetho compiled his history, we should find, I daresay, that Crack
was only a repent, and that he, perhaps, succeeded Typhon, who (as
Whiston says) was the last king of the antediluvian dynasty.
SS2 MOORE'S POEMS.
Some broken-down Idols, that long had been plac'd
In his father's old Cabinet, pleas'd him so much,
That he knelt down and worshipp'd, though such was hia
taste !
They were monstrous to look at and rotten to touch !
And these were the beautiful gods of king Crack !
Till his people, disdaining to worship such things,
Cried aloud, one and all, " Come, your godships must pack
" You will not do for us, though you may do for kings"
Then, trampling the gross Idols under their feet,
They sent Crack a petition, beginning " Great Csesar !
We are willing to worship ; but only entreat
That you'll find us some decenter godships than these are."
" I'll try," says king Crack then they furnish'd him models
Of better shap'd gods, but he sent them all back ;
Some were chisell'd too fine, some had heads 'stead of noddles,
In sb*>rt. they were all much too godlike for Crack !
So he took to his darling old Idols again,
And, just mending their legs and new bronzing their faces,
In open defiance of gods and of men,
Set the monsters up grinning once more in their places!
WHAT'S MY THOUGHT LIKE?
Quest. WHY is a pump like V-sc -nt C-stl-r gh ?
Answ. Because it is a slender thing of wood,
That up and down its awkward arm doth sway,
And coolly spout and spout and spout away,
In one weak, washy, everlasting flood !
EPIGRAM.
DIALOGUE BETWEEN A CATHOLIC DELEGATE AND HIS K-Y-L
H-GHX-SS THE D E OF C B L D.
SAID his Highness to Ned, with that grim face of his,
"Why refuse us the Veto, dear Catholic Neddy?"
" Because, Sir," said Ned, looking full in his phiz,
" You're forbidding enough, in all conscience, already
TRiFLr.S. 888
WREATHS FOB THE MINISTERS.
AN ANACREONTIC.
HITHER, Flora, queen of flowers !
Haste thee from Old Brompton's bowers
Or (if sweeter that abode)
From the King's well-odour'd road,
Where each little nursery bud
Breathes the dust and quaffs the mud !
Hither come, and gaily twine
Brightest herbs and flowers of thine
Into wreathes for those, who rule us,
Those, who rule and (some say) fool n&
Flora, sure, will love to please
England's Household Deities !*
First you must then, willy-nilly,
Fetch me many an orange lily
Orange of the darkest dye
Irish G-ff-rd can supply !
Choose me out the longest sprig,
And stick it in old Eld-n's wig !
Find me next a poppy posy,
Type of his harangues so dosy.
Garland gaudy, dull and cool
For the head of L-v-rp 1 !
'Twill console his brilliant brows
For that loss of laurel boughs
Which they suffer'd (what a pity !)
On the road to Paris city.
Next, our C-stl-r gh to crown.
Bring me, from the county Down,
Wither'd shamrocks, which have been
Gilded o'er, to hide the green
(Such as H df t brought away
From Pall-Mall last Patrick's-day)t
Stitch the garland through and through
With shabby threads of every hue
And as, Goddess ! entre nous
His Lordship loves (though best of men)
A little torture, now and then,
* The ancients, in like manner, crowned their lares or household gcd&
(See Juvenal, Sat. ix. v. 138.)
t Certain tinsel imitations of the shamrock, which are distributed by
the servants of C n House every Patrick's-day.
S84 MOOKE'S POEMS.
Crimp the leaves, thou first of syrens I
Crimp them with thy curling-irons.
That's enough away, away
Had I leisure, I could say
How the oldest rose that grows
Must be pluck'd to deck old R e
How the Doctor's* brow should smile
Crown'd with wreaths of camomile 1
But time presses to thy taste
I leave the rest, so, prithee, haste I
EPIGRAM.
DIALOGUE BETWEEN A DOWAGER AND HER MAID ON THE NIGHT Off
LORD Y-RM TH'S FETE.
14 I WANT the Court-Guide" said my lady " to look
If the house, Seymour Place, be at 30 or 20"
" We've lost the Court-Guide, ma'am, but here's the Red Book,
Where you'll find, I dare say, Seymour PLACES in plenty !"
HORACE, ODE XI. LIB. II.
FREELY TRANSLATED BY G. R.
COME, Y-rm th, my boy, never trouble your brains,
About what your old croney,
The Emperor Boney,
Is doing or brewing on Muscovy's plains ;
Nor tremble, my lad, at the state of our granaries ;
Should there come famine, .
Still plenty to cram in
You always shall have, my dear lord of the Stannaries !
Brisk let us revel, while revel we may ;
For the gay bloom of fifty soon passes away,
And then people get fat,
And infirm, and all that,
And a wig (I confess it) so clumsily sits,
That it frightens the little Loves out of their wits.
* Lord Sidmouth.
TRIFLES. 385
Thy whiskers, too, Y-rm th ! alas, even they,
Though so rosy they burn,
Too quickly must turn
(What a heart-breaking change for thy whiskers !) to Grey.
Then why, my Lord Warden ! oh ! why should you fidget
Tour mind about matters you don't understand?
Or why should you write yourself down for an idiot,
Because "you," forsooth, " have the pen in your hand!"
Think, think how much better
Than scribbling a letter
(Which both you and I
Should avoid, by the bye),
How much pleasanter 'tis to sit under the bust
Of old Charley, my friend here, and drink like a new ono;
While Charley looks sulky and frowns at me, just
As the ghost in the pantomime frowns at Don Juan I
To crown us, Lord Warden !
In C-mb-rl-nd's garden
Grows plenty of monk's-hood in venomous sprigs ;
While otto of roses
Refreshing all noses
Shall sweetly exhale from our whiskers and wigs.
What youth of the household will cool our Noyau
In that streamlet delicious,
That down midst the dishes,
All full of good fishes
Romantic doth flow?
Or who will repair
Unto M ch r Sq e
And see if the gentle Marchesa be there ?
Go bid her haste hither,
And let her bring with her
The newest no-popery sermon that's going
Oh ! let her come, with her dark tresses flowing,
All gentle and juvenile, curly and gay,
In the manner of Ackermann's dresses for May I
HORACE, ODE XXII., LIB. I.
FREELY TRANSLATED BY LORD ELD-N.
THE man who keeps a conscience pure
(If not his own, at least his Prince's),
Through toil and danger walks secure,
Looks hfo- anf ] blacjc, and never winces!
HOC HE'S POEMS,
No want has he of sword or dagger,
Cock'd hat or ringlets of Geramb ;
Though Peers may laugh, and Papists swagger,
He does not care .
"Whether midst Irish chairmen going
Or through St Giles's alleys dim,
'Mid drunken Sheelahs, blasting, blowing.
No matter, 'tis all one to him.
For instance, I, one evening late,
Upon a gay vacation sally,
Singing the praise of Church and State,
Got up, at last, to Cranbourne-Alley.
When lo ! an Irish Papist darted
Across my path, gaunt, grim, and big
I did but frown, and off he started,
Scar'd at me even without my wig !
Yet a more fierce and raw-bon'd dog
Goes not to Mass in Dublin city,
Nor shakes his brogue o'er Allen's Bog,
Nor spouts in Catholic Committee !
Oh ! place me midst O'Rourkes, O'Tooles,
The ragged royal-blood of Tara ;
Or place me where Dick M-rt-n rules
The houseless wilds of Connemara ;
Of Chnrch and State I'll warble still
Though ev'n Dick M-rt-n's self should grumble :
Sweet Church and State, like Jack and Jill,
So lovingly upon a hill
Ah ! ne'er like Jack and Jill to tumble !
EPIGRAM.
FEOM THE FRENCH.
" I NEVKK give a kiss (says Prue)
To naughty man, for I abhor it."
She will not give a kiss, 'tis true ;
She'll take one though, and thank you for it !
ON A SQUINTING POETESS.
To no one Muse does she her glance confine,
But has an eye, at once, to all Vie Nine!
387
TO
1 Moria pur quando ruol, non e bisogna mutar ni faccia ni voce per
esser un Angelo."
DIE when you will, you need not wear
At Heaven's court a form more fair
Than Beauty here on earth has given ;
Keep but the lovely looks we see
The voice we hear and you will be
An angel ready-made for Heaven !
THE NEW COSTUME OF THE MINISTERS.
" Nova monstra creavit." Ovid, Aletamorph. 1. i. v. 437.
HAVING sent off the troops of brave Major Camac,
With a swinging horse-tail at each valorous back,
And such helmets, oh bless you ! as never deck'd any
Male creature before, except Signer Giovanni
" Let's see" said the R-g t (like Titus, perplex'd
With the duties of empire) " whom shall I dress next ?"
He looks in the glass but perfection is there,
Wig, whiskers, and chin-tufts all right to a hair* ;
Not a single ex-curl on his forehead he traces
For curls are like Ministers, strange as the case is,
The falser they are the more firm in their places.
His coat he next views but the coat who could doubt ?
For his Y-rm th's own Frenchified hand cut it out ;
Every pucker and seam were made matters of state,
And a grand household council was held on each plait !
Then whom shall he dress ? shall he new-rig his brother
Great C-mb-rl d's Duke with some kickshaw or other?
And kindly invent him more Christian-like shapes
For his feather-bed neckcloths and pillory capes ?
Ah ! no here his ardour would meet with delays,
For the Duke had been lately pack'd up in new stays,
So complete for the winter, he saw very plain
'Twould be fearful hard work to wnpack him again !
* That model of princes, the Emperor Commodus, was particularly
luxurious in the dressing and ornamenting of his hair. His conscience,
however, would not suffer him to trust himself with a barber, and he used
accordingly to burn off his beard "timore tonsoris," says Lampridius.
The dissolute JEYms Verus, too, was equally attentive to the decoration of
his wig. Indeed, this was not the only princely trait in the character of
Verus, as he had likewise a most hearty and dignified contempt for his wife.
2B
MOORE'S POEMS.
So what's to be done ? there's the Ministers, bless 'em !
As he made the puppets, why shouldn't he dress 'em ?
" An excellent thought ! call the tailors be nimble
Let Cum bring his spy-glass, and H-rtf d her thimble ;
While Y-rm th shall give us, in spite of all quizzers,
The last Paris cut with his true Gallic scissors."
So saying, he calls C-stl-r gh, and the rest
Of his heaven-born statesmen, to come and be drest.
"While Y-rm th, with snip-like and brisk expedition,
Cuts up, all at once, a large Cath'lic petition
In long tailors' measures (the P e crying " well-done I"),
And first puts in hand my Lord Chancellor Eld-n.
OCCASIONAL ADDRESS
FOE THE OPENING OF THE NEW THEATRE OF ST S PH-Jf,
(Intended to have been spoken by the Proprietor in full costume^
on the 24th of November).
THIS day a New House, for your edification,
We open, most thinking and right-headed nation !
Excuse the materials though rotten and bad,
They're the best that for money just now could be had ;
And, if echo the charm of such houses should be,
You will find it shall echo my speech to a T.
As for actors, we've got the old Company yet,
The same motley, odd, tragi-comical set :
And consid'ring they all were but clerks t'other day,
It is truly surprising how well they can play.
Our Manager (he, who in Ulster was nurst,
And sung Erin-go-Bragh for the galleries first,
But, on finding Pitt-interest a much better thing,
Chang'd his note of a sudden, to God save the King)
Still wise as he's blooming, and fat as he's clever,
Himself and his speeches as lengthy as ever,
Here oifers you still the full use of his breath,
Your devoted and long-winded proser till death !
You remember last season, when things went perverse oUj
We had to engage (as a block to rehearse on),
One Mr V-ns-tt t, a good sort of person,
Who's also employ'd for this season to play,
In " Raising the Wind," and " the Devil to Pay,"
T1UFLES. 888
We expect too at least we've been plotting and planning-
To get that great actor from Liverpool, C-nn-ng ;
And, as at the circus there's nothing attracts
Like a good single combat brought in 'twixt the acts,
If the Manager should, with the help of Sir P-ph-m,
Get up new diversions, and C-nn-ng should stop 'em,
Who knows but we'll have to announce in the papers,
" Grand fight second time with additional capers."
Be your taste for the ludicrous, humdrum, or sad,
There is plenty of each in this House to be had ;
Where our Manager ruleth, there weeping will be,
For a dead hand at tragedy always was he ;
And there never was dealer in dagger and cup,
Who so smilingly got all his tragedies up.
His powers poor Ireland will never forget,
And the widows of Walcheren weep o'er them yet.
So much for the actors for secret machinery,
Traps, and deceptions, and shifting of scenery,
Y-rm th and Cum are the best we can find,
To transact all that trickery business behind.
The former's employ'd too to teach us French jigs,
Keep the whiskers in curl, and look after the wigs.
In taking my leave now, I've only to say
A few seats in the House, not as yet sold away,
May be had of the Manager, Pat C-stl r-gh.
THE SALE OF THE TOOLS.
"Instrumenta regnL" Tacitus.
HERE'S a choice set of Tools for you, Ge'mmen and Ladies,
They'll fit you quite handy, whatever your trade is
(Except it be Cabinet-making I doubt
In that delicate service they're rather worn out;
Though their owner, bright youth ! if he'd had his own will,
Would have bungled away with them joyously still) ;
You can see they've been pretty well hack'd and alack I
What tool is there job after job will not hack?
Their edge is but dullish, it must be confess'd,
And their temper, like Ell-nb'r h's, none of the best,
But you'll find them good hard-working Tools, upon trying
Wer't but for their brass, they are well worth the buying ;
They're famous for making blinds, sliders, and screens,
And they're, some of them, excellent turning machines !
S90 MOORE'S POEMS.
The first Tool I'll put up (they call it a Chancellor')
Heavy concern to both purchaser and seller
Though made of pig iron, yet worthy of note 'tis,
'Tis ready to melt at a half minute's notice.
Who bids ? Gentle buyer ! 'twill turn as thou shapest
'Twill make a good thumb-screw to torture a Papist ;
Or else a cramp-iron, to stick in the wall
Of some church that old women are fearful will fall ;
Or better, perhaps (for I'm guessing at random),
A heavy drag-chain for some lawyer's old tandem !
Will nobody bid ? It is cheap, I am sure. Sir
Once, twice, going, going, thrice, gone ! it is your's, Sir.
To pay ready money you shan't be distrest.
As a bill at long date suits the Chancellor best.
Come, where's the next Tool ? Oh ! 'tis here in a trace
This implement, Ge'mmen ! at first was a Vice
(A tenacious and close sort of tool, that will let
Nothing out of its grasp it once happens to get) ;
But it since has received a new coating of Tin,
Bright enough for a Prince to behold himself in !
Come, what shall we say for it ? briskly ! bid on,
We'll the sooner get rid of it going quite gone !
For be sure that such Tools, if not quickly knock'd down,
Might at last cost their owner how much ? why, a Crown !
The next Tool I'll set up has hardly had hansel or
Trial as yet, and is also a Chancellor
Such dull things as these should be sold by the gross ;
Yet, dull as it is, 'twill be found to shave close,
And like other close shavers, some courage to gather,
This blade first began by a flourish on leather !
You shall have it for nothing then, marvel with me
At the terrible tinkering work there must be,
Where a Tool such as this is (I'll leave you to judge it)
Is placed by ill luck at the top of the Budget !
M.P., OK THE ELUE STOCKING
M,P,, 'OR THE BLUE STOCKING.
SONG.
BUSAN.
YOUNG Love liv'd once in an humble shed,
Where roses breathing,
And woodbines wreathing
Around the lattice their tendrils spread,
As wild and sweet as the life he led.
His garden flourish'd,
For young Hope nourish'd
The infant buds with beams and showers ;
But lips, though blooming, must still be fed,
And not even Love can live on flowers.
Alas ! that Poverty's evil eye
Should e'er come hither,
Such sweets to wither !
The flowers laid down their heads to die,
And Hope fell sick as the witch drew nigh.
She came one morning,
Ere Love had warning,
And rais'd the latch, where the young god lay
" Oh ho !" said Love " is it you ? good-by ;"
So he ope'd the window, and flew away !
To sigh, yet feel no pain,
To weep, yet scarce know why ;
To sport an hour with Beauty's chain,
Then throw it idly by.
894 MOORE'S POEMS.
To kneel at many a shriiie,
Yet lay the heart on none ;
To think all other charms divine,
But those we just have won.
This is love, careless love,
Such as kindleth hearts that rove.
To keep one sacred flame,
Through life unchill'd, unmov'd,
To love, in wintry age, the same
As first in youth we lov'd ;
To feel that we adore,
To such refin'd excess,
That, though the heart would break, with more.
We could not live with less.
This is love, faithful love,
Such as saints might feel above.
SPIRIT of Joy, thy altar lies
In youthful hearts that hope like
And 'tis the light of laughing eyes,
. That leads us to thy fairy shrine.
There if we find the sigh, the tear,.
They are not those to Sorrow known ;
But breath so soft, and drops so clear,
That Bliss may claim them for her own.
Then give me, give me, while I weep,
The sanguine hope that brightens woe,
And teaches ev'n our tears to keep
The tinge of pleasure as they flow.
The child, who sees the dew of night
Upon the spangled hedge at morn,
Attempts to catch the drops of light,
But wounds his finger with the thorn.
Thus oft the brightest joys we seek,
Are lost, when touch'd, and turn'd to pain ;
The flush they kindle leaves the cheek,
The tears they waken long remain.
But give me, give me, &c. &c.
M.P., OR THE BLUE STOCKING.
WHEN Leila touch'd the lute,
Not then alone 'twas felt,
But, when the sounds were mute,
In memory still they dwelt.
Sweet lute ! in nightly slumbers
Still we heard thy morning numbers
Ah, how could she, who stole
Such breath from simple wire,
Be led, in pride of soul,
To string with gold her lyre ?
Sweet lute ! thy chords she breaketh :
Golden now the strings she waketh ?
But where are all the tales
Her lute so sweetly told ?
In lofty themes she fails,
And soft ones suit not gold.
Rich lute ! we see thee glisten,
But, alas ! no more we listen !
BOAT GLEE.
THE song that lightens the languid way
When brows are glowing,
And faint with rowing,
Is like the spell of Hope's airy lay,
To whose sound through life we stray.
The beams that flash on the oar awhile,
As we row along through waves so clear
Illume its spray, like the fleeting smile
That shines o'er Sorrow's tear.
Nothing is lost on him who seea
With an eye that Feeling gave ;
For him there's a story in every breeze,
And a picture in every wave.
Then sing to lighten the languid way ;
When brows are glowing,
And faint with rowing :
'Tis like the spell of Hope's airy lay,
To whose sound through life we stray.
896 MOORE'S POEMS.
OH think, when a hero is sighing,
What danger in such an adorer !
What woman can dream of denying
The hand that lays laurels before her ?
No heart is so guarded around,
But the smile of a victor would take it ;
No bosom can slumber so sound,
But the trumpet of Glory will wake it.
Love sometimes is given to sleeping,
And woe to the heart that allows him ;
For, oh, neither smiling nor weeping
Have power at those moments to rouse him.
But though he was sleeping so fast,
That the life almost seem'd to forsake him,
Even then, one soul-thrilling blast
From the trumpet of Glory would wake him.
CUPID'S LOTTERY.
A LOTTERY, a Lottery,
In Cupid's court there us'd to be ;
Two roguish eyes
The highest prize
In Cupid's scheming Lottery ;
And kisses, too,
As good as new,
Which weren't very hard to win,
For he, who won
The eyes of fun,
Was sure to have the kisses in.
A Lottery, a Lottery, &c.
This Lottery, this Lottery,
In Cupid's court went merrily.
And Cupid play'd
A Jewish trade
In this his scheming Lottery ;
For hearts, we're told,
In shares he sold
To many a fond believing drone,
And cut the hearts
In sixteen parts,
So well each thought the whole his own.
CJior. A Lottery, a Lottery, &c.
M.P., OR THE BLUE STOCKING. 397
SONG.
THOUGH sacred the tie that our country entwineth,
And dear to the heart her remembrance remains,
Yet dark are the ties where no liberty shineth,
And sad the remembrance that slavery stains.
Oh thou who wert born in the cot of the peasant,
But diest of languor in luxury's dome,
Our vision, when absent our glory, when present
Where thou art, Liberty ! there is my home.
Farewell to the land where in childhood I wander'd !
In vain is she mighty, in vain is she brave ;
TJnbless'd is the blood that for tyrants is squander'd,
And fame has no wreaths for the brow of the slave,
But hail to thee, Albion ! who meet'st the commotion
Of Europe, as calm as thy cliffs meet the foam ;
With no bonds but the law, and no slave but the ocean,
Hail, Temple of Liberty ! thou art my home.
WHEN Charles was deceiv'd by the maid he lov'd,
We saw no cloud his brow o'ercasting,
But proudly he smil'd, as if gay and unmov'd,
Tho' the wound in his heart was deep and lasting.
And often at night, when the tempest roll'd,
He sung, as he paced the dark deck over
" Blow wind, blow ! thou art not so cold
As the heart of a maid that deceives her lover.'*
Yet he lived with the happy, and seem'd to be gay,
Tho' the wound but sunk more deep for concealing ;
And Fortune threw many a thorn in his way,
Which, true to one anguish, he trod without feeling !
And still, by the frowning of Fate unsubdued,
He sung, as if sorrow had plac'd him above her
" Frown, Fate, frown ! thou art not so rude
As the heart of a maid that deceives her lover."
At length his career found a close in death,
The close he long wish'd to his cheerless roving,
For victory shone on his latest breath,
And he died in a cause of his heart's approving.
But still he remember'd his sorrow, and still
He sung, till the vision of life was over
" Come, death, come ! thou art not so chill,
As the heart of a maid that deceiv'd her lover/'
898 MOORE'S POEMS.
WHEN life looks lone and dreary,
"What light can dispel the gloom ?
When Time's swift wing grows weary,
What charm can refresh his plume ?
'Tis woman, whose sweetness beameth
O'er all that we feel or see ;
And if man of heav'n e'er dreameth,
'Tis when he thinks purely of thee,
Oh, woman !
Let conquerors fight for glory,
Too dearly the meed they gain ;
Let patriots live in story
Too often they die in vain ;
Give kingdoms to those who choose 'oin,
This world can offer to me
No throne like beauty's bosom,
No freedom like serving thee,
Oh, woman !
MR Orator Puff had two tones in his voice,
The one squeaking thus, and the other down so !
In each sentence he uttered he gave you your choice,
For one half was B, alt, and the rest G, below.
Oh ! oh ! Orator Puff !
One voice for one orator's surely enough.
But he still talked away, spite of coughs and of frowns,
So distracting all ears with his ups and his downs,
Thxtt a wag once, on hearing the orator say
My- voice is for war, ask'd him, which of them, pray ?
Oh ! oh ! &c.
Reeling Homewards, one evening, top-heavy with gin,
And rehearsing his speech on the weight of the crown,
He trip'd near a sawpit, and tumbled right in,
" Sinking Fund " the last words as his noddle came down
Oh! oh! &c.
" Help ! help !" he exclaimed, in his he and she tones,
" Help me out ! help me out ; I have broken my bones !"
" Help you out," said a Paddy, who pass'd, "what a bother
Why, there's two of you there, can't you help one another?"
Oh! oh! &c.
M.P., OR THE BLUE STOCKING. 309
PEAK aunt, in the olden time of love,
When women like slaves were spurn'd,
A maid gave her heart, as she would her glove,
To be teazed by a fop, and returned !
But women grow wiser as men improve,
And, though beaus like monkeys amuse us,
Oh ! think not we'd give such a delicate gem
As the heart, to be play'd with, or sullied by them ;
No, dearest aunt ! excuse us.
We may know, by the head on Cupid's seal,
What impression the heart will take ;
If shallow the head, oh ! soon we feel
What a poor impression 'twill make !
Tho' plagued, heaven knows ! by the foolish zeal,
Of the fondling fop who pursues me,
Oh, think not I'd follow their desperate rule,
Who get rid of the folly, by wedding the fool ;
No, dearest aunt ! excuse us.
Tis sweet to behold, when the billows are sleeping,
Some gay-colour'd bark, moving gracefully by ;
No damp on her deck but the evem-tide's weeping,
No breath in her sails but the summer- wind's sigh.
Yet, who would not turn with a fonder emotion,
To gaze on the life-boat, tho' rugged and worn,
Which often hath wafted o'er hills of the ocean,
The lost light of hope to the seaman forlorn !
Oh I grant that of those, who in life's sunny slumber,
Around us like summer-barks idly have play'd,
When storms are abroad we may find in the number,
One friend, like the life-boat, to fly to our aid.
COEBUPTION, AND INTOLERANCE:
TWO POEMS:
ADDRESSED TO AN ENGLISHMAN BY AN IRISHMAN.
PREFACE.
THE practice which has been lately introduced into literature, of
writing very long notes upon very indifferent verses, appears to
me rather a happy invention ; as it supplies us with a mode of
turning stupid poetry to account ; and as horses too heavy for the
saddle may serve well enough to draw lumber, so Poems of this
kind make excellent beasts of burthen, and will bear notes, though
they may not bear reading. Besides, the comments in such cases
are so little under the necessity of paying any servile deference to
the text, that they may even adopt that Socratic dogma, " Quod
supra nos nihil ad nos."
In tho first of the following Poems, I have ventured to speak of
the revolution in language which has sometimes been employed
by Tory writers, and which is therefore neither very new nor
popular. But however an Englishman may be reproached with
ingratitude, for depreciating the merits and results of a measure
which he is taught to regard as the source of his liberties how-
ever ungrateful it might be in Alderman B-rch to question for a
moment the purity of that glorious era, to which he is indebted
for the seasoning of so many orations yet an Irishman, who has
none of these obligations to acknowledge ; to whose country the
Revolution brought nothing but injury and insult, and who recol-
lects that the book of Molyneux was burned, by order of William's
Whig Parliament, for daring to extend to unfortunate Ireland,
those principles on which the Revolution was professedly founded
an Irishman may venture to criticise the measures of that period,
without exposing himself either to the imputation of ingratitude,
or the suspicion of being influenced by any Popish remains of
Jacobitism. No nation, it is true, was ever blessed with a more
golden opportunity of establishing and securing its liberties for
ever than the conjuncture of Eighty-eight presented to the people
of Great Britain. But the disgraceful reigns of Charles and James
had weakened and degraded the national character. The bold
notions of popular right, which had arisen out of the struggles be-
tween Charles the First and his parliament, were gradually sup-
planted by those slavish doctrines for which Lord II kesb-ry
eulogises the churchmen of that period ; and as the Reformation
had happened too soon for the purity of religion, so the Revolu-
tion came too late for the spirit of liberty. Its advantages accor-
dingly were for the most part specious and transitory, while the
CORRUPTION, AND INTOLERANCE. 401
evils which it entailed are still felt and still increasing. By render-
ing unnecessary the frequent exercise of Prerogative, that un-
wieldy power which cannot move a step without alarm, it limited
the only interference of the Crown, which is singly and indepen-
dently exposed before the people, and whose abuses therefore are
obvious to their senses and capacities. Like the myrtle over a cer-
tain statue in Minerva's temple at Athens, it skilfully veiled from.
their sight the only obtrusive feature of royalty. At the same time
however, that the Revolution abridged this unpopular attribute,
it amply compensated, by the substitution of a new power, as much
more potent in its effects as it is more secret in its operations. In
the disposal of an immense revenue and the extensive patronage
annexed to it, the first foundations of this power of the Crown
were laid ; the innovation of a standing army at once increased
and strengthened it, and the few slight barriers which the Act of
Settlement opposed to its progress have all been gradually re-
moved during the whiggish reigns that succeeded ; till at length
this spirit of influence has become the vital principle of the state,
whose agency, subtle and unseen, pervades every part of the
Constitution, lurks under all its forms, and regulates all its move-
ments, and, like the invisible sylph or grace which presides over
the motions of beauty,
" lllam, quicquid aflt, quoquo vestigia flcctit,
Componit furtim subsequiturque."
The cause of liberty and the Revolution are so habitually associ-
ated by Englishmen, that probably in objecting to the latter 1
may be thought hostile or indifferent to the former. But nothing
can be more unjust than such a suspicion. The very object, which
my humble animadversions would attain is, that in the crisis to
which I think England is hastening, and between which and
foreign subjugation she may soon be compelled to choose, the errors
and omissions of 1688 may bo remedied ; and, that as she then
had a Revolution without a Reform, she may now seek a Reform
without a Revolution.
In speaking of the parties which have so long agitated England,
it will be observed that I lean as little to the Whigs as to their
adversaries. Both factions have been equally cruel to Ireland,
and perhaps equally insincere in their efforts for the liberties of
England. There is one name, indeed, connected with Whiggism
of which I can never think but with veneration and tenderness.
As justly, however, might the light of the sun be claimed by any
particular nation, as the sanction of that name be assumed by any
party whatsoever. Mr Fox belonged to mankind, and they have
lost in him their ablest friend.
"With respect to the few lines upon Intolerance, which I have
subjoined, they are but the imperfect beginning of a long series of
Essays, with which I here menace my readers, upon the same im-
portant subject. I shall look to no higher merit in the task, than
that of giving a new form to claims and remonstrances, which
have often been much more eloquently urged, and which would
long ere now have produced their effect, but that the minds of
some men, like the pupil of the human eye, contract themseltea
the mere the stronger light there is shed upon them.
402 MOORE'S POEMS.
OOKKUPTION :
AN EPISTLE.
Of, it TI; tikriifit vt' ytXug KV of/.o\oyn' ffuyyvuf^n TOI$ tXty-
' pure;, KV rovTOig vis t-riTipa' <rX>. <rVT, orec tx rev
iv vprn<reu. Demosth. Philipp. UL
BOAST on, my friend though stript of all beside,
Thy struggling nation still retains her pride :
That pride, which once in genuine glory woke
When Marlhorough fought, and brilliant St John spoke ;
That pride which still, by time and shame unstung,
Outlives even "Wh-tel-cke's sword and H-wk-sb'ry's
tongue !
Boast on, my friend, while in this humbled isle
Where Honour mourns and Freedom fears to smile,
Where the bright light of England's fame is known
But by the baleful shadow she has thrown
On all our fate, where, doom'd to wrongs and slights,*
We hear you boast of Britain's glorious rights,
As wretched slaves, that under hatches lie,
Here those on deck extol the sun and sky !
Boast on, while wandering through my native haunts,
I coldly listen to thy patriot vaunts ;
And feel, though close our wedded countries twine,
More sorrow for my own than pride from thine.
Yet pause a moment and if truths severe
Can find an inlet to that courtly ear,
Which loves no politics in rhyme but Pye's,
And hears no news but W-rd's gazetted lies,
If aught can please thee but the good old saws
Of "Church and State," and "William's matchless laws,' 1
And " Acts and rights of glorious Eighty-eight,"
Things, which though now a century out of date,
Still serve to ballast, with convenient words,
A few crank arguments for speeching lords,
Turn, while I tell how England's freedom found,
Where most she look'd for life, her deadliest wound ;
* "By the total reduction of the kingdom of Ireland in 1691" (says
Burke) " the ruin of the native Irish, and, in a great measure too, of the
Srst races of the English, was completely accomplished."
CORRUPTION : AN EPISTLE. 403
How "brave she struggled, while her foe was seen,
How faint since Influence lent that foe a screen ;
How strong o'er James and Popery she prevail'd,
How weakly fell, when Whigs and gold assail'd.
"While kings were poor, and all those schemes unknown
Which drain the people, but enrich the throne ;
Ere yet a yielding Commons had supplied
Those chains of gold by which themselves are tied ;
Then proud Prerogative, untaught to creep
With bribery's silent foot on Freedom's sleep,
Frankly avow'd his bold enslaving plan,
And claim'd a right from God to trample man !
But Luther's light had too much warmed mankind
For Hampden's truth to linger long behind ;
Nor then, when king-like popes had fallen so low,
Could pope-like kings escape the levelling blow.
That ponderous sceptre (in whose place we bow
To the light talisman of influence now),
Too gross, too visible to work the spell
Which modern power performs, in fragments fell :
In fragments lay, till, patch'd and painted o'er
With fleur-de-lys, it shone and scourg'd once more.
'Twas then, my friend, thy kneeling nation quaff'd
Long, long and deep, the churchman's opiate draught
Of tame obedience till her sense of right
And pulse of glory seemed extinguished quite ;
And Britons slept so sluggish in their chain
That wakening Freedom call'd almost in vain.
Oh England ! England ! what a chance was thine,
When the last tyrant of that ill-starr'd line
Fled from his sullied crown, and left thee free
To found thy own eternal liberty !
How bright, how glorious in that sunshine hour,
Might patriot hands have rais'd the triple tower
Of British freedom, on a rock divine
Which neither force could storm nor treachery mine !
But, no the luminous, the lofty plan,
Like mighty Babel, seem'd too bold for man ;
The curse of jarring tongues again was given
To thwart a work which rais'd men near to heaven.
While Tories marr d what Whigs had scarce begun,
While Whigs undid what Whigs themselves had done,
The time was lost, and William, with a smile,
Saw Freedom weeping o'er the unfinished pile 1
Hence all the ills you suffer, hence remain
20
404 MOORE'S POEMS.
Such galling fragments of that feudal chain*
Whose links, around you by the Norman flung,
Though loos'd and broke so often, still have clung,
Hence sly Prerogative, like Jove of old,
Has turn'd his thunder into showers of gold,
Whose silent courtship wins securer joys,
Taints by degrees, and ruins without noise.
While parliaments, no more those sacred things,
Which make and rule the destiny of kings,
Like loaded dice by ministers are thrown,
And each new set of sharpers cog their own.
Hence the rich oil, that from the treasury steals
And drips o'er all the Constitution's wheels,
Giving the old machine such pliant play,t
That Court and Commons jog one joltless way,
While Wisdom trembles for the crazy car,
So gilt, so rotten, carrying fools so far ;
And the dup'd people, hourly doom'd to pay
The sums that bribe their liberties away,
Like a young eagle, who has lent his plume
To fledge the shaft by which he meets his doom,
See their own feathers pluck'd, to wing the dart,
Which rank corruption destines for their heart !
But soft ! my friend, I hear thee proudly say,
" What ! shall I listen to the impious lay,
That dares, with Tory licence, to profane
The bright bequests of William's glorious reign ?
Shall the great wisdom of our patriot sires,
Whom H-wks-b y quotes and savoury B-rch admires,
Be slander'd thus ? Shall honest St le agree
With virtuous K-se to call us pure and free,
Yet fail to prove it ? Shall our patent pair,
Of wise state-poets waste their words in air,
And P e unheeded breathe his prosperous strain,
And C-nn-ng take the people's sense in vain ?"
The people ! ah, that Freedom's form should stay
Where Freedom's spirit long hath pass'd away !
That a false smile should play around the dead,
* The last great wound given to the feudal system was the Act of the
12th of Charles II., which abolished the tenure of knight's service in capite,
ani which Blackstone compares, for its salutary influence upon property,
to the boasted provisions of Magna Charta itself.
t " They drove so fast (says Wehvood of the ministers of Charles I.)
Siat it was no wonder that the wheels and chariot broke." Memoirs, p. 35.
But this fatal accident, if we may judge from experience, is to be imputed
far less to the folly and impetuosity of the drivers, than to the want of
that suppling oil from the Treasury -\v hich has been found so necessary to
make a Government like that of England run smoothly."
CORRUPTION : AN EPISTLE. 405
And flush the features when the soul has fled !
When Rome had lost her virtue with her rights,
When her foul tyrant sat on Caprse's heights
Amid his ruffian spies, and doom'd to death
Each noble name they blasted with their breath,
Even then (in mockery of that golden time,
When the Republic rose revered, sublime,
And her free sons, diffus'd from zone to zone,
Gave kings to every country but their own),
Even then the senate and the tribunes stood,
Insulting marks, to show how Freedom's flood
Had dared to flow in glory's radiant day,
And how it ebb'd, for ever ebb'd away !*
Oh look around though yet a tyrant's sword
Nor haunts your sleep nor glitters o'er your board,
Though blood be better drawn by modern quacks,
With treasury leeches than with sword or axe ;
Yet say, could even a prostrate tribune's power,
Or a mock senate, in Rome's servile hour,
Insult so much the rights the claims of man,
As doth that fetter'd mob, that free divan,
Of noble tools and honourable knaves,
Of pension 'd patriots and privileg'd slaves ;
That party-colour'd mass, which nought can warm
But quick Corruption's heat whose ready swarm
Spread their light wings in Bribery's golden sky,
Buzz for a period, lay their eggs, and die ;
That greedy vampire, which from Freedom's tomb
Comes forth, with all the mimicry of bloom
Upon its lifeless cheek, and sucks and drains
A people's blood to feed its putrid veins !
Oh what a picture yes, my friend, 'tis dark
" But can no light be found no genuine spark
Of former fire to warm us ? Is there none,
To act a Marvell's part?"t I fear not one.
To place and power all public spirit tends,
In place and power all public spirit ends ;
Like hardy plants, that love the air and sky,
* There Is something very touching in what Tacitus tells us of the hopes
that revived in a few patriot bosoms when the death of Augustus was near
approaching, and the fond expectation with which they began "bona
libertatis incassnm disserere." Ferguson says, Caesar's interference with
the rights of election " made the subversion of the republic more felt than
any of the former acts of his power." Raman Republic, book v. chap. i.
t Andrew Marvell, the honest opposer of the court during the reign of
Charles the Second, and the last member of Parliament who, according
to the ancient mode, took wages fro'n his constituents.
406 MOORE'S POEMS.
"When out, 'twill thrive but taken in, 'twill die ! *
Not bolder truths of sacred Freedom hung
From Sidney's pen or burn'd on Fox's tongue,
Than upstart Whigs produce each market night,
While yet their conscience, as their purse, is light ;
While debts at home excite their care for those
Which, dire to tell, their much-lov'd country owes,
And loud and upright, till their price be known,
They thwart the King's supplies to raise their own,
But bees, on flowers alighting, cease their hum
So, settling upon places, Whigs grow dumb.
And though I feel as if indignant Heaven,
Must think that wretch too foul to be forgiven,
Who basely hangs the bright protecting shade
Of Freedom's ensign o'er Corruption's trade,
And makes the sacred flag he dares to show
His passport to the market of her foe,
Yet, yet I own, so venerably dear
Are Freedom's grave old anthems to my ear,
That I enjoy them, though by rascals sung,
And reverence Scripture even from Satan's tongue.
Nay, when the constitution has expir'd,
I'll have such men, like Irish wakers, hir'd
To sing old " Habeas Corpus" by its side,
And ask, in purchas'd ditties, why it died ?
See that smooth lord, whom Nature's plastic pains
Seem to have destined for those Eastern reigns
When eunuchs flourish 'd, and when nerveless things
That men rejected were the chosen of kings ;
Even he, forsooth (oh mockery accurst),
Dar'd to assume the patriot's name at first
Thus Pitt began, and thus begin his apes ;
Thus devils, when first rais'd, take pleasing shapes.
But oh, poor Ireland ! if revenge be sweet
For centuries of wrong, for dark deceit
And withering insult for the Union thrown
Into thy bitter cup, when that alone
Of slavery's draught was wanting if for this
Revenge be sweet, thou hast that daemon's bliss ;
* The following artless speech of Sir FrancisWinnington, in the reign of
Charles the Second, will amuse those who are fully aware of the perfection
we have attained in that system of government whose humble beginnings so
much astonished the worthy baronet "I did observe (says he) that all
those who had pensions, and most of those who had offices, voted all of a
Bide, as they were directed by some great officer, exactly as if their business
in this House had been to preserve their pensions and offices, and not to
make laws for the pood of them who sent them here." He alludes to that
parliament which was called, par excellence, the Pensionary Parliament.
INTOLERANCE : A SATIKE. 401
For, oh, 'tis more than hell's revenge to see
That England trusts the men who've ruin'd thee ;
That, in these awful days, when every hour
Creates some new or blasts some ancient power,
When proud Napoleon, like the burning shield
Whose light compell'd each wond'ring foe to yield,
With baleful lustre blinds the brave and free,
And dazzles Europe into slavery
That, in this hour, when patriot zeal should guide,
When Mind should rule, and Fox should not have died,
All that devoted England can oppose
To enemies made fiends and friends made foes,
Is the rank refuse, the despis'd remains
Of that unpitying power, whose whips and chains
Made Ireland first, in wild and wicked trance,
Turn false to England give her hand to France,
Those hack'd and tainted tools, so foully fit
For the grand artisan of mischief, P-tt,
So useless ever but in vile employ,
So weak to save, so vigorous to destroy
Such are the men that guard thy threaten'd shore,
Oh England ! sinking England ! boast no more.
INTOLEKANCE :
A SATIRE.
"This clamour, which pretends to be raised for the safety of religion,
has almost worn out the very appearance of it, and rendered us not only
the most divided but the most immoral people upon the face of the earth."
Addison, Freeholder, No. 37.
NOTE.
OUR history, for many centuries past, is creditable neither to
our neighbours nor ourselves, and ought not to be read by any
Irishman who wishes either to love England or to feel proud of
Ireland. The loss of independence very early debased our char-
acter ; and our feuds and rebellions, though frequent and feroci-
ous, but seldom displayed that generous spirit of enterprise with
which the pride of an independent monarchy so long dignified the
struggles of Scotland. It is true this island has given birth to
heroes, who, under more favourable circumstances, might have
left in the hearts of their countrymen recollections as dear as
those of a Bruce or a Wallace ; but success was wanting to con-
secrate resistance, their cause was branded with the disheartening
name of treason, and their oppressed country was such a blank
among nations, that, like the adventures of those woods which
408 MOORE'S POEMS.
Rinaldo wished to explore, the fame of their actions was lost in
the obscurity of the place where they achieved them.
Errando in quelli boschi
Trovar potria strane avventure e molte,
Ma come i luoglii i fatti ancor son foschi,
Che non se n' na notizia le piti volte."
Hence is it that the annals of Ireland, through a lapse of six
hundred years, exhibit not one of those shining names, not one of
those themes of national pride, from which poetry borrows her
noblest inspiration ; and that history, which ought to be the
richest garden of the Muse, yields nothing to her here, but cypress
and weeds. In truth, the poet who would embellish his song with
allusions to Irish names and events, must be content to seek them
in those early periods when our character was yet unalloyed and
original, before the impolitic craft of our conquerors had divided,
weakened, and disgraced us. The only traits of heroism which he
can venture at this day to commemorate, with safety to himself,
or honour to the country, are to be looked for in those times when
the native monarchs of Ireland di.-played and fostered virtues
worthy of a better age ; when our Malachies wore collars of gold
which they had won in single combat from the invader, and our
Briens deserved the blessings of a people by all the most estimable
qualities of a king. It may be said that the magic of tradition has
shed a charm over this remote period, to which it is in reality but
little entitled, and that most of the pictures, which we dwell on so
fondly, of days when this island was distinguished amidst the gloom
of Europe, by the sanctity of her morals, the spirit of her knight-
hood, and the polish of her schools, are little more than the inven*
tions of national partiality, that bright but spurious offspring
which vanity engenders upon ignorance, and with which the first
records of every people abound. But the sceptic is scarcely to be
envied who would pause for stronger proofs than we already possess
of the early glories of Ireland ; and were even the veracity of all
these proofs surrendered, yet who would not fly to such flattering
fictions from the sad, degrading truths which the history of later
times presents to us ?
The language of sorrow, however, is, in general, best suited to
our Music, and with themes of this nature the poet may be amply
supplied. There is not a page of our annals which cannot afford
him a subject, and while the national Muse of other countries
adorns her temple with trophies of the past, in Ireland her altar,
like the shrine of Pity at Athens, is to be known only by the tears
that are shed upon it ; " lacrymis altaria sudant."
There is a well-known story, related of the Antiochians tinder
the reign of Theodosius, which is not only honourable to the powers
of music in general, but which applies so peculiarly to the mourn-
ful melodies of Ireland, that I cannot resist the temptation of in-
troducing it here. The piety of Theodosius would have been ad-
mirable, if it had not been stained with intolerance ; but his reign
affords, I believe, the first example of a disqualifying penal code
enacted by Christians against Christians.* Whether his inter-
* "A sort of civil excommunication (says Gibbon), which separated
them from their fellow-citizens by a peculiar brand of infamy; and tins
declaration of the supreme magistrate tended to justify, or at least to
INTOLERANCE ! A SATIRE. 409
ference with the religion of the Antiochians had any share in the
alienation of their loyalty is not expressly ascertained by his-
torians ; but severe edicts, heavy taxation, and the rapacity and
insolence of the men whom he sent to govern them, sufficiently
account for the discontents of a warm and susceptible people.
Repentance soon followed the crimes into which their impatience
had hurried them ; but the vengeance of the Emperor was im-
placable, and punishments of the most dreadful nature hung over
the city of Antioch, whose devoted inhabitants, totally resigned to
despondence, wandered through the streets and public assemblies,
giving utterance to their grief in dirges of the most touching
lamentation. At length, Flavianus, their bishop, whom they sent
to intercede with Theodosius, finding all his entreaties coldly re-
jected, adopted the expedient of teaching these songs of sorrow
which he had heard from the lips of his unfortunate countrymen
to the minstrels who performed for the Emperor at table. The
heart of Theodosius could not resist this appeal ; tears fell fast
into his cup while he listened, and the Antiochians were forgiven.
Surely, if music ever spoke the misfortunes of a people, or could
ever conciliate forgiveness for their errors, the music of Ireland
ought to possess those powers.
START not, my friend, nor think the Muse will stain
Her classic fingers with the dust profane
Of Bulls, Decrees, and fulminating scrolls,
That took such freedom once with royal souls,
When heaven was yet the pope's exclusive trade,
And kings were damn'd as fast as now they're made.
No, no let D-gen-n search the papal chair
For fragrant treasures long forgotten there ;
And, as the witch of sunless Lapland thinks
That little swarthy gnomes delight in stinks,
Let sallow P-rc-v-1 snuff up the gale
Which wizard D-gen-n 's gather'd sweets exhale.
Enough for me, whose heart has learn'd to scorn
Bigots alike in Rome or England born,
Who loathe the vemon, whenceso'er it springs,
From popes or lawyers, pastry-cooks or kings,
Enough for me to laugh and weep by turns,
As mirth provokes, or indignation burns.
As C nn ng vapours, or as France succeeds,
As H-wk-sb ry proses, or as Ireland bleeds !
excuse, the insults of a fanatic populace. The sectaries were gradually
disqualified for the possession of honourable or lucrative employments, and
Theodosius was satisfied with his own justice when lie di creed, that, as
the Eunomians distinguished the nature of the Son from that of the Father,
they should be incapable of making their wills, or of receiving any advan-
tage from testamentary donations."
iio MOORE'S POEMS.
And thou, my friend, if, in these headlong days,
"When bigot Zeal her drunken antics plays
So no<vr a precipice, that men the while
Look breathless on and shudder while they smile
If, in such fearful days, thou''lt dare to look
To hapless Ireland, to this rankling nook
Which Heaven hath freed from poisonous things in vain,
While G-ff-rd's tongue and M-sgr-ve's pen remain
If thou hast yet no golden blinkers got
To shade thine eyes from this devoted spot,
"Whose wrongs, though blazon'd o'er the world they be,
Placemen alone are privileged not to see
Oh ! turn awhile, and, though the shamrock wreathes
My homely harp, yet shall the song it breathes
Of Ireland's slavery and of Ireland's woes,
Live, when the memory of her tyrant foes
Shall but exist, all future knaves to warn,
Embalm'd in hate and canonised by scorn.
When C-stl-r gh, in sleep still more profound
Than his own opiate tongue now deals around,
Shall wait th' impeachment of that awful day,
Which even his practis'd hand can't bribe away.
And, oh my friend, wert thou but near me now
To see the Spring diffuse o'er Erin's brow
Smiles that shine out, unconquerably fair,
Even through the blood-marks left by C-md-n there,
Could'st thou but see what verdure paints the sod
Which none but tyrants and their slaves have trod,
And didst thou know the spirit, kind and brave,
That warms the soul of each insulted slave,
Who, tir'd with struggling, sinks beneath his lot.
And seems by all but watchful France forgot*
Thy heart would burn yes, even thy Pittite heart
Would burn, to think that such a blooming part
Of the world's garden, rich in Nature's charms,
And fill'd with social souls and vigorous arms,
Should be the victim of that canting crew,
So smooth, so godly, yet so devilish too ;
Who, arm'd at once with prayer-books and with whips,
Blood on their hands, and Scripture on their lips,
Tyrants by creed, and torturers by text,
Make this life hell, in honour of. the next !
Your K-desd-les, P-rc-v-1's, oh gracious Heaven,
* The example of toleration which Bonaparte has given will, I fear,
produce no other effect than that of determining the British Government
-o persist, from the very spirit of opposition, in their own old system of
intolerance and injustica
INTOLERANCE : A SATIRE. 411
If I'm presumptuous, be my tongue forgiven,
"When here I swear, by my soul's hope of rest,
I'd rather have been born, ere man was blest
"With the pure dawn of Revelation's light,
Yes, rather plunge me back in Pagan night,
And take my chance with Socrates for bliss.
Than be the Christian of a faith like this,
Which builds on heavenly cant its earthly sway,
And in a convert mourns to lose a prey ;
Which binding polity in spiritual chains,
And tainting piety with temporal stains,
Corrupts both State and Church, and makes an oath
The knave and atheist's passport into both ;
Which, while it dooms dissenting souls to know
Nor bliss above nor liberty below,
Adds the slave's suffering to the sinner's fear,
And, lest he 'scape hereafter, racks him here !
But no far other faith, far milder beams
Of heavenly justice warm the Christian's dreams ;
His creed is writ on Mercy's page above
By the pure hands of all-atoning Love ;
He weeps to see his soul's religion twine
The tyrant's sceptre with her wreath divine ;
And he, while round him sects and nations raise
To the one God their varying notes of praise,
Blesses each voice, whate'er its tone may be,
That serves to swell the general harmony.
Such was the spirit, gently, grandly bright,
That fill'd, oh Fox ! thy peaceful soul with light ;
While blandly speeding like that orb of air
Which folds our planet in its circling care,
The mighty sphere of thy transparent mind
Embrac'd the world, and breath 'd for all mankind.
Last of the great, farewell ! yet not the last
Though Britain's sunshine hour with thee be past,
lerne still one gleam of glory gives,
And feels but half thy loss while Grattan lives.
* Mr Fox, in his Speech on the Repeal of the Test Act (1790), thtts
condemns the intermixture of religion with the political constitution of a
state: "What purpose (he asks) can it serve, except the baleful purpose
of 'communicating and receiving contamination? Under such an alliance
corruption must alight upon the one, and slavery overwhelm the other."
Locke, too, says of the connection between Church and State: "The
boundaries on both sides are fixed and immoveable. He jumbles heaven
and earth together, the tilings most remote and opposite, who mixes these
two societies, which are in their original, end, business, and in everything,
perfectly distinct and infinitely different from each other." First Letter
on Tukrution.
SACRED SONGS.
THOU ART, OH GOD.
(A ir Unknown.) *
'The day is thine, the night also is thine: thou hast prepared the light
and the sun. Thou hast set all the borders of the earth : thou hast uiaue
summer and winter." Psalm Ixxiv. 16, 17.
THOU art, God, the life and light
Of all this wond'rous world we see ;
Its glow by day, its smile by night,
Are but reflections caught from Thee.
Where'er we turn, thy glories shine,
And all things fair and bright are Thine !
When day, with farewell beam, delays
Among the op'ning clouds of even,
And we can almost think we gaze
Through golden vistas into Heaven
Those hues that make the sun's decline
So soft, so radiant, Lord! are Thine.
When night, with wings of starry gloom,
O'ershadows all the earth and skies,
Like some dark, beauteous bird, whose plume
Is sparkling with unnumber'd eyes
That sacred gloom, those fires divine,
So grand, so countless, Lord ! are Thine.
When youthful Spring around us breathes,
Thy Spirit warms her fragrant sigh ;
And every flower the Summer wreathes
Is born beneath that kindling eye.
Where'er we turn, Thy glories shine,
ind all things fair and bright are Thme!
SACRED SONGS. 413
THE BIRD, LET LOOSE.
(A IT BEETHOVEN.)
THE bird, let loose in eastern skies,*
When hast'ning fondly home,
Ne'er stoops to earth her wing, nor flies
Where idle warblers roam.
But high she shoots through air and light,
Above all low delay,
Where nothing earthly bounds her flight,
Nor shadow dims her way.
So grant me, God, from every care
And stain of passion free,
Aloft, through Virtue's purer air,
To hold my course to Thee !
No sin to cloud, no lure to stay
My soul, as home she springs ;
Thy sunshine on her joyful way,
Thy freedom in her wings 1
FALLEN IS THY THRONE.
(A ir MAKTINI.)
FALL'N is thy Throne, oh Israel !
Silence is o'er thy plains ;
Thy dwellings all lie desolate,
Thy children weep in chains.
Where are the dews that feed thee
On Etham's barren shore ?
That fire from Heaven which led thee,
Now lights thy path no more.
Lord ! thou didst love Jerusalem
Once she was all thy own ;
Her love thy fairest heritagef
Her power thy glory's thronet
* The carrier-pigeon, it is well known, flies at an elevated pilch, in
order to surmount every obstacle between her and the place to which she
is destined.
f I have left mine heritage ; I have given the dearly beloved of my soul
into the hands of her enemies. Jeremiah xii. 7.
\ Do not disgrace the throne of thy glory. Jer. xiv. 2L
*14 MOORE S POEMS.
Till evil came, and blighted
Thy long lov'd olive-tree ;*
And Salem's shrines were lighted
For other gods than Thee.
Then sunk the star of Solyma
Then pass'd her glory's day,
Like heath that, in the wilderness,!
The wild wind whirls away.
Silent and waste her bowers,
Where once the mighty trod,
And sunk those guilty towers,
While Baal reign'd as God.
" Go " said the Lord " Ye Conquerors !
Steep in her blood your swords,
And raze to earth her battlements,*
For they are not the Lord's.
Till Zion's mournful daughter
O'er kindred bones shall tread,
And Ilinnom's vale of slaughter $
Shall hide but half her dead 1 "
WHO IS THE MAID?
ST JEKOME'S LOVE.!
(A ir BEETHOVEN.)
WHO is the Maid my spirit seeks,
Through cold reproof and slander's blight ?
Has she Love's roses on her cheeks ?
Is hers an eye of this world's light ?
No wan and sunk with midnight prayer
Are the pale looks of her I love ;
Or if, at times, a light be there,
Its beam is kindled from above.
* The Lord called thy name a green olive-tree ; fair and of goodly fniifc,
<fec. Jeremiah xi. 16.
t For he shall be like the heath in the desert.->7er. xvii. 6.
J Take away her battlements; for they are not the Lord's. Jer. v. 10.
Therefore, behold, the days come, saith the Lord, that it shall no
more be called Tophet, nor the Valley of the Son of Hinnom, but the
Valley of Slaughter ; for they shall bury in Tophet till there be no place.
Jer. vii. 32.
U These lines were suggested by a passage in St Jerome's reply to some
calumnious remarks that had been circulated respecting his intimacy with
the matron Paula.
SACRED SONGS. 418
I chose not her, my soul's elect,
From those who seek their Maker's shrine
In gems and garlands proudly deck'd,
As if themselves were things divine.
No Heaven but faintly warms the breast
That beats beneath a broider'd veil ;
And she who comes in glitt'ring vest
To mourn her frailty, still is frail.
Not so the faded form I prize
And love, because its bloom is gone ;
The glory in those sainted eyes
Is all the grace her brow puts on.
And ne'er was Beauty's dawn so bright,
So touching as that form's decay,
Which, like the altar's trembling light,
In holy lustre wastes away.
THIS WORLD IS ALL A FLEETING SHOW.
(Air STEVENSON.)
THIS world is all a fleeting show,
For man's illusion given ;
The smiles of Joy, the tears of Woe,
Deceitful shine, deceitful flow
There's nothing true, but Heaven !
And false the light on Glory's plume,
As fading hues of even ;
And Love and Hope, and Beauty's bloom
Are blossoms gather'd for the tomb
There's nothing bright, but Heaven !
Poor wand'rers of a stormy day !
From wave to wave we're driven,
And Fancy's flash, and Reason's ray,
JS'.-rve but to light the troubled way
There's nothing calm, but Heaven !
416 MOORE'S POEMS.
OH, THOU! WHO DRY'ST THE MOURNER'S TEAR t
(A ir HAYDN.)
" He healeth the broken in heart, and bindeth up their wounds."
Psalm cxlvii. 3.
OH, Thou ! who dry'st the mourner's tear,
How dark this world would be.
If, when deceiv'd and wounded here,
We could not fly to Thee !
The friends, who in our sunshine live,
When winter comes, are flown ;
And he who has but tears to give,
Must weep those tears alone.
But Thou wilt heal that broken heart,
Which, like the plants that throw
Their fragrance from the wounded part,
Breathes sweetness out of woe.
When joy no longer soothes or cheers,
And even the hope that threw
A moment's sparkle o'er our tears,
Is dimm'd and vanish 'd too,
Oh, who would bear life's stormy doom,
Did not thy Wing of Love
Come, brightly wafting through the gloom
Our Peace-branch from above ?
Then sorrow, touch 'd by Thee, grows bright
With more than rapture's ray ;
As darkness shows us worlds of light
We never saw by day !
WEEP NOT FOR THOSE.
(Air AVISON.)
WEEP not for those whom the veil of the tomb,
In life's happy morning, hath hid from our eyes,
Ere sin threw a blight o'er the spirit's young bloom,
Or earth had profan'd what was born for the skies.
Death chill'd the fair fountain, ere sorrow had stain'd it ;
'Twas frozen in all the pure light of its course,
And but sleeps till the sunshine of Heaven has unchain'd it.
To water that Eden where first was its source.
SACRED SONGS. 417
Weep not for those whom the veil of the tomb,
In life's happy moining, hath hid from our eyes,
Ere sin throw a blight o'er the spirit's young bloom,
Or earth had profan'd what was born for the skies.
Mourn not for her, the young Bride of tho Vale,*
Our gayest and loveliest, lost to us now,
Ere life's early lustre had time to grow pale,
And the garland of Love was yet fresh on her brow.
Oh, then was her moment, dear spirit, for flying
From this gloomy world, while its gloom was unknown-
And the wild hymns she warbled so sweetly, in dying,
Were echoed in Heaven by lips like her own.
Weep not for her in her spring-time she flew
To that land where the wings of the soul are unfurl'd ;
And now, like a star beyond evening's cold dew,
Looks radiantly down on the tears of this world.
THE TURF SHALL BE MY FRAGRANT SHRINE.
(Air STEVENSON.)
THE turf shall be my fragrant shrine ;
My temple, Lord ! that arc.h of thine ;
My censer's breath the mountain airs,
And silent thoughts my only prayers.
My choir shall be the moonlight waves,
When murm'ring homeward to their caves,
Or when the stillness of the sea,
Even more than music, breathes of Thee I
I'll seek, by day, some glade unknown,
All light and silence, like thy throne ;
And the pale stars shall be, at night,
The only eyes that watch my rite.
Thy Heaven, on which 'tis bliss to look,
Shall be my pure and shining book,
Where I shall read, in words of flame,
The glories of thy wond'rous name.
* This second verse, which I wrote 'ong after the first, alludes to the
fate of a very lovely and amiable girl, the daughter of the late Colonel
Bainbrigge, who was married in Ashbourne Church, October 31, 1815,
and died of a fever in a few weeks after ; the sound of her marriage-bells
seemed scarcely out of cur ears when we heard of her death. During her
last delirium she sung several hymns in a voice even clearer and sweeter
than usual, and among them were some from the present collection (par-
ti sularly, "There's nothing bright but Heaven"), which this very into-
rwting girl had often heard during the summer.
418 MOORE'S POEMS.
I'll read thy anger in tlie rack
That clouds awhile the day-beam's track ;
Thy mercy in the azure hue
Of sunny brightness, breaking through.
There's nothing bright, above, below,
From flowers that bloom to stars that glow,
But in its light my soul can see
Some features of thy Deity :
There's nothing dark, below, above,
But in its gloom I trace thy love,
And meekly wait that moment, when
Thy touch shall turn all bright again !
SOUND THE LOUD TIMBKEL.
MIRIAM'S SONG.
(Air AVISON.*)
"And Miriam the prophetess, the sister of Aaron, took a timbrel in her
hand; and all the women went out after her with timbrels and with
dances." Exod. xv. 20.
SOUND the loud timbrel o'er Egypt's dark sea !
Jehovah has triumph'd his people are free.
Sing for the pride of the tyrant is broken,
His chariots, his horsemen, all splendid and brave
How vain was their boasting, the Lord hath but spoken,
And chariots and horsemen are sunk in the wave.
Sound the loud timbrel o'er Egypt's dark sea ;
Jehovah has triumph'd his people are free.
Praise to the Conqueror, praise to the Lord !
His word was our arrow, his breath was our sword.
"Who shall return to tell Egj-pt the story
Of those she. sent forth in the hour of her pride ?
For the Lord hath look'd out from his pillar of glory .t
And all her brave thousands are dash'd in the tide.
Sound the loud timbrel o'er Egypt's dark sea ;
Jehovah has triumph'd his people are free !
* I have so much altered the character of this air, which is from the
beginning of one of Avison's old-fashioned concertos, that, without this
acknowledgment, it could hardly, I think, be recognised.
t And it came to pass, that, in the morning watch, the Lord looked unto
the host of the Egyptians, through the pillar of fire and of the cloud, and
troubled the host of the Egyptians. Exod. xiv. 24.
SACRED SON'GP. 419
GO, LET ME WEEP.
(A ir STEVENSON.)
Go, let me weep there's bliss in tears,
When he who sheds them inly feels
Some ling'ring stain of early years
Effac'd by every drop that steals.
The fruitless showers of worldly woe
Fall dark to earth and never rise ;
While tears that from repentance flow,
In bright exhalement reach the skies.
Go, let me weep, &c.
Leave me to sigh o'er hours that flew
More idly than the summer's wind,
And, while they pass'd, a fragrance threw,
But left no trace of sweets behind.
The warmest sigh that pleasure heaves
Is cold, is faint to those that swell
The heart where pure repentance grieves
O'er hours of pleasure, lov'd too well.
Leave me to sigh, &c.
COME NOT, OH LOKD.
(A ir HAYDN.)
COME not, oh Lord, in the dread robe of splendour
Thou wor'st on the mount, in the day of thine iro ;
Come yeil'd in those shadows, deep, awful, but tender,
Which mercy flings over thy features of fire !
Lord, thou rememb'rest the night, when thy nation*
Stood fronting her foe by the red-rolling stream ;
On Egypt thy pillar frown'd dark desolation,
While Israel bask'd all the night in its beam.
So when the dread clouds of anger enfold Thee,
From us, in thy mercy, the dark side remove ;
While shrouded in terrors the guilty behold Thee,
Oh, turn upon us the mild light of thy love !
* And it came between the camp of the Egyptians and the camp of
Israel ; and it was a clond and darkness to them, but it gave light by
night ',0 these. Exod. xiv. 20.
2D
420 MOORE'S POEMS,
WERE NOT THE SINFUL MARY'S TEARS.
(A ir STEVENSON.)
WEKE not the sinful Mary's tears
An offering worthy Heaven,
When, o'er the faults of former years,
She wept and was forgiven ?
"When, bringing every balmy sweet
Her day of luxury stor'd,
She o'er her Saviour's hallow'd feet
The precious perfume pour'd ;
And wip'd them with that golden hair,
"Where once the diamonds shone ;
Though now those gems of grief were there
Which shine for God alone !
Were not those sweets, so humbly shed
That hair those weeping eyes
And the sunk heart, that inly bled
Heaven's noblest sacrifice ?
Thou, that has slept in error's sleep,
Oh, wouldst thou wake in Heaven,
Like Mary kneel, like Mary weep,
" Love much "t and be forgiven !
AS DOWN IN THE SUNLESS RETKEATS.
(Air HAYDN.)
As down in the sunless retreats of the ocean,
Sweet flowers are springing no mortal can see,
Se, deep in my soul the still prayer of devotion,
Unheard by the world, rises silent to Thee,
My God ! silent, to Thee
Pure, warm, silent to Thee.
As still to the star of its worship, though clouded,
The needle points faithfully o'er the dim sea,
So, dark as I roam, in this wintry world shrouded,
The hope of my spirit turns trembling to Thee,
My God ! trembling, to Thee-
True, fond, trembling to Thee.
* Her sins, which are many, are forgiven; for she loved rauch.-
itifc vii. 47.
SACHliD SONGS. 421
BUT WHO SHALL SEE.
(A ir STEVENSON.)
BUT who shall see the glorious day
When thron'd on Zion's brow,
The Lord shall rend that veil away
Which hides the nations now?*
When earth no more heneath the fear
Of His rebuke shall lie !t
When pain shall cease, and every tear
Be wip'd from ev'ry eye.t
Then, Judah, thou no more shalt mourn
Beneath the heathen's chain ;
Thy days of splendour shall return,
And all he new again.
The Fount of Life shall then be quaif'd
In peace, by all who come ;ll
And every wind that blow shall waft
Some long-lost exile home.
ALMIGHTY GOD !
CHORUS OF PRIESTS.
(Air MOZART.)
ALMIGHTY God ! when round thy shrine
The palm-tree's heavenly branch we twine**
(Emblem of Life's eternal ray,
And Love that " fadeth not away"),
We bless the flowers, expanded all,tt
* And he will destroy, In this mountain, the face of the covering cast
over all people, and the veil that is spread over all nations. Isaiah x.xv. 7.
t The rebuke of his people shall he take away from off all the earth.
Isaiah xxv. 8.
J And God shall wipe away all tears from their eyes ; . . . neither shall
there be any more pain. Rev. xxi. 4.
And he that sat upon the throne said, Behold, I make all things new.
Rev. xxi. 5.
|| And whosoever will, let him take the water of life freely. Rev.
xxii. 17.
** The Scriptures having declared that the Temple of Jerusalem was a
type of the Messiah, it is natural to conclude that the Palms, which made
so conspicuous a figure in that structure, represented that Life and Im-
mortality which were brought to light by the Gospel Observations on the
Palm, as a Sacred Emblem, by W. Tighe.
ft And he carved all the walls of the house round about with carved
figures of cherubims, and pain-trees, and open flowers. 1 Kings vi. 29.
422 MOORE'S POEMS.
We bless the leaves that never fall,
And trembling say, " In Eden thus
" The Tree of Life may flower for us I"
"When round thy cherubs smiling calm,
Without their flames* we wreathe the palm,
Oh God ! we feel the emblem true
Thy mercy is eternal too.
Those cherubs, with their smiling eyes,
That crown of palm which never dies,
Are but the types of Thee above
Eternal Life, and Peace, and Love !
OH FAIE ! OH PUKEST !
SAINT AUGUSTINE TO HIS SISTEK.t
(Air MOOKE.)
OH fair ! oh purest ! be thou the dove
That flies alone to some sunny grove,
And lives unseen, and bathes her wing,
All vestal white, in the limpid spring.
There, if the hov'ring hawk be near,
That limpid spring in its mirror clear,
Reflects him, ere he can reach his prey.
And warns the timorous bird away.
Oh be like this dove ;
Oh fair, oh purest, be like this dove.
The sacred pages of God's own book
Shall be the spring, the eternal brook,
In whose holy mirror, night and day,
Thou'lt study Heaven's reflected ray ;
And should the foes of virtue dare,
With gloomy wing, to seek thee there,
Thou wilt see how dark their shadows lie
Between Heaven and thee, and trembling fly,
Oh be like this dove ;
Oh fair, oh purest, be like this dove.
* When the passover of the tabernacles was revealed to tne great law-
giver in the mount, then the cherubic images which appeared in that
structure were no longer surrounded by flames ; for the tabernacle was a
type of the dispensation of mercy, by which JEHOVAH confirmed his gra-
cious covenant to redeem mankind. Observations on the Palm.
t In St Augustine's Treatise upon the Advantages of a Solitary Life,
addressed to his sister, th ;re is a passage from which the thought of this
song was taken.
IRISH MELODIES,
PREFATORY LETTER ON MUSIC.
IT has often been remarked, and oftener felt, that our music is
the truest of all comments upon our history. The tone of defiance,
succeeded by the languor of despondency a burst of turbulence
dying away into softness the sorrows of one moment lost in the
levity of the next and all that romantic mixture of mirth and
sadness, which is naturally produced by the efforts of a lively
temperament, to shake off, or forget, the wrongs which lie upon it:
such are the features of our history and character, which we
find strongly and faithfully reflected in our music ; and there are
many airs, which, I think, it is difficult to listen to, without re-
calling some period or event to which their expression seems
peculiarly applicable. Sometimes, when the strain is open and
spirited, yet shaded here and there by a mournful recollection, we
can fancy that we behold the brave allies of Montrose,* marching
to the aid of the royal cause, notwithstanding all the perfidy of
Charles and his ministers, and remembering just enough of past
sufferings to enhance the generosity of their present sacrifice.
The plaintive melodies of Carolan take us back to the times in
which he lived, when our poor countrymen were driven to worship
their God in caves, or to quit for ever the land of their birth (like
the bird that abandons the nest, which human touch has violat-
ed) ; and in many a song do we hear the last farewell of the
exile, mingling regret for the ties he leaves at home, with san-
guine expectations of the honours that await him abroad such
honours as were won on the field of Fontenoy, where'the valour
of Irish Catholics turned the fortune of the day in favour of the
French, and extorted from George the Second that memorable
exclamation, " Cursed be the laws which deprive me of such sub-
jects !"
Though much has been said of the antiquity of our music, it is
certain that our finest and most popular airs are modern ; and
. * There are some gratifying accounts of the gallantly of these Irish
auxiliaries in The Complete History of the Wars in Scotland, under Montrose
(1060). Clarendon owns that the Marquis of Montrose was -ndebted for
much of his miraculous success to this small band of Irish heroes undei
MacdonncU
MOORE'S POEMS.
perhaps we may look no further than the last disgraceful century
for the origin of most of those wild and melancholy strains, which
were at once the offspring and solace of grief, and which were
applied to the mind, as music was formerly to the body, " de-
cantare loca dolentia." Mr Pinkerton is of opinion that none
jf the Scotch popular airs are as old as the middle of the sixteenth
century; and though musical antiquaries refer us, for some of
our melodies, to so early a period as the fifth century, I am per-
suaded that there are few, of a civilized description (and by this
I mean to exclude all the savage Ceanans, cries,* &c.), which can
claim quite so ancient a date as Mr Pinkerton allows to the
Scotch. But music is not the only subject upon which our taste
for antiquity is rather unreasonably indulged ; and, however
heretical it may be to dissent from these romantic speculations, I
cannot help thinking that it is possible to love our country very
sealously, and to feel deeply interested in her honour and happi-
ness, without believing that Irish was the language spoken in
Paradise;! that our ancestors were kind enough to take the
trouble of polishing the Greeks ;J or that Abaris, the Hyper-
borean, was a native of the North of Ireland.
By some of these archaeologists it has been imagined that the
Irish were early acquainted with counter-point ;|| and they en-
deavour to support this conjecture by a well-known passage in
Giraldus. where he dilates, with such elaborate praise, upon the
beauties of our national minstrelsy. But the terms of this eulogy
are too vague, too deficient in technical accuracy, to prove that
even Giraldus himself knew anything of the artifice of counter-
point. There are many expressions in the Greek and Latin writers
which might be cited with much more plausibility to prove that
they understood the arrangement of music in parts;** yet I be-
* Of which some genuine specimens may be found at the end of Mr
Walker's work upon the Irish Bards. Mr Bunting has disfigured his last
splendid volume by too many of these barbarous rhapsodies.
t See Advertisement to the Transactions of the Gaelic Society of Dublin.
j O'Halloran, voL L part i. chap. vi. Id. ib. chap. vii.
|| It is also supposed, but with as little proof, that they understood the
die'sis, or enharmonic interval The Greeks seem to have formed their
ears to this delicate gradation of sound; and, whatever difficulties or
objections may He in the way of its practical use, we must agree with
Mersenne (Preludes de I'Harmonie, quest. 7), that the theory of music
would be imperfect without it ; and, even in practice, as Tosi, among
others, very justly remarks (Observations on Florid Song, chap. i. 1C),
there is no good performer on the violin who does not make a sensible
difference between D sharp and E flat, though, from the imperfection of
the instrument, they are the same notes upon the pianoforte. The effect
of modulation by enharmonic transitions is also very striking and beautiful
** The words yroixtKux. and inpoQuvut, in a passage of Plato, and
some expressions of Cicero, in fragment, lib. ii. de Republ, induced the
Abbe" Fraguier to maintain that the ancients had a knowledge of counter-
point M. Burette, however, has answered him, I think, satisfactorily
("Examen d'un Passage de Pkiton," in the third volume of Hisloire de
I'Acad.). M. Huet is of opinion (Pensees Diverses) that what Cicero says of
the music of the spheres, in his dream of Scipio, is sufficient to prove an
acquaintance with harmony ; but one of the strongest passages which I
recollect, in favour of the supposition, occurs in the Treatise, attributed to
Aristotle, Hi(n K.otrfj,oii WLouvix.* ^i o%<.i; Kfta, KO.I (-Kgti; x. r. X.
IRISH MELODIES. 42J
lieve it is conceded in general by the learned, that, however
grand and pathetic the melody of the ancients may have been,
it was reserved for the ingenuity of modern science to trans-
mit the " light of song " through the variegating prism of har-
mony.
Indeed the irregular scale of the early Irish (in which, as in
the music of Scotland, the interval of the fourth was wanting)*
must have furnished but wild and refractory subjects to the har-
monist. It was only when the invention of Guido began to be
known, and the powers of the harpf were enlarged by additional
strings, that our melodies took the sweet character which interests
us at present; and while the Scotch persevered in the old mutila-
tion of the scale, J our music became gradually more amenable
to the laws of harmony and counterpoint.
In profiting, however, by the improvements of the moderns, our
style still kept its originality sacred from their refinements ; and
though Carolan had frequent opportunities of hearing the works
of Gerniniani and other masters, we but rarely find him sacrific-
ing his native simplicity to the ambition of their ornaments, or
affectation of their science. In that curious composition, indeed,
called his Concerto, it is evident that he laboured to imitate
Corelli ; and this union of manners so very dissimilar produces
the same kind of uneasy sensation which is felt at a mixture of
different styles of architecture. In general, however, the artless
flow of our music has preserved itself free from all tinge of foreign
* Another lawless peculiarity of our music is the frequency of, what
composers call, consecutive fifths; but this is an irregularity, which can
hardly be avoided, by persons not very conversant with the rules of com-
position ; indeed if I may venture to cite my own wild attempts in this
way, it is a fault which I find myself continually commiting, and which
has sometimes appeared so pleasing to my ear, that I have surrendered it
to the critic with considerable reluctance. May there not be a little
pedantry in adhering too rigidly to this rule ? I have been told that thero
are instances, in Haydn, of an undisguised succession of fifths; and Mr
Shield, in his Introduction to Harmony, seems to intimate, that Handel has
been sometimes guilty of the same irregularity.
t A singular oversight occurs in an Essay upon the Irish Harp, by Mr
Beauford, which is inserted in the Appendix to Walker's Historical Me-
moirs. "The Irish (says he), according to Bromton, in the reign of
Henry II. had two kinds of harps, ' Hibernici tamen in duobus musici
generis instrumentis, quamvis praecipitem et velocem, suavem tamen et
jucundam,' the one greatly bold and quick, the other soft and pleasing."
How a man of Mr Beauford's learning could so mistake the meaning, and
mutilitate the gramatical construction of this extract is unaccountable.
The following is the passage as I find it entire in Bromton, and it requires
but little Latin to perceive the injustice which has been done to the words
of the old Chronicler: "Et cum Scotia, hujus terra; filia, utatur lyra,
tympano et choro, ac Wailia cithara, tubis et choro Hibernici tamen in
duobus musici generis instruraentis, quamvis prcecipitem et velocem, suavem
tanten et jucundam, crispatis modulis et intricatis notulis, efficiunt harmo-
nium" (Hist. Anglic. Script, pag. 1075). I should not have thought this
error worth remarking, but that the compiler of the Dissertation on the
Harp, prefixed to Mr Bunting's last Work, has adopted It implicitly.
t The Scotch lay claim to some of our best airs, but there are strong
fraits of difference between their melodies and ours. They had formerly
the same passion for robbing us of GUI Saints, and the learned Dempster
was, for this offence, called "The Saint Stealer."
MOORE ? S POEMS.
innovation,* and the chief corruptions of which we have to com-
plain, arise from the unskilful performance of our own itinerant
musicians, from whom, too frequently, the airs are noted down,
encumbered by their tasteless decorations, and responsible for all
their ignorant anomalies. Though it be sometimes impossible
to trace the original strain, yet, in most of them, " auri per ramoa
aura refulget,"f the pure gold of the melody shines through the
ungraceful foliage which surrounds it; and the most delicate and
difficult duty of a compiler is to endeavour, as much as possible,
by retrenching these inelegant superfluities, and collating the
various methods of playing or singing each air, to restore the
regularity of its form, and the chaste simplicity of its character.
I must again observe, that, in doubting the antiquity of our
music, my scepticism extends but to those polished specimens of
the art, which it is difficult to conceive anterior to the dawn of
modern improvement ; and that I would by no means invalidate
the claims of Ireland, to as early a rank in the annals of min-
strelsy, as the most zealous antiquary may be inclined to allow
her. In addition, indeed, to the power which music must always
have possessed over the minds of a people so ardent and suscep-
tible, the stimulus of persecution was not wanting to quicken our
taste into enthusiasm ; the charms of song were ennobled with
the glories of martyrdom, and the acts against minstrels in the
feigns of Henry VIII. and Elizabeth were as successful, I doubt
not, in making my countrymen musicians, as the penal laws have
been in keeping them Catholics.
With respect to the verses which I have written for these Melo-
dies, as they are intended rather to be sung than read, I can
answer for their sound with somewhat more confidence than their
sense; yet, it would be affectation to deny that I have given much
attention to the task, and that it is not through want of zeal or
industry, if I unfortunately disgrace the sweet airs of my country,
by poetry altogether unworthy of their taste, their energy, and
their tenderness.
Though the humble nature of my contributions to this work
may exempt them from the rigours of literary criticisms, it was
not to be expected that those touches of political feeling, those
tones of national complaint, in which the poetry sometimes
sympathizes with the music, would be suffered to pass without
censure or alarm. It has been accordingly said, that the ten-
dency of this publication is mi.schievous,J and that I have chosen
these airs but as a vehicle of dangerous politics as fair and pre-
* Among other false refinements of the art, our music (with the excep-
tion, perhaps, of the air called "Mamma, Mamma," and one or two more
of the same ludicrous description) has avoided that puerile mimicry of
natural noises, motions, <fcc., which disgraces so often the works of even
the great Handel himself. D 1 Alembert ought to have had better tasto than
to become the patron of this imitative affectation (Discours Preliminaire
de r Encycloptdie). The reader may find some good remarks on the subject
in Avison upon Musical Expression; a work, which, though under the
name of Avison, was written, it is said, by Dr Brown.
t Virgil, ^neid, lib. 6. v. 204.
j See Letters, under the signatures of u Timaeus," &c., in the Morniny
Post, Pilot, and other paper*
IRISH MELODIES. 427
cious vessels (to borrow an image of St Augustine) from which
the wine of error aright be administered. To those who identify
nationality with treason, and who see, in every effort for Ireland,
a system of hostility towards England, to those too, who, nursed
in the gloom of prejudice, are alarmed by the faintest pleam of
liberality that threatens to disturb their darkness; like that
Demophon of old, who, when the sun shone upon him, shivered !*
to such men I shall not deign to apologize for the warmth of
anypolitical sentiment which may occur in the course of these
pages. But, as there are many among the more wise and toler-
ant, who, with feeling enough to mourn over the wrongs of their
country, and sense enough to perceive all the danger of not re-
dressing them, may yet think that allusions in the least degree
bold or inflammatory, should be avoided in a publication of this
popular description I beg of these respected persons to believe,
that there is no one who deprecates more sincerely than I do
Rny appeal to the passions of an ignorant and angry multitude ;
but that it is not through that gross and inflammable region of
society a work of this nature could ever have been intended to
circulate. It looks much higher for its audience and readers it
is found upon the pianofortes of the rich and the educated of
those who can afford to have their national zeal a little stimu-
lated, without exciting much dread of the excesses into which it
may hurry them ; and of many whose nerves may be, now and
then, alarmed with advantage, as much more is to be gained by
their fears than could ever be expected from their justice.
Having thus adverted to the principal objection which has
been hitherto made to the poetical part of this work, allow me
to add a few words in defence of my ingenious coadjutor, Sir
John Stevenson, who has been accused of having spoiled the
simplicity of the airs, by the chromatic richness of his sympho-
nies, and the elaborate variety of his harmonies. We might cite
the example of the admirable Haydn, who has sported through
all the mazes of musical science, in his arrangement of the sim-
plest Scottish melodies; but it appears to me, that Sir John
Stevenson has brought a national feeling to this task, which it
would be in vain to expect from a foreigner, however tasteful or
judicious. Through many of his own compositions we trace a
vein of Irish sentiment, which points him out as peculiarly suited
to catch the spirit of his country's music; and, far from agreeing
with those critics who think that his symphonies have nothing
kindred with the airs which they introduce, I would say that,
in general, they resemble those illuminated initials of old manu-
scripts which are of the same character with the writing which
follows, though more highly coloured t and more curiously orna-
mented.
In those airs which are arranged for voices, his skill has par-
ticularly distinguished itself, and, though it cannot be denied
that a single melody most naturally expresses the language of
* This emblem of modern bigots was head-butler
to Alexander the Great. Sext. Einpir. 1'yrrh. Hijputh. lib. i.
f The word "chromatic" might have been used here, without any vio-
lence to its meaning.
428 MOORE'S POEMS.
feeling and passion, yet, often, when a favourite strain has been
dismissed, as having lost its charm of novelty for the ear, it re-
turns in a harmonized shape, with new claims upon our interest
and attention ; and to those who study the delicate artifices of
composition, the construction of the inner parts of these pieces
must afford, I think, considerable satisfaction. Every voice has
an air to itself, a flowing succession of notes, which might be
heard with pleasure independent of the rest, so artfully has the
harmonist (if I may thus express it) gavelled the melody, distri-
buting an equal portion of its sweetness to every part.
T. M.
GO WHEKE GLOKY WAITS THEE.
Go where glory waits thee,
But while fame elates thee,
Oli ! still remember me.
When the praise thou meetest
To thine ear is sweetest,
Oh ! then remember me.
Other arms may press thee,
Dearer friends caress thee,
All the joys that bless thee,
Sweeter far may be ;
But when friends are nearest,
And when joys are dearest,
Oh ! then remember me.
When, at eve, thou rovest
By the star thou lovest,
Oh ! then remember me.
Think, when home returning,
Bright we've seen it burning,
Oh ! thus remember me.
Oft as summer closes,
When thine eye reposes
On its ling'ring roses,
Once so lov'd by thee,
Think of her who wove them,
Her, who made thee love them.
Oh ! then remember mo.
When, around thee dying,
Autumn leaves are lying,
Oh ! then remember me.
And, at night, when gating
IRISH MELODIES. 429
On the gay hearth blazing,
Oh ! still remember me.
Then should music, stealing
All the soul of feeling,
To thy heart appealing,
Draw one tear from thee ;
Then let memory bring thee
Strains I us'd to sing thee,
Oh ! then remember me.
WAR SONG.
REMEMBER THE GLORIES OF BRIEN THE BRAVE.*
REMEMBER the glories of Brien the brave,
Tho' the days of the hero are o'er ;
Tho' lost to Mononiat and cold in the grave,
He returns to Kinkorat no more !
That star of the field, which so often has pour'd
Its beam on the battle is set ;
But enough of its glory remains on each sword,
To light us to victory yet !
Mononia ! when Nature embellish'd the tint
Of thy fields, and thy mountains so fair,
Did she ever intend that a tryant should print
The footstep of slavery there ?
No, Freedom ! whose smile we shall never resign,
Go, tell our invaders, the Danes,
That 'tis sweeter to bleed for an age at thy shrine,
Than to sleep but a moment in chains !
Forget not our wounded companions, who stood
In the day of distress by our side ;
* Brien Borombe, the great monarch of Ireland, who was killed at (he
battle of Clontarf, in the beginning of the eleventh century, after having
defeated the Danes in twenty-five engagements.
t Minister. t The palace of Brien.
This alludes to an interesting circumstance related of the Dalgais, the
favourite troops of Brien, when they were interrupted in their return from
the battle of Clontarf, by Fitzpatrick, Prince of Ossory. The wounded
men entreated that they might be allowed to fight with the rest: "<<
stakes (they said) be stuck in the ground, and suffer each of UK, tied to and
supported by one of these stakes, to be placed in his rank by the side of a
sound man." " Between seven and eight hundred wounded men (adds
O'Halloran) pale, emaciated, and supported in this manner, appeared
mixed with the foremost of the troops; never was such another sight
exhibited." History of Ireland, book xii. chap. L
430 MOORE'S POEMS.
"While the moss of the valley grew red with their blood,
They stirr'd not, but conquer'd and died !
The sun, that now blesses our arms with his light,
Saw them fall upon Ossory's plain !
Oh ! let him not blush, when he leaves us to-night,
To find that they fell there in vain !
ERIN! THE TEAR AND THE SMILE IN THINE EYES.
ERIN ! the tear and the smile in thine eyes,
Blend like the rainbow that hangs in thy skies!
Shining through sorrow's stream,
Saddening through pleasure's beam,
Thy sons, with doubtful gleam,
Weep while they rise !
Erin ! thy silent tear never shall cease,
Erin ! thy languid smile ne'er shall increase,
Till, like the rainbow's light,
Thy various tints unite,
And form, in Heaven's sight,
One arch of peace !
OH! BREATHE NOT HIS NAME.
OH ! breath not his name, let it sleep in the shade,
Where cold and unhonour'd his relics are laid :
Sad, silent, and dark, be the tears that we shed,
As the night-dew that falls on the grass o'er his head !
But the night-dew that falls, though in silence it weeps,
Shall brighten with verdure the grave where he sleeps,
And the tear that we shed, though in secret it rolls,
Shall long keep his memory green in our souls.
WHEN HE, WHO ADORES THEE.
WHEN he, who adores thee, has left but the name
Of his fault and his sorrows behind,
Oh ! say wilt thou weep, when they darken the fame
Of a life that for thee was resign'd?
IRISH MELODIES. 431
Yes, weep, and however my foes may condemn,
Thy tears shall efface their decree ;
For, Heaven can witness, though guilty to them,
I have been but too faithful to thee !
With thee were the dreams of my earliest love ;
Every thought of my reason was thine :
In my last humble prayer to the Spirit above,
Thy name shall be mingled with mine !
Oh ! blest are the lovers and friends who shall live
The days of thy glory to see ;
But the next dearest blessing that Heaven can give
Is the pride of thus dying for thee 1
THE HARP THAT ONCE THROUGH TARA'S IIALIS
THE harp that once through Tara's halls,
The soul of music shed,
Now hangs as mute on Tara's walls
As if that soul were fled.
So sleeps the pride of former days,
So glory's thrill is o'er,
And hearts, that once beat high for praise,
Now feel that pulse no more !
No more to chiefs and ladies bright
The harp of Tara swells ;
The chord, alone, that breaks at night,
Its tale of ruin tells.
Thus Freedom now so seldom wakes,
The only throb she gives,
Is when some heart indignant breaks,
To show that still she lives.
FLY NOT YET.
FLY not yet, 'tis just the hour,
"When pleasure, like the midnight flower
That scorns the eye of vulgar light,
Begins to bloom for sons of night,
And maids who love the moon !
'Twas but to bless these hours of shade
That beauty and the moon were made ;
'Tis then their soft attractions glowing
Set the tides and goblets flowing.
Oh! stay, Oh! stay,
432 MOORE'S POEMS.
Joy so seldom weaves a chain
Like this to-night, that oh ! 'tis pain
To break its link so soon.
Fly not yet, the fount that play'd
In times of old through Ammon's shade.*
Though icy cold by day it ran,
Yet still, like souls of mirth began,
To burn when night was near ;
And thus, should woman's heart and looks
At noon be cold as winter brooks,
Nor kindle till the night, returning,
Brings their genial hour for burning.
Oh! stay, Oh! stay,
When did morning ever break,
And find such beaming eyes awake
As those that sparkle here !
OH! THINK NOT MY SPIRITS ARE ALWAYS AS
LIGHT.
OH ! think not my spirits are always as light,
And as free from a pang as they seem to you now ;
Nor expect that the heart-beaming smile of to-night
Will return with to-morrow to brighten my brow.
No, life is a waste of wearisome hours,
Which seldom the rose of enjoyment adorns ;
And the heart, that is soonest awake to the flowers,
Is always the first to be touch'd by the thorns !
But send round the bowl, and be happy awhile ;
May we never meet worse in our pilgrimage here,
Than the tear that enjoyment can gild with a smile,
And the smile that compassion can turn to a tear.
The thread of our life would be dark, Heaven knows !
If it were not with friendship and love intertwin'd ;
And I care not how soon I may sink to repose,
When these blessings shall cease to be dear to my mind
But they who have lov'd the fondest, the purest,
Too often have wept o'er the dream they believ'd ;
And the heart, that has slumber'd in friendship securest,
Is happy indeed, if 'twas never deceiv'd.
But send round the bowl, while a relic of truth
Is in man or in woman, this prayer shall be mine,
That the sunshine of love may illumine our youth,
And the moonlight of friendship console our decline.
* Soils Fons, near the Temple of Ammon.
IRISH MELODIES. 433
THO' THE LAST GLIMPSE OF ERIN WITH
SORROW I SEE.
THO' the last glimpse of Erin with sorrow I see,
Yet wherever thou art shall seem Erin to me ;
In exile thy bosom shall still be my home,
And thine eyes make my climate wherever we roam.
To the gloom of some desert or cold rocky shore,
Where the eye of the stranger can haunt us no more,
I will fly with my Coulin, and think the rough wind
Less rude than the foes we leave frowning behind.
And I'll gaze on thy gold hair, as graceful it wreathes,
And hang o'er thy soft harp, as wildly it breathes ;
Nor dread that the cold-hearted Saxon will tear
One chord from that harp, or one lock from that hair.*
RICH AND RARE WERE THE GEMS SHE WORE.f
RICH and rare were the gems she wore,
And a bright gold ring on her wand she bore ;
But oh ! her beauty was far beyond
Her sparkling gems, or snow-white wand.
" Lady ! dost thou not fear to stray,
So lone and lovely, through this bleak way ?
Are Erin's sons so good or so cold,
As not to be tempted by woman or gold ?"
* In the twenty-eighth year of the reign of Henry VIII., an Act wa*
made respecting the habits, and dress in general, of the Irish, whereby
all persons were restrained from being shorn or shaven above the ears, or
from wearing glibbes or coulins (long locks) on their heads, or hair on
their upper lip, called crommeal On this occasion a song was written by
one of our bards, hi which an Irish virgin is made to give the preference
to her dear Coulin (or the youth with the flowing locks) to all strangers
(by which the English were meant), or those who wore their habits. Of
this song the air alone has reached us, and is universally admired (Wal-
ker's Historical Memoirs of Irish Bards, page 134). Mr Walker informs us
also, that, about the same period, there were some harsh measures taken
against the Irish minstrels.
t This ballad is founded upon the following anecdote : The people were
inspired with such a spirit of honour, virtue, and religion, by the great
example of Brien, and by his excellent administration, that, as a proof of
it, we are informed that a young lady of great beauty, adorned with jewels
and a costly dress, undertook a journey alone, from one end of the king-
dom to the other, with a wand only in her hand, at the top of which was
* ring of exceeding great value ; and such an impression had the laws and
government of this monarch made on the minds of all the people, that no
attempt was made upon her honour, nor was she robbed of her clothes or
jcweh. Warner's History of Ireland, vol. i. book x.
434 MOORE'S POEMS.
" Sir Knight ! I feel not the least alarm,
No son of Erin will offer me harm :
For though they love woman and golden store,
Sir Knight ! they love honour and virtue more !'
On she went, and her maiden smile
In safety lighted her round the Green Isle.
And blest for ever is she who relied
Upon Erin's honour, and Erin's pride !
AS A BEAM O'ER THE FACE OF THE WATERS
MAY GLOW.
As a beam o'er the face of the waters may glow,
While the tide runs in darkness and coldness below.
So the cheek may be ting'd with a warm sunny smile,
Though the cold heart to ruin runs darkly the while.
One fatal remembrance, one sorrow that throws
Its bleak shade alike o'er our joys and our woes,
To which life nothing darker or brighter can bring,
For which joy has no balm and affliction no sting !
Oh ! this thoitght in the midst of enjoyment will stay,
Like a dead, leafless branch in the summer's bright ray
The beams of the warm sun play round it in vain,
It may smile in his light, but it blooms not again !
THE MEETING OF THE WATERS.*
THERE is not in the wide world a valley so sweet
As that vale', in whose bosom the bright waters meet ;t
Oh ! the last rays of feeling and life must depart,
Ere the bloom of that valley shall fade from my heart.
Yet, it was not that Nature had shed o'er the scene
Her purest of crystal and brightest of green ;
'Twas not the soft magic of streamlet or hill,
Oh ! no, it was something more exquisite still.
'Twas that friends, the belov'd of my bosom, were near,
Who made every dear scene of enchantment more dear,
* " The Meeting of the Waters" forms a part of that beautiful scenery
which lies between Rathdrum and Arklow, in the county of Wicklow, and
these lines were suggested by a visit to this romantic spot, in the summer
aft he year 1807.
t The rivers Avon and Avoca.
IRISH MELODIES. 435
And who felt how the best charms of Nature improve,
When we see them reflected from looks that we love.
Sweet vale of Avoca ! how calm could I rest
In thy bosom of shade, with the friends I love best,
Where the storms that we feel in this cold world should cease,
And our hearts, like thy waters, be mingled in peace !
ST SENANUS AND THE LADY.
ST SENANUS.
" OH ! haste and leave this sacred isle,
Unholy bark, ere morning smile ;
For on thy deck, tho' dark it be,
A female form I see ;
And I have sworn this sainted sod
Shall ne'er by woman's feet be trod!"
THE LADY
" Oh ! Father send not hence my bark,
Through wintry winds and billows dark :
I come with humble heart to share
Thy morn and evening prayer ;
Nor mine the feet, oh 1 holy Saint,
The brightness of thy sod to taint."
The Lady's prayer Senanus spurn 'd ;
The winds blew fresh, the bark return'd.
But legends hint, that had the maid
Till morning's light delay'd,
And given the saint one rosy smilo,
She ne'er had left his lonely isle.
HOW DEAK TO ME THE HOUR.
How dear to me the hour when day-light dies,
And sunbeams melt along the silent sea,
For then sweet dreams of other clays arise,
And memory breathes her vesper sigh to thee.
And, as I watch the line of light, that plays
Along the smooth wave tow'rd the burning west,
I long to tread that golden path of rays,
And think 'twould lead to some bright isle of rest !
3m
436 MOORE'S POEMS.
TAKE BACK THE VIRGIN PAGE.
WRITTEN ON KETUENING A BLANK BOOK.
TAKE back the virgin page,
White and unwritten still ;
Some hand, more calm and sage,
The leaf must fill.
Thoughts come, as pure as light,
Pure as even you require ;
But oh ! each word I write,
Love turns to fire.
Yet let me keep the book ;
Oft shall my heart renew
When on its leaves I look,
Dear thoughts of you !
Like you, tis fair and bright ;
Like you, too bright and fair
To let wild passion write
One wrong wish there !
Haply, when from those eyes
Far, far away I roam,
Should calmer thoughts arise
Tow'rds you and home ;
Fancy may trace some line,
Worthy those eyes to meet,
Thoughts that not burn, but shino
Pure, calm, and sweet 1
And, as the records are,
Which wandering seamen keep,
Led by their hidden star
Through winter's deep ;
So may the words I write
Tell thro' what storms I stray,
You still the unseen light,
Guiding my way 1
THE LEGACY.
WHEN in death I shall calm recline,
bear my heart to my mistress dear ;
Tell her. it liv'd upon smiles and wine
Of the brightest hue, while it linger'd here ;
IRISH MELODIES. 18*
~!
Bid her not shed one tear of sorrow
To sully a heart so brilliant and light ;
But balmy drops of the red grape borrow,
To bathe the relic from morn till night.
When the light of my song is o'er,
Then take my harp to your ancient hall ;
Hang it up at that friendly door,
"Where weary travellers love to call.*
Then if some bard, who roams forsaken,
Revive its soft note in passing along,
Oh ! let one thought of its master waken
Your warmest smile for the child of song.
Keep this cup, which is now o'erflowing,
To grace your revel, when I'm at rest ;
Never, oh ! never its balm bestowing
On lips, that beauty hath seldom blest I
But when some warm devoted lover
To her he adores shall bathe its brim,
Oh ! then my spirit around shall hover,
And hallow each drop that foams for him.
HOW OFT HAS THE BENSHEE CRIED.
How oft has the Benshee cried 1
How oft has death untied
Bright links that glory wove,
Sweet bonds, entwin'd by love !
Peace to each manly soul that sleepeth I
Rest to each faithful eye that weepeth !
Long may the fair and brave
Sigh o'er the hero's grave.
We're fallen upon gloomy days,t
Star after star decays,
Every bright name, that shed
Light o'er the land, is fled.
Dark falls the tear of him who mourneth
Lost joy, or hope that ne'er returneth,
But brightly flows the tear,
Wept o'er the hero's bier 1
* In every house was one or two harps, free to all travellers, who were
the more caressed the more they excelled in music. O'Halloran.
t I have endeavoured here, without losing that Irish character which
It is my object to preserve throughout this work, to allude to the sad and
ominous fatality, by which England has been deprived of so many great
and good men, at a moment when she most requires all the aids of talent
and integrity.
438 MOORE'S POEMS.
Oh! quencli'd are our beacon lights-
Thou, of the hundred fights !*
Thou, on whose burning tongue
Truth, peace, and freedom hung !t
Both mute, but long as valour shineth,
Or mercy's soul at war repineth,
So long shall Erin's pride,
Tell how they liv'd and died.
WE MAY ROAM THRO' THIS WORLD.
WE may roam thro' this world, like a child at a feast
Who but sips of a sweet, and then flies to the rest;
And, when pleasure begins to grow dull in the east,
We may order our wings, and be off to the west ;
But if hearts, that feel, and eyes, that smile,
Are the dearest gifts that heaven supplies,
We never need leave our own Green Isle,
For sensitive hearts, and for sun-bright eyes.
Then remember, wherever your goblet is crown'd,
Thro' this world whether eastward or westward you roam.
When a cup to the smile of dear woman goes round,
Oh ! remember the smile which adorns her at home.
In England, the garden of 'beauty is kept
By a dragon of prudery, plac'd within call ;
But so oft this unamiable dragon has slept,
That the garden's but carelessly watch'd after all.
Oh ! they want the wild, sweet-briery fence,
Which round the flowers of Erin dwells,
Which warns the touch, while winning the sense,
Nor charms us least when it most repels.
Then remember, wherever your goblet is crown'd,
Thro' this world, whether eastward or westward you roam,
When a cup to the smile of dear woman goes round,
Oh I remember the smile which adorns her at home.
In France, when the heart of a woman sets sail,
On the ocean of wedlock its fortune to try
* This designation, which has been applied to Lord Nelson before, la
the title given to a celebrated Irish hero, in a poem by O'Gnive, the bard
of O'Neil, which is quoted in the Philosophical Survey of the South of Ire-
land, page 433: "Con, of the hundred fights, sleep in thy grass-grown
tomb, and upbraid not our defeats with thy victories I"
t Fox, " Ultimus Romanorum."
HUSH MELODIES. 439
Love seldom goes far in a vessel so frail,
But just pilots her off, and then bids her good-bye !
While the daughters of Erin keep the boy
Ever smiling beside his faithful oar,
Through billows of woe, and beams of joy
The same as he look'd, when he left the shore.
Then remember, wherever your goblet is crown'd
Thro' this world, whether eastward or westward you roam,
When a cup to the smile of dear woman goes round,
Oh ! remember the smile which adorns her at home.
EVELEEN'S BOWER.
On ! weep for the hour,
When to Eveleen's bower,
The lord of the valley with false vows came ;
The moon hid her light
From the heavens that night,
And wept behind her clouds o'er the maiden's shame
The clouds past soon,
From the chaste cold moon,
And Heaven smil'd again with her vestal flame ;
But none will see the day,
When the clouds shall pass away,
Which that dark hour left upon Eveleen's fame.
The white snow lay
On the narrow path-way,
When the lord of the valley crost over the moor ;
And many a deep print
On the white snow's tint
Shew'd the track of his footstep to Eveleen's door.
The next sun's ray
Soon melted away
Every trace on the path where the false lord came t
But there's a light above,
Which alone can remove
That stain upon the snow of fair Eveleen's fame.
440 MOORE'S POEMS.
THE SONG OF FIONNUALA.*
SILENT, oh Moyle ! be the roar of thy water,
Break not, ye breezes, your chain of repose,
"While, murmuring mournfully, Lir's lonely daughter
Tells to the night-star her tale of woes.
"When shall the swan, her death-note singing,
Sleep, with wings in darkness furl'd ?
"When will heaven, its sweet bell ringing,
Call my spirit from this stormy world ?
Sadly, oh Moyle ! to thy winter wave weeping,
Fate bids me languish long ages away ;
Yet still in her darkness doth Erin lie sleeping,
Still doth the pure light its dawning delay !
When will that day-star, mildly springing,
Warm our isle with peace and love ?
When will heaven, its sweet bell ringing,
Call my spirit to the fields above?
LET ERIN REMEMBER THE DAYS OF OLD.
LET Erin remember the days of old,
Ere her faithless sons betray'd her;
When Malachi wore the collar of gold,t
Which he won from her proud invader ;
When her kings with standard of green unfurl'd
Led the Red- Branch Knights to danger :t
* To make this story intelligible in a song -would require a much greater
number of verses than any one is authorized to inflict upon an audience at
once ; the reader must therefore be content to learn, in a note, that Fion-
nuiiiu, the daughter of Lir, was, by some supernatural power, transformed
into a swan, and condemned to wander, for many hundred years, over
certain lakes and rivers in Ireland, till the coming of Christianity, when
the first sound of the mass-bell was to be the signal of her release. I
found this fanciful fiction among some manusci-ipt translations from the
Irish, begun under the direction of the late Countess of Moira.
f This brought on an encounter between Malachi (the monarch of Ireland
in the tenth century) and the Danes, in which Malachi defeated two of
their champions, whom he encountered successively hand to hand, taking
a collar of gold from the neck of one, and carrying off the sword of the
other, as trophies of his victory. Warner's Hist, of Ireland, vol. i. book ix.
J Military orders of knights were very early established in Ireland :
long before the birth of Christ we find an hereditary order of chivalry in
Ulster, called Curaidhe na Craiobhe ruadh, or the Knights of the Red
Branch, from their chief seat in Eniania, adjoining to the palace of the
Ulster kings, called Teagh na Craiobhe ruadh, or the Academy of the Red
Branch ; and contiguous to which was a large hospital, founded for the
sick knights and soldiers, called Bron-bhearg, or the house of the sorrowful
soldier. 0'IIalloran's Introduction, <fcc., pail i. chap v.
IRISH MELODIES. 4*1
Ere the emerald gem of the western world
Was set in the crown of a stranger.
On Lough Neagh's bank as the fisherman strays/
"When the clear, cold eve's declining,
He sees the round towers of other days,
In the wave beneath him shining !
Thus shall memory often, in dreams sublime,
Catch a glimpse of the days that are over,
Thus, sighing, look through the waves of time
For the long-faded glories they cover !
COME, SEND HOUND THE WINE.
COME, send round the wine, and leave points of belief
To simpleton sages, and reasoning fools ;
This moment's a flower too fair and brief,
To be wither'd and stain'd by the dust of the schools.
Your glass may be purple, and mine may be blue,
But, while they are fill'd from the same bright bowl,
The fool, who would quarrel for difference of hue,
Deserves not the comfort they shed o'er the soul.
Shall I ask the brave soldier, who fights by my side
In the cause of mankind, if our creeds agree ?
Shall I give up the friend I have valued and tried,
If he kneel not before the same altar with me ?
From the heretic girl of my soul shall I fly,
To seek somewhere else a more orthodox kiss ?
No ! perish the hearts, and the laws that try
Truth, valour, or love by a standard like this !
SUBLIME WAS THE WARNING.
SUBLIME was the warning which Liberty spoke,
And grand was the moment when Spaniards awoke
Into life and revenge from the conqueror's chain !
Oh Liberty 1 let not this spirit have rest,
* It was an old tradition, in the time of Giraldus, that Lough Neagh
had been originally a fountain, by whose sudden overflowing the country
was inundated, and a whole region, like the Atlantis of Plato, overwhelmed
He says, that the fishermen, in clear weather, used to point out to strangers
the tall ecclesiastical towers under the water.
4-12 MOORE'S POEMS.
Till it move, like a breeze, o'er the waves of the west
Give the light of your look to each sorrowing spot,
Nor oh ! be the shamrock of Erin forgot,
While you add to your garland the olive of Spain !
If the fame of oiir fathers, bequeath'd with their rights,
Give to country its charm, and to home its delights,
If deceit be a wound and suspicion a stain ;
Then, ye men of Iberia ! our cause is the same,
And oh ! may his tomb want a tear and a name,
Who would ask for a nobler, a holier death,
Than to turn his last sigh into victory's breath
For the shamrock of Erin, and olive of Spain !
Ye Blakes and O'Donnels, whose fathers resign'd
The green hills of their youth, among strangers to find
That repose which, at home, they had sigh'd for in vain,
Breathe a hope that the magical flame, which you light,
May be felt yet in Erin, as calm, and as bright,
And forgive even Albion, while blushing she draws,
Like a truant, her sword, in the long-slighted cause
Of the shamrock of Erin, and olive of Spain.
God prosper the cause ! oh ! it cannot but thrive,
While the pulse of one patriot heart is alive,
Its devotion to feel, and its rights to maintain ;
Then, how sainted by sorrow, its martyrs will die !
The finger of glory shall point where they lie,
While, far from the footstep of coward or slave,
The young spirit of Freedom shall shelter their grave
Beneath shamrocks of Erin and olives of Spain.
BELIEVE ME, IF ALL THOSE ENDEARING YOUNG
CHARMS.
BELIEVE me, if all those endearing young charms,
Which I gaze on so fondly to-day,
Were to change by to-morrow, and fleet in my arms,
Like fairy-gifts fading away !
Thou wouldst still be ador'd, as this moment thou art,
Let thy loveliness fade as it will,
And, around the dear ruin, each wish of my heart
Would entwine itself verdantly still.
It is not, while beauty and youth are thine own,
And thy cheeks unprofan'd by a tear,
J
IRISH MELODIES. 443
That the fervour and faith of a soul can be known,
To which time will but make thee more dear !
Oh ! the heart that has truly lov'd, never forgets,
But as truly loves on to the close,
As the sun-flower turns on her god, when he sets,
The same look which she turn'd when he rose !
ERIN! OH EKIN!
LIKE the bright lamp, that lay on Kildare's holy shrine,
And burn'd thro' long ages of darkness and storm,
Is the heart, that sorrows have frowned on in vain,
Whose spirit out-lives them, unfading and warm !
Erin ! oh Erin ! thus bright, thro' the tears
Of a long night of bondage, thy spirit appears !
The nations have fallen, and thou still art young,
Thy sun is but rising, when others are set ;
And, tho' slavery's cloud o'er thy morning hath hung,
The full noon of freedom shall beam round thee yet,
Erin ! oh Erin ! tho' long in the shade,
Thy star will shine out, when the proudest shall fade I
Unchill'd by the rain, and unwak'd by the wind,
The lily lies sleeping thro' winter's cold hour,
Till the hand of spring her dark chain unbind,
And day-light and liberty bless the young flower.
Erin ! oh Erin ! thy winter is past,
And the hope, that liv'd thro' it, shall blossom at last
DKINK TO HEK.
DRINK to her, who long
Hath wak'd the poet's sigh ;
The girl, who gave to song
What gold could never buy.
Oh ! woman's heart was made
For minstrel hands alone ;
By other fingers play'd,
It yields not half the tone.
Then, here's to her, who long
Hath wak'd the poet's sigh,
The girl, who gave to song
What gold could never buy I
444 MOORE'S POEMS.
At Beauty's door of glass
When Wealth and Wit once stood,
They ask'd her, "which might pass?"
She answer'd, "he, who could."
With golden key Wealth thought
To pass but 'twould not do :
While Wit a diamond brought,
Which cut his bright way through !
Then here's to her, who long
Hath wak'd the poet's sigh,'
The girl, who gave to song
What gold could never buy !
The love that seeks a home
Where wealth or grandeur shines,
Is like the gloomy gnome,
That dwells in dark gold mines.
But oh ! the poet's love
Can boast a brighter sphere ;
Its native home's above,
Tho' woman keeps it here !
Then drink to her, who long
Hath wak'd the poet's sigh,
The girl, who gave to song
What gold could never buy I
OH ! BLAME NOT THE BARD.*
OH ! blame not the bard, if he fly to the bowers,
Where pleasure lies, carelessly smiling at fame ;
He was born for much more, and in happier hours,
His soul might have burn'd with a holier flame.
The string, that now languishes loose o'er the lyre,
Might have bent a proud bow to the warrior's dart,t
And the lip, which now breathes but the song of desire
Might have pour'd the full tide of a patriot's heart !
* We may suppose this apology to have been uttered by one of those
wandering bards whom Spencer so severely, and perhaps truly, describes
in his State of Ireland, and whose poems, he tells us, "were sprinkled
with some pretty flowers of their natural device, which gave good grace
and comeliness unto them, the which it is great pity to see abused to the
gracing of wickedness and vice, which, with good usage, would serve to
adorn and beautify virtue."
t ft i conjectured by Wormius that the name of Ireland is derived from
IV, the Runic for a bate, io the use of which weapon the Irish were once
very expert
IRISH MELODIES.
But alas ! for his country her pride is gone by,
And that spirit is broken, which never would bend
O'er the ruin her children in secret must sigh,
For 'tis treason to love her, and death to defend.
Unpriz'd are her sons, till they've learned to betray ;
Undistinguish'd they live, if they shame not their sires ;
And the torch, that would light them thro' dignity's way,
Must be caught from the pile, where their country expires !
Then blame not the bard, if, in pleasure's soft dream,
He should try to forget, what he never can heal ;
Oh ! give but a hope let a vista but gleam
Through the gloom of his country, and mark how he'll feel I
That instant, his heart at her shrine would lay down
Every passion it nurs'd, every bliss it ador'd,
While the myrtle, now idly entwin'd with his crown,
Like the wreath of Harmodius, should cover his sword.*
But tho' glory be gone, and tho' hope fade away,
Thy name, lov'd Erin ! shall live in his songs,
Not ev'n in the hour, when his heart is most gay,
Will he lose the remembrance of thee and thy wrongs !
The stranger shall hear thy lament on his plains ;
The sigh of thy harp shall be sent o'er the deep,
Till thy masters themselves, as they rivet thy chains,
Shall pause at the song of their captive and weep !
WHILE GAZING ON THE MOON'S LIGHT.
WHILE gazing on the moon's light,
A moment from her smile I turn'd,
To look at orbs, that, more bright,
In lone and distant glory buru'd.
But too far,
Each proud star,
For me to feel its warming flame
Much more dear
That mild sphere,
Which near our planet smiling came ;t
Thus, Mary, be but thou my own
While brighter eyes unheeded play,
I'll love those moonlight looks alone,
Which bless my home and guide my way !
* See the Hymn attributed to Alcseus, " I will carry my sword, hidden
in myrtles, like Harmodius and Aristogiton," <fec,
f Of such celestial bodies as are visible, the sun excepted, the single
moon, as despicable as it is in comparison to most of the others, is much
more beneficial than they all put together. Whiston's Theory, &c.
446 MOORE'S POEMS.
The day had sunk in dim showers,
But midnight now, with lustre meek,
Illumin'd all the pale flowers,
Like hope, that lights a mourner's cheek.
I said (while
The moon's smile
Play'd o'er a stream, in dimpling bliss),
" The moon looks
On many brooks,
The brook can see no moon but this ;"*
And thus, I thought our fortunes run,
For many a lover looks to thee,
While oh ! I feel there is but one,
One Mary in the world for me.
ILL OMENS.
WHEN day-light was yet sleeping under the billow,
And stars in the heavens still ling'ring shone,
Young Kitty, all blushing, rose up from her pillow,
The last time she e'er was to press it alone.
For the youth, whom she treasur'd her heart and her soul in,
Had promis'd to link the last tie before noon ;
And, when once the young heart of a maiden is stol'n,
The maiden herself will steal after it soon !
As she look'd in the glass, which a woman ne'er misses,
Nor ever wants time for a sly glance or two,
A butterfly, fresh from the night-flower's kisses,
Flew over the mirror, and shaded her view.
Enrag'd with the insect for hiding her graces,
She brush'd him he fell, alas ! never to rise
" Ah ! such," said the girl, " is the pride of our faces,
For which the soul's innocence too often dies !"
While she stole thro' the garden, where hearts'-ease waa
growing,
She cull'd some, and kiss'd off its night-fallen dew ;
And a rose, further on, look'd so tempting and glowing,
That, spite of her haste, she must gather it too ;
But, while o'er the roses too carelessly leaning,
Her zone flew in two, and the hearts'-ease was lost
"Ah! this means," said thegirl (and she sigh'd at its meaning),
" That love is scarce worth the repose it will cost !"
* This hnape was suggested liy the following thought, which occurs
somewhere in Sir William Jones's works: "The moon looks upon many
night-flowers, the night-flower sees but one moon."
IRISH MELODIES. 44T
BEFORE THE BATTLE.
BY the hope within us springing,
Herald of to-morrow's strife ;
By that sun, whose light is hringing
Chains or freedom, death or life
Oh ! remember, life can be
No charm for him, who lives not free I
Like the day-star in the wave,
Sinks a hero to his grave,
Midst the dew-fall of a nation's tears !
Blessed is he, o'er whose decline
The smiles of home may soothing shine if
And light him down the steep of years :
But oh ! how grand they sink to rest,
Who close their eyes on victory's breast !
O'er his watch-fire's fading embers
Now the foeman's cheek turns white,
While his heart that field remembers,
Where we dimm'd his glory's light !
Never let him bind again
A chain, like that we broke from then.
Hark ! the horn of combat calls
Oh before the evening falls,
May we pledge that horn in triumph round !*
Many a heart, that now beats high,
In slumber cold at night shall lie,
Nor waken even at victory's sound :
But oh ! how blest that hero's sleep,
O'er whom a wondering world shall weep !
AFTER THE BATTLE.
NIGHT clos'd around the conqueror's way,
And lightnings shew'd the distant hill,
Where those, who lost that dreadful day,
Stood few and faint, but fearless still !
* The Irish Cornawas not entirely devoted to martial purposes. In
the heroic ages our ancestors quaffed meadh out of them, as
hunters do their bevsrage at this day. Walker.
448 MOORE'S POEMS.
The soldier's hope, the patriot's zeal,
For ever dimm'd, for ever crost
Oh ! who shall say what heroes feel,
When all but life and honour's lost !
The last sad hour of freedom's dream,
And valour's task, mov'd slowly by,
While mute they watch'd, till morning's beam
Should rise, and give them light to die !
There is a world, where souls are free,
Where tyrants taint not Nature's bliss ;
If death that world's bright opening be,
Oh ! who would live a slave in this ?
. OH! 'TIS SWEET TO THINK.
OH ! 'tis sweet to think, that, where'er we rove,
We are sure to find something, blissful and dear ;
And that, when we're far from the lips we love,
We have but to make love to the lips we are near !*
The heart, like a tendril, accustom'd to cling,
Let it grow where it will, cannot flourish alone,
But will lean to the nearest, and loveliest thing,
It can twine with itself, and make closely its own.
Then oh ! what pleasure, where'er we rove,
To be doom'd to find something, still, that is dear,
And to know, when far from the lips we love,
We have but to make love to the lips we are near.
'Twere a shame, when flowers around us rise,
To make light of the rest, if the rose is not there
And the world's so rich in resplendent eyes,
'Twere a pity to limit one's love to a pair.
Love's wing and the peacock's are nearly alike,
They are both of them bright, but they're changeable too,
And, wherever a new beam of beauty can strike,
It will tincture love's plume with a diiferent hue I
Then oh ! what pleasure, where'er we rove,
To be doom'd to find something, still, that is dear,
And to know, when far from the lips we love,
We have but to make love to the lips we are near.
* I believe it is Marmontel who says, " Quand on rfa pas ce que Ton
aune, ilfaut aimer ce que Von a." There are so many matter-of-fact people,
who take suchjeux d 1 esprit as this defence of inconstancy, to be the actual
and genuine sentiments of him who writes them, that they compel one, in
self-defence, to be as matter-of-fact as themselves, and to remind them
that Democritus was not the worse physiologist for having playfully con-
tended that snow was black, nor Erasmus in any degree the less wise for
having written an ingenious encomium of folly.
IRISH MELODIES. 449
THE IRISH PEASANT TO HIS MISTRESS.
THROUGH grief and through danger thy smile hath cheer'd
my way,
Till hope seem'd to bud from each thorn that round me lay ;
The darker our fortune, the brighter our pure love burn'd,
Till shame into glory, till fear into zeal was turn'd ;
Oh ! slave as I was, in thy arms my spirit felt free,
And bless'd even the sorrows that made me more dear to thee.
Thy rival was honour'd, while thou wert wrong'd and scorn'd,
Thy crown was of briers, while gold her brows adorn'd ;
She woo'd me to temples, while thou lay'st hid in caves,
Her friends were all masters, while thine, alas ! were slaves ;
Yet, cold in the earth, at thy feet I would rather be,
Than wed what I lov'd not, or turn one thought from thee.
They slander thee sorely, who say thy vows are frail
Hadst thou been a false one, thy cheek had look'd less pale!
They say too, so long thou hast worn those lingering chains,
That deep in thy heart they have printed their servile stains
Oh ! do not believe them no chain could that soul subdue
Where shineth thy spirit, there liberty shineth too !
ON MUSIC.
WHEN thro' life unblest we rove,
Losing all that made life dear,
Should some notes, we us'd to love
In days of boyhood, meet our ear,
Oh ! how welcome breathes the strain !
Wakening thoughts that long have slept
Kindling former smiles again,
In faded eyes that long have wept !
Like the gale, that sighs along
Beds of oriental flowers,
Is the grateful breath of song,
That once was heard in happier hours ;
Fill'd with balm, the gale sighs on,
Though the flowers have sunk in death ;
So, when pleasure's dream is gone,
Itj memory lives in Music's breath !
450 MOORE'S POEMS.
Music ! oil ! how faint, how weak,
Language fades before thy spell !
Why should feeling ever speak,
When thou canst breathe her soul so well?
Friendship's balmy words may feign,
Love's are ev'n more false than they ;
Oh ! 'tis only Music's strain
Can sweetly soothe, and not betray !
IT IS NOT THE TEAR AT THIS MOMENT SHED.*
IT is not the tear at this moment shed,
When the cold turf has just been laid o'er him,
That can tell how belov'd was the soul that's tied,
Or how deep in our hearts we deplore him.
'Tis the tear, thro' many a long day wept,
Thro' a life, by his loss all shaded :
'Tis the sad remembrance, fondly kept,
When all lighter griefs have faded !
Oh ! thus shall we mourn, and his memory's light,
While it shines thro' our hearts, will improve tinjip
For worth shall look fairer, and truth more bright,
When we think how he liv'd but to love them !
And, as buried saints the grave perfume
Where fadeless they've long been lying,
So our hearts shall borrow a sweet'ning bloom
From the image he left there in dying!
THE ORIGIN OF THE HARP.
'Tis believ'd that this harp which I wake now for thec,
Was a siren of old, who sung under the sea ;
And who, often at eve, thro' the bright billow rov'd
To meet, on the green shore, a youth whom she lov'd.
But she lov'd him in vain, for ne left her to weep,
And in tears, all the night, her gold ringlets to steep,
Till Heav'n look'd, with pity, on true-love so warm,
And chang'd to this soft harp the sea-maiden's form !
* These lines were occasioned by the loss of a very near and dear
relative, who died lately at Madeira.
IKIfH MELODIES. 451
Still her bosom rose fair still her cheek smil'd the same
While her sea-beauties gracefully curl'd round the frame ;
And her hair, shedding tear-drops from all its bright rings,
Fell over her white arm, to make the gold strings !
Hence it came, that this soft harp so long hath been known
To mingle love's language with sorrow's sad tone ;
Till thou didst divide them, and teach the fond lay
To be love, when I'm near thee, and grief when away !
LOVE'S YOUNG DREAM.
OH ! the days are gone, when beauty bright
My heart's chain wove ;
When my dream of life, from morn 'till night.
Was love, still love !
New hope may bloom,
And days may come,
Of milder, calmer beam,
But there's nothing half so sweet in life,
As love's young dream !
Oh ! there's nothing half so sweet in life,
As love's young dream 1
Tho' the bard to purer fame may soar,
When wild youth's past ;
Tho' he win the wise, who frown'd before,
To smile at last ;
He'll never meet
A joy so sweet
In all his noon of fame,
As when first he sung to woman's ear
His soul-felt flame,
And, at every close, she blush'd to hear
The one lov'd name !
Oh ! that hallow'd form is ne'er forgot,
Which first love trac'd :
Still it lingering haunts the greenest spot
On memory's waste!
'Twos odour fled
As soon as shed;
'Twas morning's winged dream ;
'Twas a light that ne'er can shine again,
On life's dull stream !
Oh ! 'twas a light that ne'er can shine again
On life's dull stream !
2 F
452 MOORIi's POEMS.
THE PRINCE'S DAT.*
THO' dark are our sorrows, to-day we'll forget them,
And smile thro' our tears, like a sun-heam in showers ;
There never were hearts, if our rulers would let them,
More form'd to he grateful and blest than ours !
But, just when the chain
Has ceas'd to pain,
And hope has enwreath d it round with flowers,
There comes a new link
Our spirit to sink
Oh ! fiie joy that we taste, like the light of the poles,
Is a flash amid darkness, too brilliant to stay ;
But tho' 'twere the last little spark in our souls,
"We must light it up now, on our Prince's day.
Contempt on the minion, who calls you disloyal !
Tho' fierce to your foe, to your friends you are true ;
And the tribute most high to a head that is royal,
Is love from a heart that loves liberty too.
While cowards, who blight
Your fame, you right,
Would shrink from the blaze of the battle array,
The standard of green
In front would be seen
Oh ! my life on your faith ! were you summon 'd this minute,
You'd cast every bitter remembrance away,
And show what the arm of old Erin has in it,
When rous'd by the foe, on her Prince's day.
He loves the Green Isle, and his love is recorded
In hearts, which have sufl'er'd too much to forget ;
And hope shall be crown'd, and attachment rewarded,
And Erin's gay jubilee shine out yet !
The gem may be broke
By many a stroke,
But nothing can cloud its native ray ;
Each fragment will cast
A light, to the last !
And thus, Erin, my country ! tho' broken thou art,
There's a lustre within thee, that ne'er will decay ;
A spirit that beams thro' each suffering part,
And now smiles at their pain, on the Prince's day !
* This song was written for a fete In honour of the Prince of Wales's
birthday, given by my friend Major Bryan, at his seat in the county of
Kilkenny.
IRISH MELODIES. 458
WEEP ON, WEEP ON.
WEEP on, weep on, your nour is past ;
Your dreams of pride are o'er ;
The fatal chain is round you cast,
And you are men no more !
In vain the hero's heart hath bled ;
The sage's tongue hath warn'd in vain ;
Oh, Freedom ! once thy flame hath fled,
It never lights again !
Weep on perhaps, in after days,
They'll learn to love your name ;
And many a deed may wake in praise,
That long has slept in blame !
And, when they tread the ruin'd isle,
Where rest, at length, the lord and slave,
They'll wond'ring ask, how hands so vile
Could conquer hearts so brave 1
" 'Twas fate," they'll say, " a wayward fate
Your web of discord wove ;
And while your tyrants join'd in hate,
You never join'd in love !
But hearts fell off, that ought to twine,
And man profan'd what God had given,
Till some were heard to curse the shrine,
Where others knelt to Heaven !"
LESBIA HATH A BEAMING EYE.
LESBIA hath a beaming eye,
But no one knows for whom it beameth ;
Right and left its arrows fly,
But what they aim at no one dreameth !
Sweeter 'tis to gaze upon
My Nora's lid, that seldom rises ;
Few its looks, but every one,
Like unexpected light, surprises 1
Oh, my Nora Creina, dear !
My gentle, bashful Nora Creina 1
Beauty lies
In many eyes,
But love in yours, my Nora Cref na
4fi4 MOORE'S POEMS.
Lesbia wears a robe of gold,
But all so close the nymph hath lac'd it,
Not a charm of beauty's mould
Presumes to stay where nature plac'd it !
Oh ! my Nora's gown for me,
That floats as wild as mountain breezes,
Leaving every beauty free
To sink or swell, as Heaven pleases !
Yes, my Nora Creina, dear !
My simple, graceful Nora Creina !
Nature's dress
Is loveliness
The dress you wear, my Nora Creina !
Lesbia hath a wit refin'd,
But, when its points are gleaming round us,
"Who can tell, if they're design'd
To dazzle merely, or to wound us ?
Pillow'd on my Nora's heart,
In safer slumber Love reposes
Bed of peace ! whose roughest part
Is but the crumpling of the roses.
Oh, my Nora Creina, dear !
My mild, my artless, Nora Creina !
Wit, tho' bright,
Hath not the light
That warms your eyes, my Nora Creina !
I SAW THY FORM IN YOUTHFUL PRIME.
I SAW thy form in youthful prime,
Nor thought that pale decay
Would steal before the steps of time,
And waste its bloom away, Mary !
Yet still thy features wore that light,
Which fleets not with the breath ;
And life ne'er look'd more purely bright
Than in thy smile of death, Mary !
As streams that run o'er golden mines,
With modest murmur glide,
Nor seem to know the wealth that shinei
Within their gentle tide, Mary 1
IRISH MKLODIES. 455
So, veil'd beneath the simple guise,
Thy radiant genius shoue,
And that, which charm'd all other eyes,
Seem'd worthless in thy own, Mary !
If souls could always dwell above,
Thou ne'er hadst left that sphere ;
Or could we keep the souls we love,
We ne'er had lost thee here, Mary !
Though many a gifted mind we meet,
Though fairest forms we see,
To live with them is far less sweet,
Than to remember thee, Mary !
BY THAT LAKE, WHOSE GLOOMY SHORE.*
BY that Lake, whose gloomy shore
Sky-lark never warbles o'er,
Where the cliff hangs high and steep,
Young Saint Kevin stole to sleep.
" Here, at least," he calmly said,
Woman ne'er shall find my bed."
4h ! the good saint little knew
What that wily sex can do.
'Twas from Kathleen's eyes he flew,
Eyes of most unholy blue !
She had lov'd him well and long,
Wish'd him her's, nor thought it wrong.
Wheresoe'er the saint would fly,
Still he heard her light foot nigh ;
East or west, where'er he turn'd,
Still her eyes before him burn'd.
On the bold cliffs bosom cast,
Tranquil now he sleeps at last ;
Dreams of heav'n, nor thinks that e'er
Woman's smile can haunt him there.
But nor earth, nor heaven is free
From her power, if fond she be :
Even now, while calm he sleeps,
Kathleen o'er him leans and weeps.
* This ballad is founded upon one of the many stories related of Saint
Kevin, whose bed in the rock is to be seen at Glendalough, a most gloonij
mid romantic spot in the county of Wicklow.
460 MOOKE'S POEMS.
Fearless she had track'd his feet,
To this rocky, wild retreat ;
And when morning met his view,
Her mild glances met it too.
Ah ! your saints have cruel hearts !
Sternly from his bed he starts,
And with rude, repulsive shock,
Hurls her from the beetling rock.
Glendalough ! thy gloomy wave
Soon was gentle Kathleen's grave !
Soon the saint (yet ah! too late),
Felt her love, and mourn'd her frte.
When he said, " Heaven rest her soul !'
Eound the lake like. music stole ;
And her ghost was seen to glide,
Smiling, o'er the fatal tide !
SHE IS FAE FROM THE LAND.
SITE is far from the land where her young hero sleeps,
And lovers are round her, sighing ;
But coldly she turns from their gaze, and weeps,
For her heart in his grave is lying !
She sings the wild song of her dear native plains,
Every note which he lov'd awaking
Ah ! little they think who delight in her strains,
How the heart of the minstrel is breaking !
He had liv'd for his love, for his country he died,
They were all that to life had entwin'd 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 sun-beams rest,
When they promise a glorious morrow ;
They'll shine o'er her sleep, like a smile from the west,
From her own lov'd island of sorrow !
IRISH MELODIES. 457
NAY, TELL ME NOT.
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 balm of thy sighs,
The spell of thine eyes,
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's shower,
But bath'd the other with mantling wine.
Soon did the buds,
That drank of the floods,
Distill'd by the rainbow, decline and fade ;
While those, which the tide
Of ruby had dy'd.
All blush'd 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*
On him, who the brave sons of Usna betray'd !
For every fond eye he hath waken'd 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,*
When Ulad'st three champions lay sleeping in gore
* The words of this song were siiggested by the very ancient Irish story
tailed "Dcirdii, or the Lamentable Fate of the Sons of Usnach."
t Oh Naisi! view the cloud that I here see in the sky I 1 see over Eman
|reen a chilling cloud of blood-tinged red. Deirdri s Sony.
458 MOORE'S POEMS.
By the billows of war which, so often, high swelling,
Have wafted these heroes to victory's shore !
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 wreak'd on the murderer's head !
Yes, monarch ! though sweet are our home recollections,
Though sweet are the tears that from tenderness fall ;
Though sweet are our friendships, our hopes, and affections
Revenge on a tyrant is sweetest of all !
WHAT THE BEE IS TO THE FLOWERET.
He. WHAT the bee is to the floweret,
When he looks for honey-dew,
Through 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 I
She. But, they say, the bee's a rover,
That he'll fly, when sweets are gone ;
And, when once the kiss is over,
Faithless brooks will wander on I
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 bond ;
Where sighs of devotion and breathings of flowers,
To heaven in mingled odour ascend !
Do not disturb our calm, oh Love !
Bo like is thy form to the cherubs above,
It well might deceive such hearts as ours."
IRISH MELODIES. 459
Love stood near the Novice, and listen'd,
And Love is no novice in taking a hint ;
His laughing blue eyes soon with piety glisten'd ;
His rosy wing turn'd 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 ;
lie 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, cloth'd in Piety's vest.
THIS LIFE IS ALL CHEQUE R'D WITH PLEASURES
AND WOES.
THIS life is all chequer'd with pleasures and woes,
That chase one another, like waves of the deep,
Each billow, as brightly or darkly it flows,
Reflecting our eyes, as they sparkle or weep.
So closely our whims on our miseries tread,
That the laugh is awak'd, ere the tear can be dried ;
And, as fast as the rain-drop of Pity is shed,
The goose-plumage of Folly can turn it aside.
But pledge me the cup if existence would cloy,
With hearts ever happy, and heads ever wise,
Be ours the light Grief, that is sister to Joy,
And the short, brilliant Folly, that flashes and dies !
When Hylas was sent with his urn to the fount,
Thro' fields full of sunshine, with heart full of play,
Light rambled the boy over meadow and mount,
And neglected his task for the flowers on the way.*
Thus some who, like me, should have drawn and have tasted
The fountain, that runs by Philosophy's shrine,
Their time with the flowers on the margin have wasted,
And left their light urns all as empty as mine 1
But pledge me the goblet while Idleness weaves
Her flow'rets together, if Wisdom can see
One bright drop or two, that has fall'n on the leaves
From her fountain divine, 'tis sufficient for me !
* Proposito florem prsetulit oficio. Propert. lib. i. eleg. 2(X
460 MOORE'S POEMS.
OH THE SHAMKOCK!
THROUGH Erin's Isle,
To sport awhile,
As Love and Valour wander'd,
With Wit, the sprite,
Whose quiver bright
A thousand arrows squander'd ;
Where'er they pass,
A triple grass*
Shoots up, with dew-drops streaming,
As softly green
As emeralds, seen
Thro' purest crystal gleaming !
Oh the Shamrock, the green, immortal Shamrock !
Chosen leaf
Of bard and chief,
Old Erin's native Shamrock !
Says Valour, " See,
They spring for me,
Those leafy gems of morning!"
Says Love, " No, no,
" For me they grow,
My fragrant path adorning !"
But Wit perceives
The triple leaves,
And cries " Oh ! do not sever
A type, that blends
Three god-like friends,
Love, Valour, Wit, for ever !'
Oh the Shamrock, the green, immortal Shamrock !
Chosen leaf
Of bard and chief,
Old Erin's native Shamrock !
* Saint Patrick is said to have made use of that species of the trefoil to
which in Ireland we give the name of Shamrock, in explaining the doctrine
f the Trinity to the pagan Irish. I do not know if there be any other
reason for our adoption of this plant as a national emblem. Hope, among
the ancients, was sometimes represented as a beautiful child, " standing
upon tip-toes, and a trefoil or three-coloured grass in her hand."
IRISH MELODIES. 4C1 j
AT THE MID HOUR OF NIGHT.
AT the mid hour of night, when stars are weeping, I fly
To the lone vale we lov'd,when life shone warm in thine eye,
And I think that, if spirits can steal from the region of ah
To revisit past scenes of delight, thou wilt come to me there,
And tell me our love. is remember'd, even in the sky !
Then I sing the wild song which once 'twas rapture to hear,
When our voices, hoth mingling, breath 'd, like one, on the ear ;
And,- as Echo far oif through the vale my sad orison rolls,
1 think, oh my love ! 'tis thy voice from the kingdom of
souls,*
Faintly answering still the notes that once were so dear.
ONE BUMPER AT PARTING.
ONE bumper at parting! tho' many
Have circled the board since we met,
The fullest, the saddest of any
Remains to be crown'd by us yet.
The sweetness that pleasure has in it,
Is always so slow to come forth,
That seldom, alas, till the minute
It dies, do we know half its worth !
But oh may our life's happy measure
Be all of such moments made up ;
They're born on the bosom of pleasure,
They die midst the tears of the cup.
As onward wo journey, how pleasant
To pause and inhabit awhile
Those few sunny spots, like the present,
That 'mid the dull wilderness smile !
But time, like a pitiless master,
Cries " Onward !" and spurs the gay hours,
And never does Time travel faster,
Than when his way lies among flowers.
But come may our life's happy measure
Be all of such moments made up ;
They're born on the bosom of pleasure,
They die midst the tears of the cup.
* "There are countries," says Montaigne, "where they believe the sonla
of the happy live in all manner of liberty, in delightful fields ; and that
it i those souls repeating the words M-e ulter, which we call Echo,"
4f>2 MOORE'S POEMS.
How brilliant the sun looked in sinking,
The waters beneath him how bright
Oh ! trust me, the farewell of drinking
Should be like the farewell of light.
You saw how he finish'd, by darting
His beam o'er a deep billow's brim
So fill up, let's shine at our parting,
In full, liquid glory like him.
And oh ! may our life's happy measure
Of moments like this bo made up ;
'Twas born on the bosom of pleasure,
It dies 'rnid the tears of the cup !
TIS THE LAST EOSE OF SUMMER.
'Tis the last rose of summer,
Left blooming alone ;
All her lovely companions
Are faded and gone ;
No flower of her kindred,
No rose-bud is nigh,
To reflect back her blushes,
Or give sigh for sigh !
I'll not leave thee, thou lone one !
To pine on the stem ;
Since the lovely are sleeping,
Go, sleep thou with them ;
Thus kindly I scatter
Thy leaves o'er the bed,
Where thy mates of the garden
Lie scentless and dead.
So soon may / follow,
When friendships decay,
And from love's shining circlo
The gems drop away !
When true hearts lie wither'd,
And fond ones are flown,
O who would inhabit
This bleak world alone?
IRISH MELODIES. 4C3
THE YOUNG MAY MOON.
THE young May moon is beaming, love,
The glow-worm's lamp is gleaming, love,
How sweet to rove
Through Morna's grove.
Whilu the drowsy world is dreaming, love!
Then awake! the heavens look bright, my dear!
'Tis never too late for delight, my dear !
And the best of all ways
To lengthen our days
Is to steal a few hours from the night, my dear !
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 casement peeping, love.
Then awake ! till rise of sun, my dear,
The sage's glass we'll shun, my dear,
Or, in watching the flight
Of bodies of light,
He might happen to take thee for one, my dear I
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 lov'd 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!"
404 MOORE'S POEMS.
THE SONG OF O'KUARK,
PRINCE OF BREFFNI.*
THE valley lay smiling before me,
Where lately I left her behind ;
Yet I trembled, and something hung o'er me,
That sadden'd the joy of my mind.
I look'd for the lamp which, she told me,
Should shine, when her Pilgrim return'd,
But, though darkness began to infold me,
No lamp from the battlements burn'd !
I flew to her chamber 'twas lonely
As if the lov'd 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 wak'd it so often,
Now throbb'd to my proud rival's kiss.
There was a time, falsest of woman !
When Breffni's good sword would have sought
That man, thro' a million of foemen,
Who dar'd but to doubt thee in thought I
While now oh degenerate daughter
Of Erin, how f,all'n is thy fame ;
And, thro' ages of bondage and slaughter,
Thy country shall bleed for thy shame.
Already, the curse is upon her,
And strangers her valleys profane ;
They come to divide to dishonour,
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.
* Founded upon an event of most melancholy impoiiance to Ireland
if, as we are told by our Irish historians, it gave England the first oppor-
tunity of enslaving vft. The king of Leinster had conceived a violent
affection for Dearbhorgil, daughter to the king of Meath, though she
had been for some time married to O'Ruark, prince of Breffni. They
carried on a private correspondence, and she informed him that O'Ruark
intended soon to go on a pilgrimage, and conjured him to embrace that
opportunity of conveying her from a husband she detested. Mac Murchud
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 Mac Murchad fled to England, and obtained the assistance of
Heivry IL
IRISH MELODIE. 405
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 through a whole year of flowera.
"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 lov'd in the first golden time ;
The glow of the sunshine, the balm of the air,
Would steal to our hearts, and make all summer there I
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 I 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 welcom'd 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 brighten'd his path-way of pain
But he ne'er will forget the short vision, that threw
Its enchantment around him, while ling'ring 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 murmur'd " I wish he were here 1"
MOORE'S POEMS.
Let Fate do her worst, there are relics of joy,
Bright dreams of the past, which she cannot destroy ;
And which come, in the night-time of sorrow and care,
To bring back the features that joy us'd to wear.
Long, long be my heart with such memories fill'd !
Like the vase, in which roses have once been distill'd
You may break, you may ruin 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 awak'd by Love.
Altho' this heart was early blown,
And fairest hands disturb'd 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 awak'd by Love.
And tho' my lute no longer
May sing of Passion's ardent spell,
Oh, trust me, all the stronger
I feel the bliss I do not tell.
The bee thro' many a garden roves,
And sings his lay of courtship 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 awak'd by thee.
YOU REMEMBER ELLEN.*
You remember Ellen, our hamlet's pride,
How meekly she bless'd her humble lot,
"When the stranger, William, had made her his bride,
And love was the light of their lowly cot.
* This ballad was suggested by a well-known and interesting story told
Of a certain noble family in England.
IRISH MELODIES. 467
Together they toil'd through winds and rains,
Till William at length, in sadness, said,
" We must seek our fortune on other plains ;"
Then, sighing, she left her lowly shed.
They roam'd a long and a weary way,
Nor much was the maiden's heart at ease.
When now, at close of one stormy day,
They see a proud castle among the trees.
To-night," said the youth, " we'll shelter there ;
" The wind blows cold, the hour is late :"
So, he blew the horn with a chieftain's air,
And the porter bow'd, as they pass'd the gate.
" Now, welcome, Lady !" exclaim'd the youth,
" This castle is thine, and these dark woods all/
She believ'd him wild, but his words were truth,
For Ellen is Lady of Rosna Hall !
And dearly the Lord of Rosna loves
What William the stranger woo'd and wed ;
And the light of bliss, in these lordly groves,
Is pure as it shone in the lowly shed.
I'D MOURN THE HOPES.
I'D mourn the hopes that leave me,
If thy smiles had left me too ;
I'd weep, when friends deceive me,
If thou wert, like them, untrue.
But, while I've thee before me,
With heart so warm and eyes so bright,
No clouds can linger o'er me,
That smile turns them all to light !
'Tis not in fate to harm me,
While fate leaves thy love to me ;
'Tis not in joy to charm me,
Unless joy be shar'd with thee.
One minute's dream about thee
Were worth a long, an endless year
Of waking bliss without thee,
My own love, my only dear !
And, tho' the hope be gone, love,
That long sparkled o'er our way,
Oh ! wo shall journey on, love,
More safely, without its ray.
2 a
468 MOORE'S POEMS.
Par better lights shall win me
Along the path I've yet to roam,
The mind, that burns within me,
And pure smiles from thee at home.
Thus, when the lamp that lighted
The traveller, at first goes out,
He feels awhile benighted,
And looks round, in fear and doubt.
But soon, the prospect clearing,
By cloudless star-light on he treads,
And thinks no lamp so cheering
As that light which Heaven sheds.
COME O'ER THE SEA.
COME o'er the sea,
Maiden ! with me,
Mine thro' sunshine, storm, and snows !
Seasons may roll,
But the true soul
Burns the same, where'er it goes.
Let fate frown on, so we love and part not ;
'Tis life where thou art, 'tis death where thou are not!
Then come o'er the sea,
Maiden ! with me,
Come wherever the wild wind blows ;
Seasons may roll,
But the true soul
Burns the same, where'er it goes.
Is not the sea
Made for the free,
Land for courts and chains alone ?
Here we are slaves,
But, on the waves,
Love and liberty's all our own !
No eye to watch, and no tongue to wound us,
All earth forgot, and all Heaven around us !
Then come o'er the sea,
Maiden! with me,
Come wherever the wild wind blows ;
Seasons may roll,
But the true soul
Burns the same, where'er it goes.
IRISH MELODIES. 469
HAS SORROW THY YOUNG DAYS SHADED.
HAS sorrow thy young days shaded,
As clouds o'er the morning fleet ?
Too fast have those young days faded,
That, even in sorrow, were sweet?
Does time with his cold wing wither
Each feeling that once was dear ?
Come, child of misfortune ! come hither,
I'll weep with thee, tear for tear.
Has love to that soul, so tender,
Been like our Lagenian mine,*
"Where sparkles of golden splendour
All over the surface shine
But, if in pursuit we go deeper,
Allur'd by the gleam that shone,
Ah ! false as the dream of the sleeper,
Like love, the bright ore is gone.
Has hope, like the bird in the story ,t
That flitted from tree to tree
With the talisman's glittering glory
Has hope been that bird to thee ?
On branch after branch alighting,
The gem did she still display,
And when nearest and most inviting,
Then waft the fair gem away ?
If thus the sweet hours have fleeted
When sorrow herself looked bright ;
If thus the fond hope has cheated,
That led thee along so light ;
If thus, the unkind world wither
Each feeling that once was dear ;
Come, child of misfortune ! come hither,
I'll weep with thee, tear for tear.
* Our Wicklow gold mines, to which this verse alludes, deserve, I fear,
the character here given of them.
t The bird, having got its prize, settled not far off, with the talisman in
his mouth. The prince drew near it, hoping it would drop it; but, as he
approached, the bird took wing, and settled again, <fec. Arabian Nightt:
' Story of Kummir al Zummaun and the Princess of China."
*70 MOORE'S POEMS.
NO, NOT MORE WELCOME.
No, not more welcome the fairy numbers
Of music fall on the sleeper's ear,
When, half-awaking from fearful slumbers,
He thinks the full choir of heaven is near,
Than came that voice, when, all forsaken,
This heart long had sleeping lain,
Nor thought its cold pulse would ever waken
To such benign, blessed sounds again.
Sweet voice of comfort ! 'twas like the stealing;
Of summer wind thro' some wreathed shell
Each secret winding, each inmost feeling
Of all my soul echoed to its spell !
'Twas whisper 'd balm 'twas sunshine spoken 1
I'd live years of grief and pain
To have my long sleep of sorrow broken
By such benign, blessed sounds again !
WHEN FIEST 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.
1 saw thee 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 nam'd,
I fled th' unwelcome story ;
Or found, in even the faults they blam'd,
Some gleams of future glory.
/ still was true, when nearer friends
Conspir'd 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.
IRISH MELODIES. 471
Even now, tlio' youtli its bloom has shed,
No lights of age adorn thee ;
The few, who lov'd thee once, have fled,
And they who flatter scorn thee.
Thy midnight cup is pledg'd 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 splendour !
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 receiv'd thee,
And gladly died to prove thee all
Her fancy first believ'd 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 inemorial was keeping
Of all that the dark hand of Destiny weaves,
Beside her the Genius of Erin stood weeping,
For her's 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 illum'd all the 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 watch'd for some glory like thine to arise.
For tho' heroes I've numbered, unblest was their lot,
And uuhallow'd they sleep in the cross-ways of Fame ;-
But oh ! there is not
One dishonouring blot
On the wreath that encircles my Wellington's name 1
472 MOORE'S POEMS.
And still the last crown of thy toils is remaining,
The grandest, the purest ev'n 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 1"
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 taught me,
I scorn'd 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,*
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 turu'd away,
! 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 ! th' endeavour
From bonds so sweet to sever ;
Poor Wisdom's chance
Against a glance
Is now as weak as ever I
* 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 inge-
nious in furnishing some inducement) he vanishes.
IRISH MELODIES. 478
WHERE IS THE SLAVE?
On ! where's the slave, so lowly,
Condemn'd 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 decay'd 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, untouch'd, and blowing,
Than that, whose braid
Is pluck'd to shade
The brows with victory glowing I
We tread the land that bore us,
Our 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 the heart and the hand all thy own to the last!
Oh ! what was love made for, if 'tis not the same
Thro' joy and thro' torments, 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 call'd me thy angel in moments of bliss,
Still thy angel I'll be, 'mid the horrors of this,
Thro' the furnace, unshrinking, thy steps to pursue,
And shield thee, and save thee, or perish there too 1
474 MOORE'S POEMS.
'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,
Look'd upward, and bless'd 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.
For high was thy hope, when those glories were darting
Around thee, thro' all the gross clouds of the world ;
"When Truth, from her fetters indignantly starting,
At once, like a sun-burst, her banner unfurl'd.*
Oh, never shall earth see a moment so splendid!
Then, then had one hymn of deliverance blended
The tongues of all nations how sweet had ascended
The first note of liberty, Erin ! from thee.
But, shame on those tyrants, who envied the blessing !
And shame on the light race, unworthy its good,
Who, at Death's reeking altar, like furies, caressing
The young hope of Freedom, baptiz'd it in blood !
Then vanish'd for ever that fair, sunny vision,
Which, spite of the slavish, the cold heart's derision,
Shall long be remember'd, pure, bright, and elysian.
As first it arose, my lost Erin ! on thee.
I SAW FROM THE BEACH.
I SAW from the beach, when the morning was shining,
A bark o'er the waters move gloriously on ;
I came, when the sun o'er that beach was declining,
The bark was still there, but the waters were gone !
Ah ! such is the fate of our life's early promise,
So passing the spring-tide of joy we have known ;
Each wave, that we dane'd on at morning, ebbs from us,
And leaves us, at eve, on the bleak shore alone.
Ne'er tell me of glories, serenely adorning
The close of our day, the calm eve of our night ;
* "The Sun-burst" was the fanciful name given by the ancient Irish to
the royal banner.
IRISH MELODIES. 475
Give me back, give me back the wild freshness of morning,
Her clouds and her tears are worth evening's best light.
Oh, who would not welcome that moment's returning,
When passion first wak'd a new life thro' his frame,
And his soul like the wood, that grows precious in burning-
Gave out all its sweets to love's exquisite flame !
FILL THE BUMPER FAIR.
FILL the bumper fair !
Every drop we sprinkle
O'er the brow of Care
Smooths away a wrinkle.
Wit's electric flame
Ne'er so swiftly passes,
As when thro' the frame
It shoots from brimming glasses.
Fill the bumper fair !
Every drop we sprinkle
O'er the brow of Care
Smooths away a wrinkle.
Sages can, they say,
Grasp the lightning's pinions,
And bring down its ray
From the starr'd dominions :
So we, sages, sit,
And, 'mid bumpers bright'ning,
From the heaven of wit
Draw down all its lightning !
Wouldst thou know what first
Made our souls inherit
This ennobling thirst
For wine's celestial spirit?
It chanc'd upon that day,
When, as bards inform us,
Prometheus stole away
The living fires mat warm u,
The careless youth, when up
To glory's fount aspiring,
Took nor urn nor cup,
To hide the pilfer'd fire in :
476 MOORE'S POEMS.
But oh his joy ! when, round
The halls of Heaven spying,
Amongst the stars he found
A bowl of Bacchus lying.
Some drops were in the bowl,
Eemains of last night's pleasure,
With which the sparks of soul
Mix'd their burning treasure !
Hence the goblet's shower
Hath such spells to win us
Hence its mighty power
O'er that flame within us.
Fill the bumper fair !
Every drop we sprinkle
O'er the brow of Care
Smooths away a wrinkle.
DEAB HARP OF MY COUNTRY.
DEAK Harp of my country ! in darkness I found thee,
The cold chain of silence had hung o'er thee long,
When proudly, my own Island Harp ! I unbound thee,
And gave all thy chords to light, freedom, and song !
The warm lay of love and the light note of gladness
Have waken'd thy fondest, thy liveliest thrill ;
But, so oft hast thou echoed the deep sigh of sadness,
That ev'n in thy mirth it will steal from thee still.
Dear Harp of my country ! farewell to thy numbers,
This sweet wreath of song is the last we shall twine ;
Go, sleep, with the sunshine of Fame on thy slumbers,
Till touch'd by some hand less unworthy than mine.
If the pulse of the patriot, soldier, or lover,
Have throbb'd at our lay, 'tis thy glory alono ;
I was but as the wi*d, passing heedlessly over,
And all the wild sweetness f wak'd was thy own.
NOTES.
LALLA ROOKH.
p. 4. Those insigma of the Emperor's favour.
" One mark of honour or knighthood bestowed by the Emperor is the
permission to wear a small kettle-drum at the bows of their saddles,
which at first was invented for the training of hawks, and is worn in Hie
field by all sportsmen for that end." Fryer's Travels.
"Those on whom the King has conferred the privilege must wear an
ornament of jewels on the right side of the turban, surmounted by a
high plume of the feathers of a kind of egret." Elphinstone's Account of
Caubul
p. 4. Khedar Khan, &c.
" Khedar Khan, the Khakan, or King of Turquestan, beyond the Gihon
(at the end of the eleventh century), whenever he appeared abroad was
preceded by seven hundred horsemen with silver battle-axes, and was
followed by an equal number bearing maces of gold." Ric/iardson's Dis-
sertation prefixed to his Dictionary.
p. 4. The gilt pine-apples.
"Thekubdeh, a large golden knob, generally in the shape of a pine-
apple, on the top of the canopy over the litter or palanquin." &cott'i
notes on the Bahardanush.
p. 4. The rose-coloured veils of the Princess's litter.
In the poem of Zohair, in the Moallakat, there is the following lively
description of "a company of maidens seated on camels :"
"They are mounted in carriages covered with costly awnings, and with
rose-coloured veils, the linings of which have the hue of crimson Andem-
wood.
"When they ascend from the bosom of the vale, they sit forward on
the saddle-cloths with every mark of a voluptuous gaiety.
"Now, when they have readied the brink of yon blue gushing rivulet,
they fix the poles of their tents like the Arabs with a settled mansion."
p. 4. Religion, of which Aurungzebe was a munificent protector.
This hyprocritical Emperor would have made a worthy associate of
certain Holy Leagues. " He held the cloak of religion," says Dow, "be-
tween his actions and the vulgar; and impiously thanked the Divinity
for a success which he owed to his own wickedness. AVhen he was mur-
dering and persecuting his brothers and their families, lie was building
a magnificent mosque at Delhi, as an offering to God for his assistance to
him in the civil wars. He acted as high-priest at the consecration of this
temple: and made a practice of attending divine service there, in the
478 MOORE'S POEMS.
humble dress of a Fakeer. But when he lifted one hand to the Divinity,
he, with the other, signed warrants for the assassination of his relations."
History of Hindostan, vol. iii. p. 335. See also the curious letter of
Aurungzebe given in the Oriental Collections, voL i. p. 320.
p. 5. The diamond eyes of the idol, &c.
"The idol at Jaghemat has two f.ne diamonds for eyes. No goldsmith
is suffered to enter the Pagoda; one having stole one of these eyes, being
locked up all night with the idol" Tavernier.
p. 5. Lake of Pearl
"In the neighbourhood is Notte Gill, or the Lake of Pearl, which re-
ceives this name from its pellucid water." Pennant's Hindoostan.
p. 5. Described by one from the Isles of the West, &c.
Sir Thomas Roe, ambassador from James I. to Jehanguire.
p. 5. Loves of Wamdk and Ezra.
"The romance Wemakweazra, written in Persian verse, which con-
tains the loves of Wamak and Ezra, two celebrated lovers who lived be-
fore the time of Mahomet." Note on the Oriental Tales.
p. 5. Of the fair-haired Zal, and his mistress Rodahver.
There is much beauty in the passage which describes the slaves of
Rodahver, sitting on the bank of the river and throwing flowers into the
stream, in order to draw the attention of the young hero who is encamp-
ed on the opposite side (vide Champion's Translation of the Shah Nameh of
Ferdousi).
p. 5. The combat of Rustam with the terrible white Daemon.
Rustam is the Hercules of the Persians. For the particulars of his
victory over the Sepeed Deeve, or White Demon, see Oriental Collections,
vol. ii. p. 45. Near the city of Shirauz is an immense quadrangular monu-
ment, in commemoration of this combat, called the " Kelaat-i-Deev Sepeed,"
or Castle of the White Giant, which Father Angelo, in his Gazophylacium
Persicum, p. 127, declares to have been the most memorable monument
of antiquity which he had seen in Persia (vide Ouseley's Persian Miscellanies).
p. 5. Their golden anklets.
"The women of the idol, or dancing girls of the Pagoda, have little
golden bells fastened to their feet, the soft harmonious tinkling of which
vibrates in unison with the exquisite melody of their voices." Maurices
Indian Antiquities. The Arabian princesses wear golden rings on their
ringers, to which little bells are suspended, as well as in the flowing
tresses of their hair, that their superior rank may be known" (vide Calmefs
Dictionary, art. Bells.)
p. o. That delicious opium, &c.
"Abou-Tige, ville de la Thebaide, ou il croit beaucoup de pavot noir,
dont se fait le ineilleur opium." D'Herbelot.
p. 6. That idol of women, Crishna.
" He and the three Ra"mas are described as youths of perfect beauty ;
and the Princesses of Hindustan were all passionately in love with Crishna,
who continues to this hour the darling god of the Indian women." Sir W
Jones, on the gods of Greece, Italy, and India.
p. 7. The veiled Prophet of Korassan.
For the real history of this Impostor, whose original name was Hakem
hen Haschem, and who was called Mocanna from the veil of silver gauze
(or, as others say, golden) which he always wore (vide D'llerbelot).
NOTES. 476
p. 7. Flowerets and fruits blush over every stream.
"The fruits of Mem are finer than those of any other place; and ono
cannot see in any other city such palaces, with groTes, and streams, and
gardens." Ebn Haukafs Geography.
p. 7. For far Jess luminous, <fcc.
"Ses disciples assuroient qu'il se couvroit le visage, pour ne pas dblouir
ceux qui 1'approchoit par 1'^clat de son visage comme Moyse." D'Her-
belot.
p. 7. In hatred to the Caliph's hue of night.
"II faut remarquer ici touchant les habits blancs des disciples de Hakem,
que la couleur des habits, des coeffures et des dtendarts des Khalifes Abas-
sides etant la noire, ce chef de Rebelles ne pouvoit pas choisir une, qui lui
fat plus opposed" D'fferbelot.
p. 7. Javelins of the light Khathaian reed.
"Our dark javelins, exquisitely wrought of Khathaian reeds, slender
and delicate." Poem ofAmru.
p. 7. Filled with the stems that bloom on Iran's rivers.
The Persians call this plant Gaz. The celebrated shaft of Isfenfliar, one
of their ancient heroes, was made of it. "Nothing can be more beautiful
than the appearance of this plant in flower during the rains on the banks
of rivers, where it is usually interwoven with a lovely twining asclepias."
Sir W. Jones, Botanical Observations.
p. 8. Like a chenar-trec grove.
The oriental plane. " The chenar is a delightful tree ; its bole is of a
fine white and smooth bark; and its foliage, which grows in a tuft at the
summit, is of a bright green." Morier's Travels.
p. 8. Like tulip-beds, &c.
"The name of tulip is said to be of Turkish extraction, and given to the
flower on account of its resembling a turban." Beckmann's History of
Inventions.
p. 8. And fur-bound bonnet of Bucharian shape.
"The inhabitants of Bucharia wear a round cloth bonnet, shaped much
nfter the Polish fashion, having a large fur border. They tie their kaftans
about the middle with a girdle of a kind of silk crape, several times round
the body." Independent Tartary, in Pinkerton's Col.
p 10. The flying Throne of star-taught Soliman.
This wonderful throne was called the " Star of the Genii." When Solo-
mon travelled, the eastern writers say, "he had a carpet of green silk on
which his throne was placed, being of a prodigious length and breadth,
and sufficient for all his forces to stand upon, the men placing themselves
on his right hand and the spirits on his left; and that when all were in
order, the wind, at his command, took up the carpet, and transported it
with all that were upon it, wherever he pleased ; the army of birds at the
same time flying over their heads, and forming a kind of canopy to shade
them from the sun." Sale's Koran, vol. ii. p. 214, note.
p. 10. TJirough many a prophet's breast.
This Is according to D'Herbelot's account of the doctrines of Mokanna:
"Sa doctrine e'toit que Dieu avoit pris une forme et figure humaina
depuis qu'il cut commandd aux Anges d'adorer Adam, le premier des
homines. Qu' apres la mort d'Adam, Dieu e'toit apparu sous la figure d
plusieurs Prophetes, et autres grands hommes qu'il avoit choisis, jusqu*
k ce qu'il prit celle d'Abu Moslem, Prince de Khorassan, lequel professoit
1'erreur de la Tenassukhiah ou Metempschychose ; et qu' apres la mort
de ce Prince, la Divinite' e'toit passed, et descendue en sa personne."
480 MOORE'S POEMS.
p. 18. Whom India serves, the monkey Deity.
" Apes are in many parts of India highly venerated, out of respect to
the god Hannaman, a deity partaking of the form of that race," Pen-
nant's Hindoostan.
See a curious account in Stephen's Persia of a solemn embassy from
some part of the Indies to Goa, when the Portuguese were there, offering
vast treasures for the recovery of a monkey's tooth, which they held in
great veneration, and which had been taken away upon the conquest of
the kingdom of Jafanapatan.
p. 18 To whom if Lucifer, as grandams say.
Refused, though at the forfeit of heavens light.
To bend in worship, Lucifer was right.
Tills resolution of Eblis not to acknowledge the new creature man, was,
Recording to Mohammedan tradition, thus adopted: "The earth (which
God had selected for the materials of his work) was carried into Arabia, to
a place between Mecca and Tayef, where, being first kneaded by the
angels, it was afterwards fashioned by God himself into a human form, and
left to dry for the space of forty days, or, as others say, as many years ;
the angels, in the meantime often visiting it, and Eblis (then one of the
aiigels nearest to God's presence, afterwards the devil) among the rest ;
but he, not contented with looking at it, kicked it with his foot till it rung,
and knowing God designed that creature to be his superior, took a secret
resolution never to acknowledge him as such." Sale on the Koran.
p. 19. In that best marble of which gods are made.
The material of which images of Guadma (the Birman Deity) is made,
is held sacred. " Birmans may not purchase the marble in mass, but aro
suffered, and indeed encouraged, to buy figures of the Deity ready made."
Syme's Ava, voL ii. p. 376.
p. 23. Within the crocodile's stretched jaws to come.
The humming bird is said to run this risk for the purpose of picking the
crocodile's teeth. The same circumstance is related of the Lapwing, as a
fact to which he was witness, by Paul Lucas (Voyage faite en 1714).
p. 24. Some artists of Yamtcheou having been sent on previously.
"The Feast of Lanterns is celebrated at Yamtcheou with more magnifi-
cence than anywhere else." The present State ofCfiina, p. 156.
p. 25. The origin of these fantastic Cliinese illuminations.
" The vulgar ascribe it to an accident that happened in the family of a
famous mandarin, whose daughter walking one evening upon the shore of
a lake, fell in and was drowned; this afflicted father, with his family, run
thither, and, the better to find her, he caused a great company of lanterns
to be lighted. All the inhabitants of the place thronged after him with
torches. The year ensuing they made fires upon the shores the same day;
they continued the ceremony every year, every one lighted his lantern,
and by degrees it commenced into a custom." Present State of China.
p. 26. The KohoTs jetty dye,
"None of these ladies," says Shaw, "take themselves to be completely
dressed, till they have tinged the hair and edges of their eyelids with the
powder of lead-ore. Now, as this operation is performed by dipping first
into the powder a small wooden bodkin of the thickness of a quill, and
then drawing it afterwards through the eyelids, over the ball of the eye,
we shall have a lively imape of what the Prophet (Jer. iv. 30.), may be
supposed to mean by rending the eyes with painting. Tills practice is no
doubt of great antiquity; for besides the instance already taken notice of,
we find that where Jezebel is said (2 Kings, ix. 30) to have painted her fact,
the original words are, the adjusted her eyes with the potcdtr of lead-ore."
Shaw's Travels.
NOTES. 481
p. 28. About the gardens, drunk with that sweet food.
Tavernier adds, that while the Birds of Paradise lie in this intoxicated
state, the emmets come and eat off their legs; and that hence it ia they
are said to have, no feet.
p. 30. As they were captives to the King of Flowers.
"They deferred it till the King of Flowers should ascer.d his throne of
enamelled foliage." The Bahardanush.
p. 81. But a light golden chain-work round her hair, fec.
" One of the head-dresses of the Persian women is composed of a light
golden chain-work, set with sm;ill pearls, with a thin gold plate pendant,
about the bigness of a crown-piece, on which is impressed an Arabian
prayer, and which hangs upon the cheek below the ear." ffanway's
p. 81. Such as the maids of Yezd.
" Certainly the women of Yezd are the handsomest women in Persia.
The proverb is, that to live happy, a man must have a wife of Yezd, eat
the bread of Yezdecas, and drink the wine of Shiraz." Tavernier.
p. 33. Blue water-lilies.
" Whose wanton eyes resemble blue water-lilies, agitated by the breeze."
Jayadeva.
p. 33. To muse upon the pictures that hung round. .
Ithas been generally supposed that the Mohammedans prohibit all pictures
of animals; but Toderini shows that, though the practice is forbidden by
the Koran, they are not more averse to painted figures and images than
other people. From Mr Murphy's work, too, we find that the Arabs of
Spain had no objection to the introduction of figures into p jtnting.
p. 34 Whose orb when half retired looks loveliest.
This is not. quite astronomically true. "Dr Hadley," says Keil, "hag
shown that Venus is brightest when she is about forty degrees removed
from the sun ; and that then >T.t only afourthpart of her lucid disk is to be
seen from the earth."
p. 40. The apples oflstatfiar.
" In the territory of Istakhar there is a kind of apple, half of which Is
sweet and half sour." Ebn Haukal.
p. 40. The Otontala or Sea of Stars.
"The place where the Whangho, a river of Tibet, rises, and where there
are more than a hundred springs, which sparkle like stars; whence it ia
called Hotun-hor, that is, the Sea of Stars." Description of Thibet in
Pinkerton.
p. 41. And camels tufted o'er with Yemen's shells.
" A superb camel, ornamented with strings and tufts of small shells."
Ali Bey.
p. 41. Of laden camels, and their drivers' songs.
"Some of the camels have bells about their necks, and some about their
legs, like those which, our carriers put about their fore-horses' necks."
Pitt's Account of the Mohammedans.
" The camel-driver follows the camels singing, and sometimes playing
npon his pipe ; the louder he sings and pipes, the faster the camels go.
Nay, thy will stand still when he gives over his music." Tavernier.
p. 44. Hot as that crimson haze.
Savary says, " Torrents of burning sand roll before it, the firmament is
enveloped in a thick veil, and the sun appears of the colour of blood.
Sometimes whole caravans are buried in it"
482 MOORE'S POEMS.
p. 48. the pittar'd throne,
There were said to be under this throne or Palace of Khosrou Parvlz a
hundred vaults filled with " treasures so immense, that some Mohammedan
writers tell us, their Prophet, to encourage his disciples, carried them to
a rock, which at his command opened, and gave them a prospect through
It of the treasures of Khosrou." Universal History.
p. 48. And they beheld an orb, ample and bt-ight.
We are not told more of this trick of the Imposter, than that It was "uno
machine, qu'il disoit e"tre la Lune." According to Richardson, the miracle
Is perpetuated in Nekscheb. " Nakshab, the name of a city in Transoxi-
ania, where they say there is a well, in which the appearance of the moon
$s to be seen night and day."
p. 49. On for the lamps that light yon lofty screen.
The tents of princes were generally illuminated. Norden tells us that the
tent of the Bey of Girge was distinguished from the other tents by forty
lanterns being suspended before it (vide /farmer's Observations on Job).
p. 5L Engines of havoc in, unknown before.
That they knew the secret of the Greek fire among the Mussulmans early
in the eleventh century, appears from Dow's Account of Mamood I. " When
he had launched this fleet, he ordered twenty archers into each boat, and
five others with fire-balls, to burn the craft of the Jits, and naptha to set
the whole river on fire."
The Agnee aster, too, in Indian poems, the Instrument of Fire, whose
flame cannot be extinguished, is supposed to signify the Greek Fire (Vide
Wilks's South of India, vol. i. p. 471.)
The mention of gunpowder as in use among the Arabians, long before
its supposed discovery in Europe, is introduced by Ebn Fadhl, the Egyp-
tian geographer, who lived in the thirteenth century. " Bodies," he says,
" in the form of scorpions, bound round and filled with nitrous powder,
glide along, making a gentle noise ; then, exploding, they lighten as it
were, and burn. But there are others, which, cast into the air, stretch
along like a cloud, roaring horribly, as thunder roars, and on all sides
vomiting out flames, burst, burn, and reduce to cinders whatever comes in
their way." The historian Sen Abdatta, in speaking of Abulualid in the
year of the Hegira 712, says, " a fiery globe, by means of combustible
matter, with a mighty noise suddenly emitted, strikes with the force of
lightning, and shakes the citadel" (vide the extracts from Casirfs
Biblioth. Arab. Hispan., in the Appendix to Berington's Literary History
of the Middle Ages),
p. 51. Discharge, as from a kindled naptha fount.
See Hanway's Account of the Springs of Naptha at Baku (which is called
by Liexitenant Pottinger, Joala Mookhee, or the Flaming Mouth), taking
fire, and running into the sea.
p. 55. With burning drugs for this last hour distiWd.
"II donna dn poison dans le vin a tous ses gens, et se jetta lul-mc~me
en suite dans une cuve pleine de drogues brulantes et consumantes, afln
qu'il ne rcstat rien de tous les membres de son corps, et que ceux qui
restoient de sa secte puissent croire qu'il etoit monte au ciel, ce qui ne
manqua pas d'arriver." D'Herbelot.
p. 58. To eat any mangoes but those of Mazagong was, of course, impossible.
" The celebrity of Mazagong is owing to its mangoes, which are certainly
the best fruit I ever tasted. The parent tree, from which all those of this
species have been grafted, is honoured during the fruit season by a guard
of sepoys; and in the reign of Shah Jehan, couriers were stationed be-
tween Delhi and the Mahratta coast, to secure an abundant and fresh
supply of mangoes for the royal table." Mrs Graham's Journal of a Rest-
vence in India.
VOTES. 483
p. 62. To the Cdmalata, by whose rosy blossoms the heaven qflndra is scented,
"The Cdmalata" (called by Linnaeus, Ipomced) is the most beautiful of
Its order, both In the colour and form of its leaves and flowers; its ele-
gant blossoms are ' celestial rosy red, Love's proper hue,' and have justly
procured it the name of Crfmalata" or Love's Creeper." Sir W. Jones.
" Camalata" may also mean a mythological plant, by which all desires
are granted to such as inhabit the heaven of Indra; and if ever flower
was worthy of paradise, it is our charming Ipomcea." Ib.
p. 64. Blooms nowhere but in Paradise.
"The Brahmins of this province insist that the blue Campac flowers
only in Paradise." Sir W. Jones.
p. 64. / know where the Isles of Perfume are.
Diodorus mentions the Isle of Panchaia, to the south of Arabia Felix,
where there was a temple to Jupiter. This island, or rather cluster of
isles, has disappeared " sunk (says Grandpre) in the abyss made by the
fire beneath their foundations." Voyage to the Indian Ocean.
p. 65. O'er coral banks and amber beds, &<x
" Like the Sea of India, whose bottom is rich with pearls and amber-
gris, whose mountains of the coast are stored with gold and precious
stones, whose gulfs breed creatures that yield ivory, and among the
plants of whose shores are ebony, red wood, and the wood of Hairzan,
aloes, camphor, cloves, sandal-wood, and all other spices and aromatics;
where parrots and peacocks are birds of the forest, and musk and civet
are collected upon the lands." Travels of two JMohammedans.
p. 65. TJiy pagods and thy pillar'd shades.
The bended twigs take root, and daughters grow-
About the mother tree, a pillar'd shade. Milton.
p. 65. TJiy monarchs and their thousand thrones.
"With this immense treasure Mamood returned to Ghizni, and in the
year 400 prepared a magnificent festival, where he displayed to the people
his wealth in golden thrones and in other ornaments, iu a great plain with-
out the city of Ghizni." Ferishta.
p. 66. For Liberty shed, so holy is.
Objections may be made to my use of the word Liberty, In this, and
more especially in the story that follows it, as totally inapplicable to any
state of things that has ever existed in the East; but though I cannot,
of course, mean to employ it in that enlarged and noblft sense which is
so well understood at the present day, and, I grieve to say, so little acted
upon, yet it is no disparagement to the word to apply it to that national
independence, that freedom from the interference and dictation of foreign-
ers, without which, indeed, no liberty of any kind can exist, and for which
both Hindoos and Persians fought against their Mussulman Invaders with,
in many cases, a bravery that deserved much better success.
p. 66. Afric's Lunar Mountains,
"Sometimes called," says Jackson, "Jibbel Kumrie, or the White or
Lunar-coloured Mountains; so a white horse is called by the Arabians a
moon-coloured horse."
p. 68. Only the fierce hycena stalks.
" Gondar was full of hyzenas from the time it turned dark till the dawn
of day, seeking the different pieces of slaughtered carcases, which this
cruel and unclean people expose in the streets without burial, and who
firmly believe that these animals are Falashta from the neighbouring
mountains, transformed by magic, and come down to eat human flesh in
the dark in safety." Bruce.
2H
484 MOORE'S POEMS.
p. 72. And woods, so full of nightingales.
"The river Jordan is on both sides beset with little, thick, and pleasant
woods, among which tnousands of nightingales warble all together."
Thevenot.
p. 73. Of a small imarefs rustic fount.
Imaret, "hospice ou on loge et nourrit, gratis, les pelerins pendant
trois jours." Toderini.
p 73. The boy has started from the bed.
"Such Turks as at the common hours of prayer are on the road, or 80
employed as not to find convenience to attend the Mosques, are still
obliged to execute that duty ; nor are they ever known to fail, whatever
business they are then about, but pray immediately when the hour alarms
them, in that very place they chance to stand on." Aaron Ililfs Travels,
p. 11. The Banyan Hospital.
" This account excited a desire of visiting the Banyan Hospital, as I had
heard much of their benevolence to all kinds of animals that were either
sick, lanve, or infirm, through age or accident. On my arrival there were
presented to my view many horses, cows, and oxen, in one apartment;
in another, dogs, sheep, goats, and monkeys, with clean straw for them
to repose on. Above stairs were depositories for seeds of many sorts, and
fiat, broad dishes for water, for the use of birds and insects." Parsons.
It is said that all animals know the Banyans, that the most timid ap-
proach them, and that birds will fly nearer to them than to other people
(vide Grandpre).
p. 77. Whose sweetness was not to be drawn forth.
"A very fragrant grass from the banks of the Ganges, near Heridwar,
which in some places covers whole acres, and diffuses when crushed a
strong odour." Sir W. Jones on the Spikenard of the Ancients.
p. 78. Waved plates of gold and silver flowers over their heads.
" Or rather," says Scott, upon the passage of Ferishta, from which this
is taken, "small coin, stamped with the figure of a flower. They are still
used in India to distribute in charity, and, on occasion, thrown by the
purse-bearers of the great among the populace."
p. 79. His delectable alley of trees.
This road is 250 leagues in length. It has "little pyramids or turrets,"
says Bernier, "erected every half league, to mark the ways, and frequent
wells to afford drink to passengers, and to water the young trees."
p. 80. Floated multitudes of the beautiful red lotus.
" Here is a large pagoda by a tank, on the water of which float multi-
tudes of the beautiful red lotus : the flower is larger than that of the
white water-lily, and is the most lovely of the nymphieas I have seen."
Mrs Graham's Journal of a Residence in India.
p. 80. Had fled hither from their Arab Conquerors.
" On les voit persecutes par les Khalifes se retirer dans les montagncs
du Herman: plusieurs choisirent pour retraite la Tartarie et la Chine;
d'autres s'arreter^nt sur les bords du Gange, a Test de Delhi." M
Anquetil, Alemoires de FAcademie, torn. xxxi. p. 346.
p. 80. Cashmere, which had in the same manner become the prey of strangers.
"Cashmere," say its historians, "had its own Princes 4000 years before
its conquest by Akbar in 1585. Akbar would have found some difficulty
to reduce this paradise of the Indies, situated as it is, within suc.h a for-
tress of mountains, but its monarch Yusef Khan was basely betrayed by
his Omrahs." Pennant.
NOTES.
p. 81. Tlie Fire-Worshippers.
Voltaire tells us that in his tragedy Les Guebres, he was generally sup-
posed to have alluded to the Jansenists ; and I should not be surprised if
this story of the Fire- Worshippers were found capable of a similar double-
ness of application.
p. 84. Wfio, lulFd in cool kiosk or bower.
"In the midst of the garden is the chiosk, that is, a large room, com-
monly beautified with a fine fountain in the midst of it. It is raised nine
or ten steps, and inclosed with gilded lattices, round which vines, jessa-
mines, and honeysuckles make a sort of green wall : large trees are planted
round this place, which is the scene of their greatest pleasures." Lady M.
W. Montagu.
p. 84. Before their mirrors count their time.
The women of the east are never without their looking-glasses. " In
Barbary," says Shaw, "they are so fond of their looking-glasses, which
they hang upon their breasts, that they will not lay them aside, even when,
after the drudgery of the day, they are obliged to go two or three mileg
with a pitcher or a goat's skin to fetch water." Travels.
In other parts of Asia they wear little looking-glasses on their thumbs.
" Hence (and from the lotus being considered the emblem of beauty) is
the meaning of the following mute intercourse of two lovers before their
parents :
" He, with salute of deference due,
A lotus to his forehead prest ;
She rais'd her mirror to his view,
Then turn'd it inward to her breast."
Asiatic Miscellany, voL ii.
p. 89. The Gheber belt that round him clung.
" Pour se distinguer des Idolatres de 1'Inde, les Guebres se ceignent tous
d'un cordon de laine, ou de poil de chameau." Encyclopedie Franco***
D'Herbelot says this belt was generally of leather.
p. 89. Among the living lights of heaven.
"As to fire, the Ghebers place the spring-head of it in that globe of fire,
the Sun, by them called Mythras, or Mihir, to which they pay the highest
reverence, in gratitude for the manifold benefits flowing from its ministe-
rial omniscience. But they are so far from confounding the subordination
of the Servant with the majesty of its Creator, that they not only attribute
no sort of sense or reasoning to the sun or fire in any of its operations, but
consider it as a purely passive blind instrument, directed and governed by
the immediate impression on it of the will of God; but they do not even
give that luminary, all glorious as it is, more than the second rank amongst
his works, reserving the first for that stupendous production of divine
power, the mind of man." Grose. The false charges brought against the
religion of these people by their Mussulman tyrants is but one proof among
many of the truth of this writer's remark, " that calumny is often added
to oppression, if but for the sake of justifying it."
p. 92. That tree which grows over the tomb of Tan-Sein.
"At Gualior is a small tomb to the memory of Tan-Sein, a musician of
incomparable skill, who flourished at the court of Akbar. The tomb is
over-shadowed by a tree, concerning which a superstitious notion prevails,
that the chewing of its leaves will give an extraordinary melody to the
voice." Journey from- Agra to Guzein, by W. Hunter, Esq.
f 92. TJie awful signal of the bamboo-staff.
" It is usual to place a small white triangular flag, fixed to a bamboo
staff of ten or twelve feet long, at the place where a tiger has destroyed a
man. The sight of these flags imparts a certain melancholy, not perhaps
altogether void of apprehension." Oriental Field Sports, vol. il
486 MOORE'S POEMS.
p. 92. Beneath the shade some pious hands had erected, <kc.
"The Ficus indica is called the Pagocl Tree and Tree of Councils; the
first from the idols placed under its shade: the second, because meetings
Avere held under its cool branches. In some places it is believed to be the
haunt, of spectres, as the ancient spreading oaks of Wales have been of
fairies: in others are erected beneath the shade, pillars of stone, or posts,'
elegantly carved and ornamented with the most beautiful porcelain to
supply the use of mirrors." Pennant.
p. 92. The nightingale now bends her flight.
" The nightingale sings from the pomegranate-groves hi the day-time,
and from the loftiest trees at night. Russefs Aleppo.
p. 95. Before whose sabre's dazzling light.
" When the bright cimiters make the eyes of our heroes wink." TJie
Moallakat, Poems of Amru.
p. 96. Is rendered holy by the ranks.
In he Lettrcs Edifiantes, there is a different cause assigned for its name
of Holy. " In these are deep caverns, which formerly served as so many
cells for a great number of recluses, who had chosen these retreats as the
only witnesses upon earth of the severity of their penance. The tears of
these pious penitents gave the river of which we have just treated the
name of the Holy River." Vide 'Chateaubriand's Beauties of Christianity.
j, 97. A rocky mountain o'er the sea.
This mountain is my own creation, as the " stupendous chain" of which
I suppose it a link does not extend quite so far as the shores of the Persian
Gulf.
p. 97. Beneath the Gheber's lonely cliff.
" There is an extraordinary hill in this neighbourhood, called Kohe" Gubr
or. the Guebre's mountain. It rises in the form of a lofty cupola, and on
the summit of it, they say, are the remains of an Atush Kudu or Fire
Temple. It is superstitiously held to be the residence of Deeves or Sprites,
and many marvellous stories are recounted of the injury and witchcraft
suffered by those who essayed in former days to ascend or explore it. 1 '
Pottinger's Beloochistan.
p. 98. Still did the mighty flame burn on.
" At the city of Yezd in Persia, which is distinguished by the appellation
of the Darub Abadut, or Seat of Religion, the Guebres are permitted to
have an Atush Kudu or Fire Temple (which they assert has had the sacred
fire in it since the days of Zoroaster) in their own compartment of the city;
but for this indulgence they are indebted to the avarice, not the tolerance
of the Persian government, which taxes them at twenty-five rupees each
man." Pottinger's Beloochistan.
p. 100. While on that altar's fires they swore.
" Nul d'entre eux oseroit se perjurer, quand il a pris a te*moin cet element
terrible et vengeur." Encyclopedic Frangoise.
p 100. The Persian lily shines and towers.
" A vivid verdure succeeds the autumnal rains, and the ploughed fields
are covered with the Persian lily, of a resplendent yellov/ colour." HUM*. I's
Aleppo.
p. 103. Like Dead Sea fruits that tempt the eye.
"They say that there are apple-trees upon the sides of this sea, whicl
bear very lovely fruit, but within arc full of ashes." Therenot. The sumo
is asserted of the oranges there. Vide Wit m fin's Trarels in Asiatic Turkey.
Lord Byron has a similar allusion to the fruits of the Dead Sea, in that
wonderful display of genius, his Third Canto of Childe Harold, magnifi-
cent beyond anything, perhaps, that even ha has ever written.
NOTES. 487
p. 104, While lakes, that shone in mockery nigh.
" The Suhrab or Water of the Desert is said to be caused by the refrac-
tion of the atmosphere from extreme heat ; and, which augments the delu-
sion, it is most frequent in hollows, where water might be expected to
lodge. I have seen bushes and trees reflected in it, with as much accuracj
as though it had been the face of a clear and still lake." Pottinger.
" As to the unbelievers, their works are like a vapour in a plain, which
the thirsty traveller thinketh to be water, until when he cometh thereto
he findeth it to be nothing." Koran, chap. 24.
p. 104. A flower that the Bidmusk has just passed over.
" A wind which prevails in February, called Bidmusk, from a small and
odoriferous flower of that name." "The wind which blows these flowers
commonly lasts till the end of the month." Le Bruyn.
p. 104. Where the sea-gipsies, <tc.
"The Biajiis are of two races; the one is settled on Borneo, and are a
rude but warlike and industrious nation, who reckon themselves the origi-
nal possessors of the island of Borneo. The other is a species of sea-gipsies
or itinerant fishermen, who live in small covered boats, and enjoy a per-
petual summer on the eastern ocean, shifting to leeward from island to
island, with the Yariatioiis of the monsoon," Dr Leyden on the Indo-Chinese,
Nations.
o. 104. The violet sherbett.
" The sweet-scented violet is one of the plants most esteemed, particu-
Iiirly for its great use in Sorbet, which they make of violet sugar."
llasselquist.
" The sherbet they most esteem, and which is drank by the Grand Signor
himself, is made of violets and sugar." Tavernier.
p. 104. The pathetic measure of Nava.
" Last of all she took a guitar, and sung a pathetic air in the measure
called Nava, which is always used to express the lamentations of absent
lovers." Persian Tales.
p. 106. Her ruby rosary.
" Le Tespih, qui est un chapelet, compose* de 99 petites boules d'agathe,
de jaspe, d'ambre, de corail, ou d'autre matiere precieuse. J'en ai vu un
supcrbe au Seigneur Jerpos ; il dtoit de belles et grosses perles parfaites et
egales, estime trentee mille piastres." Toderini.
p. 144. A silk dyed with the blossoms of the sorrowful tree Nilica.
" Blossoms of the sorrowful Nyctanthesgive a durable colour to silk."
Remarks on the Husbandry of Bengal, p. 200. "Nilica is one of the Indian
names of this flower." Sir W. Jones. " The Persians call it GuL" Carreri
p. 121. The death-flames that bemath him burn'd.
Of their other Prophet Zoroaster, there is a story told in Dion Prusceits,
Orat. 30, that the love of wisdom and virtue leading him to a solitary life
uiioii a mountain, he found it one day all in a flame, shining with celestial
tire, out of which he came without any harm, and instituted certain sacri-
fices to God, who, he declared, then appeared to him. Vide Patrick OR
Exodus, iii. 2.
p. 136. They were now not far from that forbidden river.
" Akbar on his way ordered a fort to be built iipon the Nilab, which he
called Attock, which means in the Indian language Forbidden ; for, by the
superstition of the Hindoos, it was held unlawful to cross that river."
Dotc's Hindostun.
488 MOOHE'S POEMS.
p. 135. Resembling, she often thought, that people of Zinge.
" The inhabitants of this country (Zinge) are never afflicted with sad-
ness or melancholy ; on this subject the Sheikh Abu-al-Kheir-Azhari has
the following distich :
" Who is the man without care or sorrow (tell) that I may rub my hand
to him.
" (Behold) the Zingians, without care or sorrow, frolicksome with tipsi-
ness and mirth."
"The philosophers have discovered that the cause of this cheerfulness
proceeds from the influence of the star Soheil or Canopus, which rises over
them every night. "^Ueft Aklim, or the Seven Climates, translated by W.
Ousley, Esq.
p. 135. Putting to death some hundreds of those unfortunate lizards.
"The lizard Stellio. The Arabs call it Hardun. The Turks kill it, for
they imagine that by declining the head it mimics them when they say
their prayers." Hassdquist.
p. 136. As the Prophet said of Damascus, " it was too delicious."
"As you enter at that Bazar without the gate of Damascus, you see- the
Green Mosque, so called because it hath a steeple, faced with green glazed
bricks, which render it very resplendent ; it is covered at top with a pavil-
ion of the same stuff. The Turks say this mosque was made in that place
because Mohammed, being come so far, would not enter the town, saying it
was too delicious." Thevenot.
p. 136. Would remind the Princess of that difference, &c.
" Haroun Al Raschid, cinqtiieme Khalife des Abassides, s'e"tant un jour
brouille avec Maridah, qu'il nimoit cependant jusqu' a 1'exces, et cette
mesintelligence ayant deja dura" quelque terns commen9a a s'ennuyer.
Giafar Barmaid, son favori, qui s'en apper^ut, commanda a Abbas ben
Ahnaf, excellent Poete de ce terns la, de composer quelques vers sur le
sujet de cette brouillerie. Ce Poete executal'o: Jre de Giafar, qui tit chanter
ces vers par Moussali en presence du Khalife, et ce Prince tut tellemcnt
touchd de la tendresse des vers du poete et de la douceur de la voix du
musicien qu'il alia aussi-tot trouver Maridah et fit sa paix avec elle."
D'JJerbelot.
p. 138. Where the silken swing.
" The swing is a favourite pastime in the East, as promoting a circulation
of air, extremely refreshing in those sultry climates." Riehardten.
"The swings are adorned with festoons. This pastime is accompanied
with music of voices and of instruments, hired by the masters of the
swings." Thevenot.
p. 144. Its fragrant blossoms over graves.
" The women in Egypt go, at least two days in the week, to pray, and
weep at the sepulchres of the dead; and the custom then is to throw upon
the tombs a sort of herb, which the Arabs call rilian, and which is our sweet
basil" Mailkt, Lett. 10.
p. 146. The tooth of the fawn-like gold.
Niebuhr thinks this may be the herb which the Eastern alchymists look
to as a means of making gold. " Most of those alchymical enthusiasts
think themselves sure of success, if they could but find out the herb, which
gilds the teeth and gives a yellow colour to the flesh of the sheep that eat
it."
Father Jerom Dandini, however, asserts that the teeth of the goats at
Mount Libanus are of a silver colour ; and adds, "this confirms me that
which I observed in Canclia ; to wit, that the animals that live on Mount
Ida eat a certain herb, which renders their teeth of a golden colour ; which,
according to my judgment, cannot otherwise proceed than from the mines
which are under ground." Dandni, Voyage to Mount Libanus.
NOTES. 489
p. 147. The past, the present, and future of pleasure.
" Whenever our pleasure arises from a succession of sounds, it 3s a per-
ception of complicated nature, made up of a sensation of the present sound
or note, and an idea or remembrance of the foregoing, while their mixture
and concurrence produce such a mysterious delight, as neither could have
produced alone. And it is often heightened by an anticipation of the suc-
ceeding notes. Thus Sense, Memory, and Imagination, are conjunctively
employed." Gerard on Taste.
Madame de Stael accounts upon the same principle for the gratification
we derive from rhyme : " Elle est 1'lmage de I'espeYance et du souvenir.
Un son nous fait ddsirer celui qui doit lui repondre, et quand le second
retentit il nous rappelle celui qui vient de nous echapper."
p. 147. 'Tis dawn, at least that earlier dawn.
" The Persians have two mornings, the Soobhi Kazim and the Soobhl
Sadig, the false and the real day-break. They account for this phenomenon
in a most whimsical manner. They say that as the sun rises from behind
the Kohi Qaf (Mount Caucasus), it passes a hole perforated through that
mountain, and that darting its rays through it, it is the cause of the Soobhl
Kazim, or this temporary appearance of day-break. As it ascends, the
earth is again veiled in darkness, until the sun rises above the mountain
and brings with it the Soobhi Sadig, or real morning." Scott Waring,
p. 148. In his magnificent Shalimar.
" In the centre of the plain, as it approaches the Lake, one of the Delhi
Emperors, I believe Shah Jehan, constructed a spacious garden called the
Slialimar, which is abundantly stored with fruit-trees and flowering
shiubs. Some of the rivulets which intersect the plain are led into a canal
at the back of the garden, and, flowing through its centre, or occasionally
thrown into a variety of water-works, compose the chief beauty of the
Shalimar. To decorate this spot the Mogul Princes of India have displayed
an equal magnificence and taste; especially Jehan Gheer, who, with the
enchanting Noor Mahl, made Kashmire his usual residence during the
summer months." Forster.
p. 151. And oh, if there be, &c.
"Around the exterior of the Dewan Khass (a building of Shah Allum's)
in the cornice are the following lines in letters of gold upon a ground of
white marble 'If there be a paradise upon earth, it is this, it is this.' "
Franklin.
p. 155. Like that painted porcelain.
"The Chinese had formerly the art of painting on the sides of porcelain
vessels fish and other animals, which were only perceptible when the
vessel was full of some liquor." " They are every now and then trying to
recover the art of this magical painting, but to no purpose." Dunn,
p. 155. More perfect than the divtnest images in the House of Azor.
An eminent carver of idols, said in the Koran to be father to Abraham.
" I have such a lovely idol as is not to be met with in the house of Azor."
Hafiz.
p. 155. The grottos, hermitages, and miraculous fountains.
"The pardonable superstition of the sequestered inhabitants has multi-
plied the places of worship of Mahadeo, of Beschan, and of Brama. All
Cashmere is holy land, and miraculous fountains abound." Major RenneWi
Memoirs of a Map of Hindostan.
p. 155. Whose houses roofd with flowers.
" On a standing roof of wood is laid a covering of fine earth, which
shelters the building from the great quantity of snow that falls in the
winter season. This fence communicates an equal warmth in winter, as
a refreshing coolness in the summer season, when the tops of the houses,
which are planted with a variety of flowers, exhibit at a distance the spa-
cious view of a beautifully chequered parterre." Forster.
MOOTIE'S POEMS.
p. 156. Lctnterns of (he triple-coloured tortoise-shell of Pegu.
"Two hundred slaves there are who hare no other office than to hnnf
the woods and marshes for triple-coloured tortoises for the King's Vivary.
Of the shells of these also lanterns are made." Vincent le Blanc's Travels.
p. 156. The cold, odoriferous wind.
This wind, which Is to blow from Syria Damascena Is, according to the
Mohammedans, one of the signs of the Last Day's approach.
Another of the signs is, " Great distress in the world, so that a man when
he passes hy another's grave shall say, Would to God I were in his place!"
Sale's Preliminary Discourse.
p. 157. The cerulean throne ofKoolburga.
" On Mohammed Shaw's return to Koolburga (the capital of Dekkan),
he made a great festival, and mounted this throne w,ith much pomp and
magnificence, calling it Firozeh or Cerulean. I have -heard some old
persons, who saw the throne Firozeh in the reign of Sultan Mamood Bha-
menee, describe it. They say that it was in length nine feet, and three
in breadth ; made of ebony, covered with plates of pure gold, and set with
precious stones of immense value. Every prince of the house of Bhamenee,
who possessed this throne, made a point of adding to it some rich stone*,
so that when In the reign of Sultan Mamood it was taken to pieces, to
remove some of the jewels to be set in vases and cups, the jewellers valued
it at one corore of oons (nearly four millions sterling). I learned also that
it vas called Firozeh from being partly enamelled of a sky-blue colour,
which was in time totally concealed by the number of jewels." Ferishta*
.
THE END
,
f
Moore, Thomas. PR
5050i
The poetical works B70
of Thomas Moore,
