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The Complete Poems of Sir Thomas Moore by Thomas Moore et al

Part 12 out of 33

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And sings along the lengthening waste of snow,
Gayly as if the blessed light
Of vernal Phoebus burned 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] "A certain Spaniard, one night late, met an Indian woman in the
streets of Cozco, and would have taken her to his home, but she cried out,
'For God's sake, Sir, let me go; for that pipe, which you hear in yonder
tower, calls me with great passion, and I cannot refuse the summons; for
love constrains me to go, that I may be his wife, and he my
husband.'"--"_Garcilasso de la Vega_," in Sir Paul Ryeaut's translation.


List! 'tis a Grecian maid that sings,
While, from Ilissus' silvery 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,
Dreams of bright days that never can return;
When Athens nurst her olive bough
With hands by tyrant power unchained;
And braided for the muse's brow
A wreath by tyrant touch unstained.
When heroes trod each classic field
Where coward feet now faintly falter;
When every arm was Freedom's shield,
And every heart was Freedom's altar!


Hark, 'tis the sound that charms
The war-steed's wakening ears!--
Oh! many a mother folds her arms
Round her boy-soldier when that call she hears;
And, tho' her fond heart sink with fears,
Is proud to feel his young pulse bound
With valor'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 gushed forever!

Yes, Music, here, even here,
Amid this thoughtless, vague career,
Thy soul-felt charm asserts its wondrous power.--
There's a wild air which oft, among the rocks
Of his own loved land, at evening hour,
Is heard, when shepherds homeward pipe their flocks,
Whose every note hath power to thrill his mind
With tenderest thoughts; to 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 wandered 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 looked for blood before
Now melting, mournful, lose themselves in tears.


But wake, the trumpet's blast again,
And rouse the ranks of warrior-men!
Oh War, when Truth thy arm employs,
And Freedom's spirit guides the laboring storm,
'Tis then thy vengeance takes a hallowed form,
And like Heaven's lightning sacredly destroys.
Nor, Music, thro' thy breathing sphere,
Lives there a sound more grateful to the ear
Of Him who made all harmony,
Than the blest sound of fetters breaking,
And the first hymn that man awaking
From Slavery's slumber breathes to Liberty.


Hark! from Spain, indignant Spain,
Burst the bold, enthusiast strain,
Like morning's music on the air;
And seems in every note to swear
By Saragossa's ruined streets,
By brave Gerona's deathful story,
That, while _one_ Spaniard's life-blood beats,
That blood shall stain the conqueror's glory.


But ah! if vain the patriot's zeal,
If neither valor's force nor wisdom's light
Can break or melt that blood-cemented seal
Which shuts so close the books of Europe's right--
What song shall then in sadness tell
Of broken pride, of prospects shaded,
Of buried hopes, remembered well
Of ardor quenched, and honor faded?
What muse shall mourn the breathless brave,
In sweetest dirge at Memory's shrine?
What harp shall sigh o'er Freedom's grave?
Oh Erin, Thine!




When o'er the silent seas alone,
For days and nights we've cheerless gone,
Oh they who've felt it know how sweet,
Some sunny morn a sail to meet.

Sparkling at once is every eye,
"Ship ahoy!" our joyful cry;
While answering back the sounds we hear,
"Ship ahoy!" what cheer? what...cheer?

Then sails are backed, we nearer come,
Kind words are said of friends and home;
And soon, too soon, we part with pain,
To sail o'er silent seas again.


Come, fill round a bumper, fill up to the brim,
He who shrinks from a bumper I pledge not to him;
Here's the girl that each loves, be her eye of what hue,
Or lustre, it may, so her heart is but true.
Charge! (drinks) hip, hip, hurra, hurra!

Come charge high, again, boy, nor let the full wine
Leave a space in the brimmer, where daylight may shine;
Here's "the friends of our youth--tho' of some we're bereft,
May the links that are lost but endear what are left!"
Charge! (drinks) hip, hip, hurra, hurra!

Once more fill a bumper--ne'er talk of the hour;
On hearts thus united old Time has no power.
May our lives, tho', alas! like the wine of to-night,
They must soon have an end, to the last flow as bright.
Charge! (drinks) hip, hip, hurra, hurra!

Quick, quick, now, I'll give you, since Time's glass will run
Even faster than ours doth, three bumpers in one;
Here's the poet who sings--here's the warrior who fights--
Here's the, statesman who speaks, in the cause of men's rights!
Charge! (drinks) hip, hip, hurra, hurra!

Come, once more, a bumper!--then drink as you please,
Tho', _who_ could fill half-way to toast such as these?
Here's our next joyous meeting--and oh when we meet,
May our wine be as bright and our union as sweet!
Charge! (drinks) hip, hip, hurra, hurra!


"Hush, hush!"--how well
That sweet word sounds,
When Love, the little sentinel,
Walks his night-rounds;
Then, if a foot but dare
One rose-leaf crush,
Myriads of voices in the air
Whisper, "Hush, hush!"

"Hark, hark, 'tis he!"
The night elves cry,
And hush their fairy harmony,
While he steals by;
But if his silvery feet
One dew-drop brush,
Voices are heard in chorus sweet,
Whispering, "Hush, hush!"



On to the field, our doom is sealed,
To conquer or be slaves:
This sun shall see our nation free,
Or set upon our graves.


Farewell, oh farewell, my love,
May heaven thy guardian be,
And send bright angels from above
To bring thee back to me.


On to the field, the battle-field,
Where freedom's standard waves,
This sun shall see our tyrant yield,
Or shine upon our graves.




Past twelve o'clock--past twelve.

Good night, good night, my dearest--
How fast the moments fly!
'Tis time to part, thou hearest
That hateful watchman's cry.


Past one o'clock--past one.

Yet stay a moment longer--
Alas! why is it so,
The wish to stay grows stronger,
The more 'tis time to go?


Past two o'clock--past two.

Now wrap thy cloak about thee--
The hours must sure go wrong,
For when they're past without thee,
They're, oh, ten times as long.


Past three o'clock--past three.

Again that dreadful warning!
Had ever time such flight?
And see the sky, 'tis morning--
So now, _indeed_, good night.


Past three o'clock--past three.

Goodnight, good night.


Say, what shall we dance?
Shall we bound along the moonlight plain,
To music of Italy, Greece, or Spain?
Say, what shall we dance?
Shall we, like those who rove
Thro' bright Grenada's grove,
To the light Bolero's measures move?
Or choose the Guaracia's languishing lay,
And thus to its sound die away?

Strike the gay chords,
Let us hear each strain from every shore
That music haunts, or young feet wander o'er.
Hark! 'tis the light march, to whose measured time,
The Polish lady, by her lover led,
Delights thro' gay saloons with step untried to tread,
Or sweeter still, thro' moonlight walks
Whose shadows serve to hide
The blush that's raised by who talks
Of love the while by her side,
Then comes the smooth waltz, to whose floating sound
Like dreams we go gliding around,
Say, which shall we dance? which shall we dance?


Remember'st thou that setting sun,
The last I saw with thee,
When loud we heard the evening gun
Peal o'er the twilight sea?
Boom!--the sounds appeared to sweep
Far o'er the verge of day,

Till, into realms beyond the deep,
They seemed to die away.
Oft, when the toils of day are done,
In pensive dreams of thee,
I sit to hear that evening gun,
Peal o'er the stormy sea.
Boom!--and while, o'er billows curled.
The distant sounds decay,
I weep and wish, from this rough world
Like them to die away.











It came o'er her sleep, like a voice of those days,
When love, only love was the light of her ways;
And, soft as in moments of bliss long ago,
It whispered her name from the garden below.

"Alas," sighed the maiden, "how fancy can cheat!
"The world once had lips that could whisper thus sweet;
"But cold now they slumber in yon fatal deep.
"Where, oh that beside them this heart too could sleep!"

She sunk on her pillow--but no, 'twas in vain
To chase the illusion, that Voice came again!
She flew to the casement--but, husht as the grave,
In moonlight lay slumbering woodland and wave.

"Oh sleep, come and shield me," in anguish she said,
"From that call of the buried, that cry of the Dead!"
And sleep came around her--but, starting, she woke,
For still from the garden that spirit Voice spoke!

"I come," she exclaimed, "be thy home where it may,
"On earth or in Heaven, that call I obey;"
Then forth thro' the moonlight, with heart beating fast
And loud as a death-watch, the pale maiden past.

Still round her the scene all in loneliness shone;
And still, in the distance, that Voice led her on;
But whither she wandered, by wave or by shore,
None ever could tell, for she came back no more.

No, ne'er came she back,--but the watchman who stood,
That night, in the tower which o'ershadows the flood,
Saw dimly, 'tis said, o'er the moonlighted spray,
A youth on a steed bear the maiden away.


They told her that he, to whose vows she had listened
Thro' night's fleeting hours, was a spirit unblest;--
Unholy the eyes, that beside her had glistened,
And evil the lips she in darkness had prest.

"When next in thy chamber the bridegroom reclineth,
"Bring near him thy lamp, when in slumber he lies;
"And there, as the light, o'er his dark features shineth,
"Thou'lt see what a demon hath won all thy sighs!"

Too fond to believe them, yet doubting, yet fearing,
When calm lay the sleeper she stole with her light;
And saw--such a vision!--no image, appearing
To bards in their day-dreams, was ever so bright.

A youth, but just passing from childhood's sweet morning,
While round him still lingered its innocent ray;
Tho' gleams, from beneath his shut eyelids gave warning
Of summer-noon lightnings that under them lay.

His brow had a grace more than mortal around it,
While, glossy as gold from a fairy-land mine,
His sunny hair hung, and the flowers that crowned it
Seemed fresh from the breeze of some garden divine.

Entranced stood the bride, on that miracle gazing,
What late was but love is idolatry now;
But, ah--in her tremor the fatal lamp raising--
A sparkle flew from it and dropt on his brow.

All's lost--with a start from his rosy sleep waking;
The Spirit flashed o'er her his glances of fire;
Then, slow from the clasp of her snowy arms breaking,
Thus said, in a voice more of sorrow than ire:

"Farewell--what a dream thy suspicion hath broken!
"Thus ever. Affection's fond vision is crost;
"Dissolved are her spells when a doubt is but spoken,
"And love, once distrusted, for ever is lost!"


"The night wind is moaning with mournful sigh,
"There gleameth no moon in the misty sky
"No star over Helle's sea;
"Yet, yet, there is shining one holy light,
"One love-kindled star thro' the deep of night,
"To lead me, sweet Hero, to thee!"

Thus saying, he plunged in the foamy stream,
Still fixing his gaze on that distant beam
No eye but a lover's could see;
And still, as the surge swept over his head,
"To night," he said tenderly, "living or dead,
"Sweet Hero, I'll rest with thee!"

But fiercer around him, the wild waves speed;
Oh, Love! in that hour of thy votary's need,
Where, where could thy Spirit be?
He struggles--he sinks--while the hurricane's breath
Bears rudely away his last farewell in death--
"Sweet Hero, I die for thee!"


"Tell me, kind Seer, I pray thee,
"So may the stars obey thee
"So may each airy
"Moon-elf and fairy
"Nightly their homage pay thee!
"Say, by what spell, above, below,
"In stars that wink or flowers that blow,
"I may discover,
"Ere night is over,
"Whether my love loves me, or no,
"Whether my love loves me."

"Maiden, the dark tree nigh thee
"Hath charms no gold could buy thee;
"Its stem enchanted.
"By moon-elves planted,
"Will all thou seek'st supply thee.
"Climb to yon boughs that highest grow,
"Bring thence their fairest leaf below;
"And thou'lt discover,
"Ere night is over,
"Whether thy love loves thee or no,
"Whether thy love loves thee."

"See, up the dark tree going,
"With blossoms round me blowing,
"From thence, oh Father,
"This leaf I gather,
"Fairest that there is growing.
"Say, by what sign I now shall know
"If in this leaf lie bliss or woe
"And thus discover
"Ere night is over,
"Whether my love loves me or no,
"Whether my love loves me."

"Fly to yon fount that's welling
"Where moonbeam ne'er had dwelling,
"Dip in its water
"That leaf, oh Daughter,
"And mark the tale 'tis telling;[1]
"Watch thou if pale or bright it glow,
"List thou, the while, that fountain's flow,
"And thou'lt discover
"Whether thy lover,
"Loved as he is, loves thee or no,
"Loved as he is, loves thee."

Forth flew the nymph, delighted,
To seek that fount benighted;
But, scarce a minute
The leaf lay in it,
When, lo, its bloom was blighted!
And as she asked, with voice of woe--
Listening, the while, that fountain's flow--
"Shall I recover
"My truant lover?"
The fountain seemed to answer, "No;"
The fountain answered, "No."

[1] The ancients had a mode of divination somewhat similar to this; and we
find the Emperor Adrian, when he went to consult the Fountain of Castalia,
plucking a bay leaf, and dipping it into the sacred water.


A hunter once in that grove reclined,
To shun the noon's bright eye,
And oft he wooed the wandering wind,
To cool his brow with its sigh,
While mute lay even the wild bee's hum,
Nor breath could stir the aspen's hair,
His song was still "Sweet air, oh come?"
While Echo answered, "Come, sweet Air!"

But, hark, what sounds from the thicket rise!
What meaneth that rustling spray?
"'Tis the white-horned doe," the Hunter cries,
"I have sought since break of day."
Quick o'er the sunny glade he springs,
The arrow flies from his sounding bow,
"Hilliho-hilliho!" he gayly sings,
While Echo sighs forth "Hilliho!"

Alas, 'twas not the white-horned doe
He saw in the rustling grove,
But the bridal veil, as pure as snow,
Of his own young wedded love.
And, ah, too sure that arrow sped,
For pale at his feet he sees her lie;--
"I die, I die," was all she said,
While Echo murmured. "I die, I die!"


"Tell me, what's Love?" said Youth, one day,
To drooping Age, who crest his way.--
"It is a sunny hour of play,
"For which repentance dear doth pay;
"Repentance! Repentance!
"And this is Love, as wise men say."
"Tell me, what's Love?" said Youth once more,
Fearful, yet fond, of Age's lore.--
"Soft as a passing summer's wind,
"Wouldst know the blight it leaves behind?
"Repentance! Repentance!
"And this is Love--when love is o'er."

"Tell me, what's Love? "said Youth again,
Trusting the bliss, but not the pain.
"Sweet as a May tree's scented air--
"Mark ye what bitter fruit 'twill bear,
"Repentance! Repentance!
"This, this is Love--sweet Youth, beware."

Just then, young Love himself came by,
And cast on Youth a smiling eye;
Who could resist that glance's ray?
In vain did Age his warning say,
"Repentance! Repentance!"
Youth laughing went with Love away.


A wounded Chieftain, lying
By the Danube's leafy side,
Thus faintly said, in dying,
"Oh! bear, thou foaming tide.
"This gift to my lady-bride."

'Twas then, in life's last quiver,
He flung the scarf he wore
Into the foaming river,
Which, ah too quickly, bore
That pledge of one no more!

With fond impatience burning,
The Chieftain's lady stood,
To watch her love returning
In triumph down the flood,
From that day's field of blood.

But, field, alas, ill-fated!
The lady saw, instead
Of the bark whose speed she waited,
Her hero's scarf, all red
With the drops his heart had shed.

One shriek--and all was over--
Her life-pulse ceased to beat;
The gloomy waves now cover
That bridal-flower so sweet.
And the scarf is her winding sheet!


"Come, if thy magic Glass have power
"To call up forms we sigh to see;
"Show me my, love, in that, rosy bower,
"Where last she pledged her truth to me."

The Wizard showed him his Lady bright,
Where lone and pale in her bower she lay;
"True-hearted maid," said the happy Knight,
"She's thinking of one, who is far away."

But, lo! a page, with looks of joy,
Brings tidings to the Lady's ear;
"'Tis," said the Knight, "the same bright boy,
"Who used to guide me to my dear."
The Lady now, from her favorite tree,
Hath, smiling, plucked a rosy flower:
"Such," he exclaimed, "was the gift that she
"Each morning sent me from that bower!"

She gives her page the blooming rose,
With looks that say, "Like lightning, fly!"
"Thus," thought the Knight, "she soothes her woes,
"By fancying, still, her true-love nigh."
But the page returns, and--oh, what a sight,
For trusting lover's eyes to see!--
Leads to that bower another Knight,
As young and, alas, as loved as he!

"Such," quoth the Youth, "is Woman's love!"
Then, darting forth, with furious bound,
Dashed at the Mirror his iron glove,
And strewed it all in fragments round.


Such ills would never have come to pass,
Had he ne'er sought that fatal view;
The Wizard would still have kept his Glass,
And the Knight still thought his Lady true.


Still thus, when twilight gleamed,
Far off his Castle seemed,
Traced on the sky;
And still, as fancy bore him.
To those dim towers before him,
He gazed, with wishful eye;
And thought his home was nigh.

"Hall of my Sires!" he said,
"How long, with weary tread,
"Must I toil on?
"Each eve, as thus I wander,
"Thy towers seem rising yonder,
"But, scarce hath daylight shone,
"When, like a dream, thou'rt gone!"

So went the Pilgrim still,
Down dale and over hill,
Day after day;
That glimpse of home, so cheering,
At twilight still appearing,
But still, with morning's ray,
Melting, like mist, away!

Where rests the Pilgrim now?
Here, by this cypress bough,
Closed his career;
That dream, of fancy's weaving,
No more his steps deceiving,
Alike past hope and fear,
The Pilgrim's home is here.


In vain all the Knights to the Underwald wooed her,
Tho' brightest of maidens, the proudest was she;
Brave chieftains they sought, and young minstrels they sued her,
But worthy were none of the high-born Ladye.

"Whosoever I wed," said this maid, so excelling,
"That Knight must the conqueror of conquerors be;
"He must place me in halls fit for monarchs to dwell in:--
"None else shall be Lord of the high-born Ladye!

Thus spoke the proud damsel, with scorn looking round her
On Knights and on Nobles of highest degree;
Who humbly and hopelessly left as they found her,
And worshipt at distance the high-born Ladye.

At length came a Knight, from a far land to woo her,
With plumes on his helm like the foam of the sea;
His visor was down--but, with voice that thrilled thro her,
He whispered his vows to the high-born Ladye.

"Proud maiden! I come with high spousals to grace thee,
"In me the great conqueror of conquerors see;
"Enthroned in a hall fit for monarchs I'll place thee,
"And mine, thou'rt for ever, thou high-born Ladye!"

The maiden she smiled, and in jewels arrayed her,
Of thrones and tiaras already dreamt she;
And proud was the step, as her bridegroom conveyed her
In pomp to his home, of that highborn Ladye.

"But whither," she, starting, exclaims, "have you, led me?
"Here's naught but a tomb and a dark cypress tree;
"Is _this_ the bright palace in which thou wouldst wed me?"
With scorn in her glance said the high-born Ladye.

"Tis the home," he replied, "of earth's loftiest creatures"--
Then lifted his helm for the fair one to see;
But she sunk on the ground--'twas a skeleton's features
And Death was the Lord of the high-born Ladye!


'Twas midnight dark,
The seaman's bark,
Swift o'er the waters bore him,
When, thro' the night,
He spied a light
Shoot o'er the wave before him.
"A sail! a sail!" he cries;
"She comes from the Indian shore
"And to-night shall be our prize,
"With her freight of golden ore;
"Sail on! sail on!"
When morning shone
He saw the gold still clearer;
But, though so fast
The waves he past
That boat seemed never the nearer.

Bright daylight came,
And still the same
Rich bark before him floated;
While on the prize
His wishful eyes
Like any young lover's doted:
"More sail! more sail!" he cries,
While the waves overtop the mast;
And his bounding galley flies,
Like an arrow before the blast.
Thus on, and on,
Till day was gone,
And the moon thro' heaven did hie her,
He swept the main,
But all in vain,
That boat seemed never the nigher.

And many a day
To night gave way,
And many a morn succeeded:
While still his flight,
Thro day and night,
That restless mariner speeded.
Who knows--who knows what seas
He is now careering o'er?
Behind, the eternal breeze,
And that mocking bark, before!
For, oh, till sky
And earth shall die,
And their death leave none to rue it,
That boat must flee
O'er the boundless sea,
And that ship in vain pursue it.


Come list, while I tell of the heart-wounded Stranger
Who sleeps her last slumber in this haunted ground;
Where often, at midnight, the lonely wood-ranger
Hears soft fairy music re-echo around.

None e'er knew the name of that heart-stricken lady,
Her language, tho' sweet, none could e'er understand;
But her features so sunned, and her eyelash so shady,
Bespoke her a child of some far Eastern land.

'Twas one summer night, when the village lay sleeping,
A soft strain of melody came o'er our ears;
So sweet, but so mournful, half song and half weeping,
Like music that Sorrow had steeped in her tears.

We thought 'twas an anthem some angel had sung us;--
But, soon as the day-beams had gushed from on high,
With wonder we saw this bright stranger among us,
All lovely and lone, as if strayed from the sky.

Nor long did her life for this sphere seem intended,
For pale was her cheek, with that spirit-like hue,
Which comes when the day of this world is nigh ended,
And light from another already shines through.

Then her eyes, when she sung--oh, but once to have seen them--
Left thoughts in the soul that can never depart;
While her looks and her voice made a language between them,
That spoke more than holiest words to the heart.

But she past like a day-dream, no skill could restore her--
Whate'er was her sorrow, its ruin came fast;
She died with the same spell of mystery o'er her.
That song of past days on her lips to the last.

Not even in the grave is her sad heart reposing--
Still hovers the spirit of grief round her tomb;
For oft, when the shadows of midnight are closing,
The same strain of music is heard thro' the gloom.



To-day, dearest! is ours;
Why should Love carelessly lose it?
This life shines or lowers
Just as we, weak mortals, use it.
'Tis time enough, when its flowers decay,
To think of the thorns of Sorrow
And Joy, if left on the stem to-day,
May wither before to-morrow.

Then why, dearest! so long
Let the sweet moments fly over?
Tho' now, blooming and young
Thou hast me devoutly thy lover;
Yet Time from both, in his silent lapse,
Some treasure may steal or borrow;
Thy charms may be less in bloom, perhaps,
Or I less in love to-morrow.


When on the lip the sigh delays,
As if 'twould linger there for ever;
When eyes would give the world to gaze,
Yet still look down and venture never;
When, tho' with fairest nymphs we rove,
There's one we dream of more than any--
If all this is not real love,
'Tis something wondrous like it, Fanny!

To think and ponder, when apart,
On all we've got to say at meeting;
And yet when near, with heart to heart,
Sit mute and listen to their beating:
To see but one bright object move,
The only moon, where stars are many--
If all this is not downright love,
I prithee say what _is_, my Fanny!

When Hope foretells the brightest, best,
Tho' Reason on the darkest reckons;
When Passion drives us to the west,
Tho' Prudence to the eastward beckons;
When all turns round, below, above,
And our own heads the most of any--
If this is not stark, staring love,
Then you and I are sages, Fanny.


Here, take my heart--'twill be safe in thy keeping,
While I go wandering o'er land and o'er sea;
Smiling or sorrowing, waking or sleeping,
What need I care, so my heart is with thee?

If in the race we are destined to run, love,
They who have light hearts the happiest be,
Then happier still must be they who have none, love.
And that will be _my_ case when mine is with thee.

It matters not where I may now be a rover,
I care not how many bright eyes I may see;
Should Venus herself come and ask me to love her,
I'd tell her I couldn't--my heart is with thee.

And there let it lie, growing fonder and, fonder--
For, even should Fortune turn truant to me,
Why, let her go--I've a treasure beyond her,
As long as my heart's out at interest With thee!


Oh, call it by some better name,
For Friendship sounds too cold,
While Love is now a worldly flame,
Whose shrine must be of gold:
And Passion, like the sun at noon,
That burns o'er all he sees,
Awhile as warm will set as soon--
Then call it none of these.

Imagine something purer far,
More free from stain of clay
Than Friendship, Love, or Passion are,
Yet human, still as they:
And if thy lip, for love like this,
No mortal word can frame,
Go, ask of angels what it is,
And call it by that name!


Poor wounded heart, farewell!
Thy hour of rest is come;
Thou soon wilt reach thy home,
Poor wounded heart, farewell!
The pain thou'lt feel in breaking
Less bitter far will be,
Than that long, deadly aching,
This life has been to thee.

There--broken heart, farewell!
The pang is o'er--
The parting pang is o'er;
Thou now wilt bleed no more.
Poor broken heart, farewell!
No rest for thee but dying--
Like waves whose strife is past,
On death's cold shore thus lying,
Thou sleepst in peace at last--
Poor broken heart, farewell!


Come, May, with all thy flowers,
Thy sweetly-scented thorn,
Thy cooling evening showers,
The fragrant breath at morn:
When, May-flies haunt the willow,
When May-buds tempt the bee,
Then o'er the shining billow
My love will come to me.

From Eastern Isles she's winging
Thro' watery wilds her way,
And on her cheek is bringing
The bright sun's orient ray:
Oh, come and court her hither,
Ye breezes mild and warm--
One winter's gale would wither
So soft, so pure a form.

The fields where she was straying
Are blest with endless light,
With zephyrs always playing
Thro' gardens always bright.
Then now, sweet May! be sweeter
Than e'er, thou'st been before;
Let sighs from roses meet her
When she comes near our shore.


Poor broken flower! what art can now recover thee?
Torn from the stem that fed thy rosy breath--
In vain the sunbeams seek
To warm that faded cheek;
The dews of heaven, that once like balm fell over thee;
Now are but tears, to weep thy early death.

So droops the maid whose lover hath forsaken her,--
Thrown from his arms, as lone and lost as thou;
In vain the smiles of all
Like sunbeams round her fall:
The only smile that could from death awaken her,
That smile, alas! is gone to others now.


Being weary of love,
I flew to the grove,
And chose me a tree of the fairest;
Saying, "Pretty Rose-tree,
"Thou my mistress shall be,
"And I'll worship each bud thou bearest.
"For the hearts of this world are hollow,
"And fickle the smiles we follow;
"And 'tis sweet, when all
"Their witcheries pall
"To have a pure love to fly to:
"So, my pretty Rose-tree,
"Thou my mistress shalt be,
"And the only one now I shall sigh to."

When the beautiful hue
Of thy cheek thro' the dew
Of morning is bashfully peeping,
"Sweet tears," I shall say
(As I brush them away),
"At least there's no art in this weeping"
Altho thou shouldst die to-morrow;
'Twill not be from pain or sorrow;
And the thorns of thy stem
Are not like them
With which men wound each other;
So, my pretty Rose-tree,
Thou my mistress shalt be
And I'll never again sigh to another.


Shine out, Stars! let Heaven assemble
Round us every festal ray,
Lights that move not, lights that tremble,
All to grace this Eve of May.
Let the flower-beds all lie waking,
And the odors shut up there,
From their downy prisons breaking,
Fly abroad thro sea and air.

And Would Love, too, bring his sweetness,
With our other joys to weave,
Oh what glory, what completeness,
Then would crown this bright May Eve!
Shine out, Stars! let night assemble
Round us every festal ray,
Lights that move not, lights that tremble,
To adorn this Eve of May.


Oh, the joys of our evening posada,
Where, resting, at close of day,
We, young Muleteers of Grenada,
Sit and sing the sunshine away;
So merry, that even the slumbers
That round us hung seem gone;
Till the lute's soft drowsy numbers
Again beguile them on.
Oh the joys, etc.

Then as each to his loved sultana
In sleep still breathes the sigh,
The name of some black-eyed Tirana,
Escapes our lips as we lie.
Till, with morning's rosy twinkle,
Again we're up and gone--
While the mule-bell's drowsy tinkle
Beguiles the rough way on.
Oh the joys of our merry posada,
Where, resting at close of day,
We, young Muleteers of Grenada,
Thus sing the gay moments away.


Tell her, oh, tell her, the lute she left lying
Beneath the green arbor is still lying there;
And breezes like lovers around it are sighing,
But not a soft whisper replies to their prayer.

Tell her, oh, tell her, the tree that, in going,
Beside the green arbor she playfully set,
As lovely as, ever is blushing and blowing,
And not a, bright leaflet has fallen from it yet.

So while away from that arbor forsaken,
The maiden is wandering, still let her be
As true as the lute that no sighing can waken
And blooming for ever, unchanged as the tree!


Nights of music, nights of loving,
Lost too soon, remembered long.
When we went by moonlight roving,
Hearts all love and lips all song.
When this faithful lute recorded
All my spirit felt to thee;
And that smile the song rewarded--
Worth Whole years of fame to me!

Nights of song, and nights of splendor,
Filled with joys too sweet to last--
Joys that, like the star-light, tender,
While they shore no shadow cast.
Tho' all other happy hours
From my fading memory fly,
Of, that starlight, of those bowers,
Not a beam, a leaf may die!


Our first young love resembles
That short but brilliant ray,
Which smiles and weeps and trembles
Thro' April's earliest day.
And not all life before us,
Howe'er its lights may play,
Can shed a lustre o'er us
Like that first April ray.

Our summer sun may squander
A blaze serener, grander;
Our autumn beam
May, like a dream
Of heaven, die calm away;
But no--let life before us
Bring all the light it may,
'Twill ne'er shed lustre o'er us
Like that first youthful ray.


The brilliant black eye
May in triumph let fly
All its darts without Caring who feels 'em;
But the soft eye of blue,
Tho' it scatter wounds too,
Is much better pleased when it heals 'em--
Dear Fanny!
Is much better pleased when it heals 'em.

The black eye may say,
"Come and worship my ray--
"By adoring, perhaps you may move me!"
But the blue eye, half hid,
Says from under its lid,
"I love and am yours, if you love me!"
Yes, Fanny!
The blue eye, half hid,
Says, from under its lid,
"I love and am yours, if you love me!"

Come tell me, then, why
In that lovely blue eye
Not a charm of its tint I discover;
Oh 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 lover?


"She has beauty, but still you must keep your heart cool;
"She has wit, but you mustn't be caught, so;"
Thus Reason 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 advised me and who will deny
That Love reasons much better than Reason,
Dear Fanny?
Love reasons much better than Reason.


From life without freedom, say, 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, the dirge of the slave.
Our country lies bleeding--haste, haste 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, even if Freedom from _this_ world be driven,
Despair not--at least we shall find her in heaven.


Here's the bower she loved so much,
And the tree she planted;
Here's the harp she used to touch--
Oh, how that touch enchanted!
Roses 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, etc.

Spring may bloom, but she we loved
Ne'er shall feel its sweetness;
Time, that once so fleetly moved,
Now hath lost its fleetness.
Years were days, when here she strayed,
Days were moments near her;
Heaven ne'er formed a brighter maid,
Nor Pity wept a dearer!
Here's the bower, etc.



I saw the moon rise clear
O'er hills and vales of snow
Nor told my fleet reindeer
The track I wished to go.
Yet quick he bounded forth;
For well my reindeer knew
I've but one path on earth--
The 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!
So dawned my love for you;
So, fixt thro' joy and pain,
Than summer sun more true,
'Twill never set again.


Young Love found a Dial once in a dark shade
Where man ne'er had wandered nor sunbeam played;
"Why thus in darkness lie?" whispered 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 Heaven's beam warmly played.
There she reclined, beneath Love's gazing eye,
While, marked all 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.
Alone and neglected, while bleak rain and winds
Are storming around her, with sorrow she finds
That Love had but numbered a few sunny hours,--
Then left the remainder to darkness and showers!


'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 oft can spare 'em;
So, loitering in his lady's bower,
He lets the gray-beard wear 'em.
Then is Time's hour of play;
Oh, how be flies, 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.
Ah! Time and Love, your change is then
The saddest and most trying,
When one begins to limp again,
And t'other takes to flying.
Then is Love's hour to stray;
Oh, how he flies, 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, flies away!


Pain and sorrow shall vanish before us--
Youth may wither, but feeling will last;
All the shadow that e'er shall fall o'er us
Love's light summer-cloud only 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 thee,
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 thee.
Love's light summer-cloud sweetly shall cast.


Love, wandering through the golden maze
Of my beloved's hair,
Traced every lock with fond delays,
And, doting, lingered there.
And soon he found 'twere vain to fly;
His heart was close confined,
For, every ringlet was a tie--
A chain by beauty twined.



Merrily every bosom boundeth,
Merrily, oh!
Where the song of Freedom soundeth,
Merrily oh!
There the warrior's arms
Shed more splendor;
There the maiden's charm's
Shine more tender;
Every 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--
Every flower of life declineth,
Wearily, oh! wearily, oh!

Cheerily then from hill and valley,
Cheerily, oh!
Like your native fountain sally,
Cheerily, oh!
If a glorious death,
Won by bravery,
Sweeter be than breath
Sighed in slavery,
Round the flag of Freedom rally,
Cheerily, oh! cheerily, oh!



Remember the time, in La Mancha's shades,
When our moments so blissfully flew;
When you called me the flower of Castilian maids,
And I blushed to be called 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 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.


Our white sail caught the evening ray,
The wave beneath us seemed to burn,
When all the weeping maid could say,
Was, "Oh, soon return!"
Thro' many a clime our ship was driven
O'er many a billow rudely thrown;
Now chilled beneath a northern heaven,
Now sunned in summer's zone:
And still, where'er we bent our way,
When evening bid the west wave burn,
I fancied still I heard her say,
"Oh, soon return!"

If ever yet my bosom found
Its thoughts one moment turned from thee,
'Twas when the combat raged around,
And brave men looked to me.
But tho' the war-field's wild alarm
For gentle love was all unmeet,
He lent to glory's brow the charm,
Which made even danger sweet.
And still, when victory's calm came o'er
The hearts where rage had ceased to burn,
Those parting words I heard once more,
"Oh, soon return!--Oh, soon return!"


Love thee?--so well, so tenderly
Thou'rt loved, adored by me,
Fame, fortune, wealth, and liberty,
Were worthless without thee.
Tho' brimmed with blessings, pure and rare,
Life's cup before me lay,
Unless thy love were mingled there,
I'd spurn the draft away.
Love thee?--so well, so tenderly,
Thou'rt loved, adored by me,
Fame, fortune, wealth, and liberty,
Are worthless without thee.

Without thy smile, the monarch's lot
To me were dark and lone,
While, _with_ it, even the humblest cot
Were brighter than his throne.
Those worlds for which the conqueror sighs
For me would have no charms;
My only world thy gentle eyes--
My throne thy circling arms!
Oh, yes, so well, so tenderly
Thou'rt loved, adored by me,
Whole realms of light and liberty
Were worthless without thee.


Couldst thou look as dear as when
First I sighed for thee;
Couldst thou make me feel again
Every wish I breathed 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.

No--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 me--
Life itself looks dark and cold;
Oh, thou never more canst give me
One dear smile like those of old


Yes, yes, when, the bloom of Love's boyhood is o'er,
He'll turn into friendship that feels no decay;
And, tho' Time may take from him the wings he once wore,
The charms that remain will be bright as before,
And he'll lose but his young trick of flying away.
Then let it console thee, if Love should not stay,
That Friendship our last happy moments will crown:
Like the shadows of morning, Love lessens away,
While Friendship, like those at the closing of day,
Will linger and lengthen as life's sun goes down.


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
Diffused a glow as splendid
As passion's riper dream.
Thus love expands--warm noon of love!

But evening came, o'ershading
The glories of the sky,
Like faith and fondness fading
From passion's altered eye.
Thus love declines--cold eve of love!


The song of war shall echo thro' 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 thro' her sunny mountains.

The song of war shall echo thro' our mountains,
Till Victory's self shall, smiling, say,
"Your cloud of foes hath past away,
"And Freedom comes with new-born ray
"To gild your vines and light your fountains."
Oh, never till that glorious day
Shall Lusitania's sons be gay,
Or hear, sweet Peace, thy welcome lay
Resounding thro' her sunny mountains.


The young rose I give thee, so dewy and bright,
Was the floweret most dear to the sweet bird of night,
Who oft, by the moon, o'er her blushes hath hung,
And thrilled every leaf with the wild lay he sung.

Oh, take thou this young rose, and let her life be
Prolonged 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.


When midst the gay I meet
That gentle smile of thine,
Tho' 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 less,
But keep your tears for me.

The snow on Jura's steep
Can smile in 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 warmed 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 less,
But keep your tears for me.


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,
Dost often gaze at even,
And think, tho' lost for ever here,
Thou'lt yet be mine in heaven.

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 that's gone with thee, Love.
And still I wish that hour was near,
When, friends and foes forgiven,
The pains, the ills we've wept thro' here
May turn to smiles in heaven.


Young Jessica sat all the day,
With heart o'er idle love-thoughts pining;
Her needle bright beside her lay,
So active once!--now idly shining.
Ah, Jessy, 'tis in idle hearts
That love and mischief are most nimble;
The safest shield against the darts
Of Cupid is Minerva's thimble.

The child who with a magnet plays
Well knowing all its arts, so wily,
The tempter near a needle lays.
And laughing says, "We'll steal it slily."
The needle, having naught to do,
Is pleased to let the magnet wheedle;
Till closer, closer come the two,
And--off, at length, elopes the needle.

Now, had this needle turned its eye
To some gay reticule's construction,
It ne'er had strayed from duty's tie,
Nor felt the magnet's sly seduction.
Thus, girls, would you keep quiet hearts,
Your snowy fingers must be nimble;
The safest shield against the darts
Of Cupid is Minerva's thimble.


_How_ happy, once, tho' winged with sighs,
My moments flew along,
While looking on those smiling eyes,
And listening to thy magic song!
But vanished now, like summer dreams,
Those moments smile no more;
For me that eye no longer beams,
That song for me is o'er.
Mine the cold brow,
That speaks thy altered vow,
While others feel thy sunshine now.

Oh, could I change my love like thee,
One hope might yet be mine--
Some other eyes as bright to see,
And hear a voice as sweet as thine:
But never, never can this heart
Be waked to life again;
With thee it lost its vital part,
And withered then!
Cold its pulse lies,
And mute are even its sighs,
All other grief it now defies.


If, after all, you still will doubt and fear me,
And think this heart to other loves will stray,
If I must swear, then, lovely doubter, hear me;
By every dream I have when thou'rt away,
By every throb I feel when thou art near me,
I love but thee--I love but thee!

By those dark eyes, where light is ever playing,
Where Love in depth of shadow holds his throne,
And by those lips, which give whate'er thou'rt saying,
Or grave or gay, a music of its own,
A music far beyond all minstrel's playing,
I love but thee--I love but thee!

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