EDINBURGH : PRINTED BY BALLANTYNE AND COMPANY, THE COMPLETE POETICAL WORKS THOMAS MOOEE. “ Chosen leaf) of Bard and Chief Old Erin's native Shamrock /’* — Irish Melodies. LONDON: LONGMANS, GREEN, READER, AND DYER. 1869. THS056 &(o C ! 124586 TO THE MARQIJIS OF LANSDOWNE, IN GRATEFUL REMEMBRANCE OF NEARLY FORTY YEARS OF MUTUAL ACQUAINTANCE AND FRIENDSHIP, THIS VOLUME IS INSCRIBED, WITH THE SINCEREST FEELINGS OF AFFECTION AND RESPECT, BY THOMAS MOORE. % CONTENTS, Prefaces to the collected Edition 1 in Tkn Volumes, published in 1841, 1842 - - Page xv ODES OF ANACREON. TRANSLATED INTO ENGLISH VERSE, WITH NOTES. Page Dedication to his Royal Highness the Prince of Wales - Advertisement - Index to the Odes - An Ode by the Translator - Corrections of the preceding Ode, suggested by an eminent Greek Scholar - Remarks on Anacreon - ODES. ' ' ■ II. III. IV. v. VI. VII. VIII. IX. X. XI. XII. XIII. XIV. XV. XVI. XVII. XVIII. XIX. XX. XXI. XXIL XXIII. XXIV. XXV. XXVI. XXVII. XXVIII. XXIX. XXX. XXXI. XXXII. XXXIII. XXXIV. XXXV. XXXVI. XXXVII. XXXVIII. XXXIX. XL. XU. I saw the smiling bard of pleasure Give me the harp of epic song Listen to the Muse’s lyre Vulcan I hear your glorious task Sculptor, wouldst thou glad my soul - As late I sought the spangled bowers - The women tell me every day I care not for the idle state - I pray thee, by the gods above How am I to punish thee “ Tell me, gentle youth, I pray thee - They tell how Atys, wild with love - I will, I will, the conflict’s past Count me, on the summer trees Tell me, why, my sweetest dove Thou, whose soft and rosy hues And now with all thy pencil’s truth - Now the star of day is high - Here recline you, gentle maid One day the Muses twin’d the hands - Observe when mother earth is dry The Phrygian rock, that braves the storm - - - - I often wish this languid lyre To all that breathe the air of heaven - Once in each revolving year - Thy harp may sing of Troy’s alarms We read the flying courser’s name As, by his Lemnian forge’s flame Yes — loving is a painful thrill ’Twas in a mocking dream of night - Arm’d with hyacinthine rod - Strew me a fragrant bed of leaves ’Twas noon of night, when round the pole .... Oh thou, of all creation blest - Cupid once upon a bed If hoarded gold possess’d the power - ’Twas night, and many a circling bowl Let us drain the nectar d bowl How I love the festive boy I know that Heaven hath sent me here When Spring adorns the dewy scene • Page XLII. Yes, be the glorious revel mine - 25 XLIII. While our rosy fillets shed - - 20 XL1V. Buds of roses, virgin flowers - • 26 XLV. Within this goblet, rich and deep - 27 XLVI. Behold, the young, the rosy Spring - 27 XLVII. ’Tis true, my fading years decline - 27 XLVIII. When my thirsty soul I steep - 27 XLIX. When Bacchus, Jove’s immortal boy - 28 L. When wine I quaff, before my eyes - 28 LI. Fly not thus my brow of snow - 29 LII. Away, away, ye men of rules - - 29 LIII. When I behold the festive train - 29 LIV. Methinks, the pictur’d bull we see - 30 LV. While we invoke the wreathed spring 30 LVI. He, who instructs the youthful crew 31 LVII. Whose was the artist hand that spread 31 LVIII. When Gold, as fleet as zephyr’s pinion 52 LIX. Ripen’d by the solar beam - - 33 LX. Awake to life, my sleeping shell - 33 LXI. Youth’s endearing charms are fled - 34 LXII. Fill me, boy, as deep a draught - 34 LXIII. To Love, the soft and blooming child 34 LXIV. Haste thee, nymph, whose well-aimed spear - - 35 LXV. Like some wanton filly sporting - 35 LXVI. To thee, the Queen of nymphs divine 35 LXVII. Rich in bliss, I proudly scorn - 35 LXVIII. Now Neptune’s mouth our sky de- forms - - - - 30 LXIX. They wove the lotus band to deck - 36 LXX. A broken cake with honey sweet - 30 LXXI. With twenty chords my lyre is hung - 36 LXX II. Fare thee well, perfidious maid - 36 LXXIII. Awhile I bloom’d a happy flower - 36 LXXIV. Monarch Love, resistless boy - - 36 LXXV. Spirit of Love, whose locks unroll’d - 37 LXXVI. Hither, gentle Muse of mine - - 37 LXXVII. Would that I were a tuneful lyre - 37 LXXVIII. When Cupid sees how thickly now - 37 Cupid, whose lamp has lent the ray - . S7 Let me resign this wretched breath - » 37 I know thou lov’st a brimming measure - - 37 I fear that love disturbs my rest - - 57 From dread Leucadia’s frowning steep - - 38 Mix me, child, a cup divine - - 58 EPIGRAMS FROM THE ANTHOLOGIA. NOTICE - * 38 Avwrarpov Sidcoviov, cit Avavptovi , ' 38 Tow avrov, etc vow aw row - 38 Tow awrow, etc vow avrov • • ‘ 89 Tow awrow- etc vow awrow - * - 39 viii CONTENTS. JUVENII.F. POEMS. Preface, by the Editor - Dedication to Joseph Atkinson, Esq. Fragments of College Exercises - Is there no call, no consecrating cause Variety - To a Eoy with a Watch. Written for o friend Song To Song Song Reuben and Rose. Did not - To A tale of Romance To Mrs on some calumnie her character Anacreontic ... To To Julia, in allusion to some illiberal criticisms To Julia - The Shrine. To a I.ady, with some manuscript Poems, c ing the Country To Julia - To . Nature’s Labels. A fragment To Julia. On her birthday A Reflection at Sea Cloris and Fanny • The Shield To J ulia, weeping - Dreams. To To Rosa. Written during illness Song - The Sale of Loves - - - To against To On the Death of a Lady - - Inconstancy - The Natal Genius. A dream. To the morning of her birthday - Elegiac Stanzas, supposed to be written by Julia, on the death of her brother - To the large and beautiful Miss , in al- lusion to some partnership in a lottery share. Impromptu - A Dream ------ To Anacreontic - To Julia ------ Hymn of a Virgin of Delphi, at the tomb of her mother - Sympathy. To J ulia - The Tear ------ The Snake - - To Rosa ------ Elegiac Stanzas - Love and Marriage - Anacreontic - - - - - The Surprise - - - - - To Miss on her asking the author why she had sleepless nights - The Wonder - Lying - Anacreontic - - - - - The Philosopher Aristippus to a Lamp, which had been given him by Lais - To Mrs. , on her beautiful translation of Voiture’s Kiss - Rondeau ------ Song ------ To Rosa ------ Written in a commonplace book, called “ The Book of Follies ” - To Rosa ------ Light sounds the Harp - From the Greek of Meleager Song ------ The Resemblanco .... Fanny, dearest ..... The Ring. To To the Invisible Girl .... The Ring. A tale .... To on seeing her with a whi te veil and a rich girdle - Written in the blank leaf of a lady’s commonplace book ------ To Mrs. B1 , written in her album - To Cara, after an interval of absence To Cara, on the dawning of a new year’s day To 1801 The Genius of Harmony. An irregular ode I found her not — the chamber seem’d To Mrs. Henry Tighe, on reading her “ Psyche ” From the High Priest of Apollo to a Virgin of Delphi Fragment A Night Thought The Kiss - Song - The Catalogue Imitation of Catullus to himself Oh woman, if through sinful wile Nonsense - Epigram from the French On a Squinting Poetess To To Rosa - - - To Phillis To a Lady on her singing Song. On the birthday of Mrs. ■ Ireland, 1796 Song - - - Morality. . A familiar epistle. Addressed to J. Page Atkinson, Esq , M.R.I. A. heTell-tal •tale Lyre Peace and Glory. Written on the approach of war - Song Love and Reason - Nay, do not weep, my Fanny dear Aspasia - The Grecian Girl’s Dream of the To her lover - To Cloe, imitated from Martial The Wreath and the Chain To ' Blessed Islands. To ’s Picture - Fragment of a Mythological Hymn to Love To his Serene Highness the Duke of Montpensier, on his portrait of the Lady Adelaide Forbes - The Fall of Hebe. A dithyrambic ode - Rings and Seals - - - - - To Miss Susan B — ckf — d. On her singing Impromptu, on leaving some friends A warning. To To Woman To . A Vision of Philosophy - To Mrs To Lady Heathcote, on an old ring found at Tun- bridge Wells - - - - .83 The Devil among the Scholars. A fragment - 83 POEMS RELATING TO AMERICA. Dedication. To Francis, Earl of Moira - 85 Preface - - - - - 86 To Lord Viscount Strangford. Aboard the Phaeton frigate, off the Azores, by moonlight - - 86 Stanzas - - - - - - 87 To the Flying-fish - - - - 88 CONTENTS. IX Page To Miss Moore. From Norfolk, in Virginia, Nov. 1805 88 A Ballad. The Lake of the Dismal Swamp. Written at Norfolk, in Virginia - - 89 To the Marchioness Dowager of Donegal. From Bermuda, January, 1804 - - - 90 To George Morgan, Esq., of Norfolk, Virginia. From Bermuda, January, 1804 - - 91 Lines written in a Storm at Sea - - - 92 Odes to Nea : — Nay, tempt me not to love again - - 92 I pray you, let us roam no more - - 93 You read it in these spell-bound eyes - - 93 A Dream of Antiquity - - - - 94 Well — peace to thy heart, though another’s it be - - - - - - 95 If I were yonder wave, my dear - - 95 The Snow Spirit - - - - 95 I stole along the flowery bank - - - 96 A Study from the Antique - - - 96 There’s not a look, a word of thine - - 97 To Joseph Atkinson, Esq. From Bermuda - 97 The Steersman’s Song. Written aboard the Bos- ton frigate, 28 th of April - - - 98 To the Fire-fly - - - - - 98 To the Lord Viscount Forbes. From the city of Washington - - - - - 98 To Thomas Hume, Esq. M. D. From the city of Washington ----- 100 Lines written on leaving Philadelphia - - 101 Lines written at the Cohos, cr Falls of the Mohawk River ----- 102 Song of the Evil Spirit of the Woods - - 102 To the Honourable W. R. Spencer. From Buffalo, upon Lake Erie - - - - 105 Ballad Stanzas ----- 104 A Canadian Boat Song. Written on leaving the River St. Lawrence - - - - 101 To the Lady Charlotte Rawdon. From the banks of the St. Lawrence - - - - 105 Impromptu, after a visit to Mrs. , of Montreal 107 Written on passing Deadman’s Island, in the Gulf of St. Lawrence, late in. the evening, Septem- ber, 1804 - - - - - 107 To the Boston Frigate, cn leaving Halifax for England, October, 1804 - - - 107 CORRUPTION, AND INTOLERANCE: Two Poems, addressed jo an Englishman ey an Irishman. Preface- ----- 108 Corruption. An Epistle - - - 109 Intolerance, a Satire - - - m Appendix ----- 117 Page Letter IV. From the Right Hon. P — tr — ck D — gen — n to the Right Hon. Sir John N — ch— 1 - - - - - 126 Letter V. From the Countess Dowager of C — rk to Lady - 127 Postscript ----- 127 Letter VI. From Abdallah, in London, to Mo- hassan, in Ispahan - 127 Gazel - - - - - - 128 Letter VII. From Messrs. L — ck — gt — n and Co. to , Esq. - - - 128 Letter VIII. From Colonel Th — m — s to— Sk — ff— ngt — n. Esq. - - - 129 APPENDIX - - - - - 150 Letter IV. PAGE 126. - - - 150 Letter VII. PAGE 128. - - - 131 SATIRICAL AND HUMOROUS POEMS. The Insurrection of the Papers. A Dream - 133 Parody of a celebrated Letter - - - 135 Anacreontic to a Plumassier - - - 135 Extracts from the Diary of a Politician - - 135 Epigram ------ 156 King Crack and his Idols. Written after the late Negotiation for a new M — n — stry - - 136 What’s my Thought like ? - 156 Epigram. Dialogue between a Catholic Delegate and His R — y — 1 H — ghn — ss the D — e of C — b— 1— d 136 Wreaths for the Ministers. An Anacreontic - 137 Epigram. Dialogue between a Dowager and her Maid on the Night of Lord Y — rm — th’s Fete 157 Horace. Ode XI. Lib. II. Freely translated by the Pr — ce R — g — t - - - - Horace, Ode XXII. Lib. I. Freely translated by Lord Eld — n - - - - - The New Costume of the Ministers Correspondence between a Lady and Gentleman upon the Advantage of (what is called)" having Law on one’s Side ” - - - - Occasional Address for the Opening of the New Theatre of St. St — ph — n, intended to have been spoken by the Proprietor in full Costume ou the 24tli of November, 1812 The Sale of the Tools - Little Man and Little Soul. A Ballad Reinforcements for Lord Wellington Horace, Ode I. Lib. III. A Fragment Horace,Ode XXXVIII. Lib.I. A Fragment. Trans- lated by a Treasury Clerk, while waiting din- ner for the Right Hon. G — rge R — se - 142 Impromptu. Upon being obliged to leave a plea- sant Party, from the Want of a Pair of Breeches to dress for Dinner in - - 142 Lord Wellington and the Ministers - - 142 157 138 159 139 140 140 141 141 142 THE SCEPTIC, A PHILOSOPHICAL SATIRE 118 IRISH MELODIES. TWOPENNY POST-BAG. By Thomas Brown the Younger. Dedication. To Stephen Woolriche, Esq. - 122 Preface- ----- 122 Preface to the Fourteenth Edition. By a Friend of the Author - 123 Intercepted Letters, &c. Letter I. From the Pr — nc — ss Ch — rl — e of W — 1 — s to the Lady B — rb— a Ashl — y - 123 LETTER II. From Colonel M‘M — li — n to G — Id Fr — nc — s L — ckie. Esq. - - 124 Postscript ----- X25 Letter III. From G — gc Pr— cc R^gt to the E of Y th - . 125 Dedication to the Marchioness Dowager of Done- gal 143 Preface - - - - - 145 Go where Glory waits thee - 145 War Song. Remember the Glories of Brien the Brave ----- 144 Erin ! the Tear and the Smile in thine Eyes - 144 Oh, breathe not his Name - 144 When he, who adores thee * 144 The Harp that once through Tara’s Hall - - 144 Fly not yet ----- 145 Oh, think not my Spirits are always as light - 145 Tho’ the last Glimpse of Erin with sorrow I see - 145 Rich and rare were the Gems she wore - - 145 As a Beam o’er the Face of the Waters may glow - 146 The Meeting of the Waters - - - 146 How dear to me the Hour- - - - 146 b X CONTENTS. Tago 140 - 147 - 147 - 147 - 147 - 148 - 148 . 148 - 149 •oung Charms- 149 - 149 Take back the Virgin Page. Written on returning a blank Book • • The Legacy ... How oft has the Benshee cried We may roam through this World F.releen’i Bower - Let Erin remember the Day* of old The Song of Flonnuala - Come, tend round tho Wine Sublime was the Warning Believe me, if all those endearing Erin, oh Erin Drink to her - 149 Oh, blame not the Bard - - - - 150 While gazing on the Moon’s Light • • 150 111 Omens- ..... 151 Before the Battle ----- 151 After the Battle - - - - - 151 *Tis sweet to think - - - - 151 The Irish Peasant to his Mistress ... 152 On Music- - - - - -152 It is not the Tear at this Moment shed - - 152 The Origin of the Harp - - - - 152 Love’s Young Dream - - - - 153 The Prince’s Day ----- 153 Weep on, weep on - - - 153 Lcsbia hath a beaming Eye - - - 154 I saw thy Form in youthful Prime - - 154 By that Lake, whose gloomy Shore - - 154 She is far from the Land - - - - 155 Nay, tell me not, dear - - - - 155 Avenging and bright - - - - 155 What the Bee is to the Floweret - - - 156 Love and the Novice - 156 This Life is all chequer’d with Pleasures and Woes 156 Oh the Shamrock - - 156 At tho mid Hour of Night - - - 157 One Bumper at parting - - - - 157 *Tis the last Rose of Summer - - - 157 The young May Moon - - - - 157 The Minstrel-Boy - - - - 158 The Song of O’Ruark, Prince of Breffni - - 158 Oh, had we some bright little Isle of our own - 158 Farewell I — But whenever you welcome the Hour 159 Oh doubt me not ----- 159 You remember Ellen - - - - 159 I’d mourn the Hopes - - - - 159 Come o’er tho Sea - - - - 160 Has sorrow thy young Days shaded - - 160 No, not more welcome - - - 160 When first I met thee - - - - 161 While History’s Muse - 161 The Time I’ve lost in wooing - - - 161 Where is the Slave - - - - 162 Come, rest in this Bosom - - - - 162 *Tis gone, and for ever - - - - 162 I saw from the Beach - - - - 162 Fill the Bumper fair - - - - 163 Dear Harp of my Country - - - 163 My gentle Harp - - - - - 163 In the Morning of Life - - - - 164 As slow our Ship - - - - - 164 When cold in the Earth - - - - 164 Remember thee - - - - - 164 W rcath the Bowl - - - - 1 6 5 Whene’er I see those smiling Eyes - -165 If thou’ltbe mine- - - - - 165 To Ladies’ Eyes - - - - - 165 Forget not the Field - - - - 166 They may rail at this Life - 166 Oh for the Swords of former Time - - 166 St Senanus and the Lady * - - 167 Ne’er ask the Hour - 167 Sail on, sail on - - - - 167 The Parallel - - - 167 Drink of this Cup - - - - 168 The Fortune-teller - . - - 168 Oh, ye Dead! - • • 168 Page O’Donohue’s Mistress - - - - 169 Echo .... Oh banquet not - - . . - 169 Thee, thee, only theo - - - 109 Shall the Harp, then, be silent Oh, the Sight entrancing Sweet Innisfallcn ’Twas one of those Dreams Fairest ! put on awhile Quick I we have but a Second - - - 172 And doth not a Meeting like this - - - 172 Tho Mountain Sprite - 172 As vanquish’d Erin Desmond’s Song - - - They know not my Heart I wish I was by that dim Lake She sung of Love - - - - - 174 Sing — sing — Music was given - 174 Though humble the Banquet Sing, sweet Harp - - - Song of the Battle Eve The wandering Bard - - - - 175 Alone in Crowds to wander on - - - 175 I’ve a Secret to tell thee - Song of Innisfail - - - The Night Dance There are Sounds of Mirth - - - 173 Oh, Arranmore, lov’d Arranmorc ! - - 177 Lay his Sword by his Side - - -177 Oh, could we do with this World of ours - - 177 The Wine-cup is circling - 177 The Dream of those Days - 178 From this Hour the Pledge is given - - 178 Silence is in our festal Halls ... 178 ArpENDix : Advertisement prefixed to the First and Second Numbers ----- 179 Advertisement to the Third Number - - 179 Letter to the Marchioness Dowager of Donegal prefixed to the Third Number - - 180 Advertisement to the Fourth Number - - 183 Advertisement to the Fifth Number - - 185 Advertisement to the Sixth Number - - 18 1 Advertisement to the Seventh Number- - 184 Dedication to the Marchioness of Headfort pre- fixed to the Tenth Number - - - 184 NATIONAL AIRS Advertisement - - - - - 185 A Temple to Friendship. (Spanish Air.) - 185 Flow on, thou shining River. (Portuguese Air.) - 185 All that’s bright must fade. (Indian Air.) - 185 So warmly we met. (Hungarian Air.) - - 186 Those Evening Bells. (Air. — The Bells of St. Pe- tersburg.) ----- 186 Should those fond Hopes. (Portuguese Air.) - 186 Reason, Folly, and Beauty. (Italian Air.) - 186 Fare thee well, thou lovely one I (Sicilian Air.) - 186 Dost thou remember. (Portuguese Air.) - 187 Oh, come to me when Daylight sets. (Venetian Air.) ----- 187 Oft, in the stilly Night. (Scotch Air.) Hark! the Vesper Hymn is stealing. Air.) - - - Love and Hope. (Swiss Air.) There comes a Time. (German Air.) My Ilarp has one unchanging Theme. Air.) Oh, no — not even when first we lov’d, rian Air.) - Peace be around thee. (Scotch Air.) Common Sense aud Genius. (French Air.) Then, fare thee well. (Old English Air.) Gaily sounds the Castanet. (Maltese Air.) Love is a Hunter-boy. (Languedocian Air.) - 187 (Russian - 187 - 188 - 188 (Swedish - 188 (Cashme- - 188 - 188 - 189 - 189 - 189 - 189 CONTENTS. xi Page Come, chase that starting Tear away. (French Air.) - - - - -190 Joys of Youth, how fleeting! (Portuguese Air.) 190 Hear me but once. (French Air.) - - 190 When Love was a Child. (Swedish Air.) - 190 Say, what shall be our Sport to-day? (Sicilian Air.) ------ 190 Bright be thy dreams. (Welsh Air.) - - 191 Co, then — ’tis vain. (Sicilian Air.) - - 191 The Crystal Hunters. (Swiss Air.) - - 191 Row gently here. (Venetian Air.) - - 191 Oh, Days of Youth. (French Air.) - - 191 When first that Smile. (Venetian Air.) - - 192 Peace to the Slumberers ! (Catalonian Air.) - 192 When thou shalt wander. (Sicilian Air.) - 192 Who’ll buy my Love-knots ? (Portuguese Air.) 192 See, the Dawn from Heaven. (To an Air sung at Rome, on Christmas Eve.) - 192 Nets and Cages. (Swedish Air.) - - 193 When through the Piazzetta. (Venetian Air.) - 195 Co, now', and dream. (Sicilian Air.) - - 193 Take hence the Bowl. (Neapolitan Air.) - 193 Farewell, Theresa * (Venetian Air.) - - 193 llow oft, when watching Stars. (Savoyard Air.) - 194 When the first Summer Bee. (Ccrman Air.) - 194 Though ’tis all but a Dream. (French Air.) - 194 When the Wine-cup is smiling. (Italian Air.) - 194 Where shall we bury our Shame ? (Neapolitan Air.) 194 Ne’er talk of Wisdom’s gloomy Schools. (Mali- rattaAir.) ----- 195 Here sleeps the Bard. (Highland Air.) - - 195 Do not say that Life is waning - - - 195 The Gazelle - - - - - 195 No — leave my Heart to rest - 195 Where are the Visions - 195 Wind thy Horn, my Hunter-Boy - 196 Oh, guard our Affection - - - - 196 Slumber, oh slumber - 196 Bring the bright Garlands hither - - 196 If in loving, singing - - - 196 Thou lov’st no more - 196 WTien abroad in the World - - 197 Keep those Eyes still purely mine - - 197 Hope comes again - 197 O say, thou best and brightest - 197 When Night brings the Hour - 197 Like one who, doom’d - - - - 198 Fear not that, while around thee ... 198 When Love is kind - 198 The Garland I send thee - - -^198 How shall I woo ? - 198 Spring and Autumn - - - 199 Love alone ----- 199 SACRED SONGS. Dedication to Edward Tuite Dalton, Esq. - 199 Thou art, O God. (Air. — Unknown.) - . 199 The Bird, let loose. (Air. — Beethoven.) . 200 Fallen is thy Throne. (Air. — Martini.) -200 Who is the Maid? St. Jerome’s Love. (Air. — Beethoven.) ----- 200 This World is all a fleeting Show. (Air. - Steven- son.) - 200 Oh, Thou! who dry’st the Mourner’s Tear. (Air. —Haydn.) - - - - 201 Weep not for those. (Air. — Avison.) - - 201 The Turf shall be my fragrant Shrine. (Air. — Stevenson.) ----- 201 Sound the loud Timbrel. Miriam’s Song. (Air. — Avison.) ----- 202 Go, let me weep. (Air. — Stevenson.) - . 202 Come not, O Lord. (Air. — Haydn.) - -202 Were not the sinful Mary’s Tears. (Air. — Ste- venson.) - 202 As down in the sunless Retreats. (Air, — Haydn.) 203 Tage But who shall sec. (Air. — Stevenson.) - - 205 Almighty God! Chorus of Priests. (Air.— Mozart.) 203 Oh fair I oh purest ! Saint Augustine to his Sister. (Air. — Moore.) - - - 203 Angel of Charity. (Air. — Handel.) - - 203 Behold the Sun. (Air — Lord Mornington.) . 204 Lord, who shall bear that Day. (Air. — Dr. Boyce.) 204 Oh, teach me to love Thee. (Air. — Haydn.) - 204 Weep, Children of Israel. (Air. — Stevenson.) -204 Like Morning, when her early Breeze. ( Air. — Beethoven.) ----- 205 Come, ye disconsolate. (Air. — German.) - 205 Awake, arise, thy Light is come. (Air. — Steven- son.) - - - - - 205 There is a bleak Desert. (Air. — Cresccntini.) - 206 Since first Thy Word. (Air — Nicholas Freeman.) 206 Hark! ’tis the Breeze. (Air. — Rousseau.) - 206 Where is your Dwelling, ye sainted ? (Air. — Hasse.) ----- 206 IIow lightly mounts the Muse’s Wing. (Air. — Anonymous.) - 207 Go forth to the Mount. (Air. — Stevenson.) -207 Is it not sweet to think, hereafter. (Air Haydn.) 207 War against Babylon. (Air. — Novello.) -207 THE SUMMER FETE - - - -208 Dedication to the Honourable Mrs. Norton - 208 EVENINGS IN GREECE. First Evening - Second Evening - LEGENDARY BALI, ADS. Dedication to the Miss Fieldings The Voice - Cupid and Psyche - Hero and Leander - The Leaf and the Fountain Cephalus and Procris - Youth and Age - The dying Warrior - The Magic Mirror - The Pilgrim - The High-born Ladye - The Indian Boat - The Stranger - - 216 - 222 - 230 - 230 - 230 - 231 - 251 - 251 - 252 - 252 - 232 - 253 - 235 - 234 A MELOLOGUE UPON NATIONAL MUSIC 234 Advertisement ----- 234 SET OF GLEES. MUSIC BY MOORE. The Meeting of the Ships ... 236 Hip, hip, hurrah ! 256 Hush, hush !---.. 256 The Parting before the Battle - 256 The Watchman. A Trio - 257 Say, what shall wc dance ? - - - 257 The Evening Gun - 257 BALLADS, SONGS, MISCELLANEOUS POEMS, &c. To-day, dearest ! is ours - When on the Lip the Sigh delays Here, take my Heart Oh, call it by some better Name Poor wounded Heart The East Indian Poor broken Flower The pretty Rose-Tree Shine out, Stars ! The young Muleteers of Grenada Tell her, oh, tell hor Nights of Music • - 238 - 258 - 258 - 258 - 238 - 259 - 259 - 259 - 259 - 259 - 240 - 240 CONTENTS. xii Tngo Our first young Lot® .... 240 Black and Blue Eye* .... 310 Dear Fanny ..... 210 From Llfo without Freedom ... 210 Here** the Bower .... 241 1 sow the Moon rise clear. (A Finland Love Song.) 241 Love and the Sun-dial • - - .241 Lore ami Time ... .241 Love’* light Summer-cloud - . -241 Lore, wand’ring through the j widen Mazo - 242 Merrily eTcry bosom boundeth. (Tho Tyrolese Song of Liberty.) - 242 Remember the Time. (The Castilian Maid.) - 212 Oh, soon return .... 242 Loro thee ? ..... 242 One dear Smilo ..... 243 Yes, yes, when the Bloom ... 243 The Day of Love ..... 243 Lnsttanian War-song .... 243 The young Rose ..... 243 When ’midst the Gay I meet ... 243 When Twilight Dews .... 244 Young Jessica ..... 244 How happy, once ..... 244 I love but theo - 244 Let Joy alone be remember’d now - - 244 Love thee, dearest ? love thee? ... 245 My Heart and Lute - - * - 2 15 Feace, peace to him that's gono ! - - - 245 Rose of the Desert .... 245 ’Tls all for thee ..... 245 The song of the Olden Timo ... 246 W; ake thee, my dear .... 246 The Boy of the Alps .... 246 For thee alone - - - - - 246 Her last Words, at parting ... 247 Let’s take this World as some wide Scene - - 247 Love’s Victory ..... 247 Song of Hercules to his Daughter - - 247 The Dream of Home - - - - 218 They tell me thou’rt the favour’d Guest - -248 The young Indian Maid .... 248 The Homeward March .... 248 Wake up, sweet Melody ... - 248 Calm be thy sleep .... 249 The Exile ..... 249 The Fancy Fair .... 249 If thou wouldst have me sitig and play - - 249 Still when Daylight .... 249 The Summer Webs .... 250 Mind not though Daylight ... 250 They met but once .... 250 With Moonlight beaming ... 250 Child’s Song. From a Masque ... 250 The Halcyon hangs o*er Ocean ... 251 The World was hush’d .... 251 The two Loves ..... 251 The Legend of Puck the Fairy ... 251 Beauty and Song ..... 252 When thou art nigh - 252 Song of a Hyperborean - 252 Thou bidst me sing .... 252 Cupid armed ..... 252 Round the World goes .... 253 Oh, do not look so bright and blest - - 253 The musical Box .... 253 When to sad Music silent you listen - - 253 The Language of Flowers ... 254 The Dawn is breaking o’er us - - - 254 SONGS FROM THE GREEK ANTHOLOGY. Here at tliy Tomb. (By Meleager.) - -254 Sale of Cupid. (By Meleager.) ... 254 To weave a Garland fer the Rose. (By Paul, the Silcntiary.) ..... 255 Why does she so long delay ? (By Paul, the Silcn- tiary.) - - - . .255 Twin’st thou with lofty Wreath thy Brow. (By Paul, the Silcntiary.) - ... 253 When the sad Word. (By Paul, the Silcntiary.) . 255 My Mopsa is little. (By FhUodcmus.) - -256 Still, like Dow in silence falling. (By Meleager.) - 256 Up, Sailor Boy, ’tis Day .... 256 In Myrtle Wreaths. (By Alcxus.) . - 250 UNPUBLISHED SONGS, & c. Ask not if still I love .... 257 Dear? yes - - - . . 257 Unbind thee. Love .... 257 There’s something strange. (A Buffo Song.) -257 Not from thee ..... 257 Guess, guess ..... 258 When Love, who rul’d .... 258 Still thou fllcst - - - - 258 Then first from Lovo .... 259 Hush, sweet Luto .... 259 Bright Moon ..... 259 Long Years have pass’d .... 259 Dreaming for ever .... 259 Though lightly sounds tho Sopg 1 sing. (A Soug of the Alps.) .... 259 The Russian Lover .... 260 LALLA ROOKH. Dedication - - . - 260 Tile Veiled Prophet of Kiiokassan - - 262 Paradise and tiie Peri ... 288 Tile Fire-Worshippers ... 205 Tiie Light of tiie Harem - - - 517 POLITICAL AND SATIRICAL POEMS. Lines on the Death of Mr. P—rc—v—1 - -527 Fum and Hum, the Two Birds of Royalty . 528 Lines on the Death of Sh— r— d — n - - 528 Epistle from Tom Crib to Big Ben, concerning some foul Play in a late Transaction - - 329 THE FUDGE FAMILY IN PARIS. Preface - - - - 330 Letter I. From Miss Biddy Fudge to Miss Doro- thy , of Clonkilty, in Ireland - - 350 Letter II. From Phil. Fudge, Esq., to the Lord Vis- count C-st—r — gh - 532 Letter III. From Mr. Bob Fudge to Richard , Esq. ...... 333 Letter IV. From Phelim Connor to — - -555 Letter V. From Miss Biddy Fudge to Miss Doro- thy - - - - 536 Letter VI. From Phil. Fudge, Esq., to his Brother Tim Fudge, Esq., Barrister at Law - - 358 Letter VII. From Phelim Connor to - 540 Letter VIII. From Mr. Bob Fudge to Richard , Esq 342 Letter IX. From Phil. Fudge, Esq., to tho Lord Viscount C— st-r— li ... 544 Letter X. From Miss Biddy Fudge to Miss Doro- thy 347 Letter XI. From Phelim Connor to -349 Letter XII. From Miss Biddy Fudge to Miss Doro- thy - - - 549 FABLES FOR TIIE HOLY ALLIANCE. Dedication. To Lord Byron ... 352 Preface ..... 352 Fable I. The Dissolution of the Holy Alliance. A Dream - - - - 352 Fable II. The Looking-glasses ... 354 Fable III. The Torch of Liberty - - 355 Fable IV. The Fly and the Bullock . 355 CONTENTS. Fable V. Church and State Fable VI. The Little Grand Lama Fable VII. The Extinguishers - Fable VIII. Louis Fourteenth’s Wig RHYMES ON TIIE ROAD Introductory Rhymes Extract T. Extract II. Extract III. Extract IV. Extract V. Extract VI. Extract VII. ' Extract VIII. Extract IX. Extract X. Extract XI. Extract XII. Extract XIII. Extract XIV. Extract XV. Extract XVI. Page - 556 - 35S . 559 - 560 . 562 - 565 - 563 - 364 - 564 - 565 - 565 - 567 - 567 - 368 - 569 - 569 - 570 - 571 - 572 . 573 - 374 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. Occasional Epilogue, spoken by Mr. Corry, in the Character of Vapid, after the Play of the Dra- matist, at the Kilkenny Theatre - - 575 Extract from a Prologue written and spoken by the Author, at the Opening of the Kilkenny Theatre, October, 1809 - - - 576 The Sylph’s Ball - - - - - 576 Remonstrance - ... - - 377 My Birth-day • - - - - 378 Fancy - - - - - 378 Song. Fanny, dearest f - - - - 578 Translations from Catullus - - - 378 Tibullus to Sulpicia - - - - 379 Imitation. From the French - - - 579 Invitation to Dinner, addressed to Lord Lans- downe ----- 379 Verses to the Poet Crabbe’s Inkstand. Written May, 1832 - - - - - 380 To Caroline, Viscountess Valletort. Written at Lacock Abbey, January, 1832 - - 380 A Speculation - - - - - 581 To My Mother. Written in a Pocket Book, 1822 - 381 Love and Hymen - - - - 581 Lines on the Entry of the Austrians into Naples 1821 - THE LOVES OF THE ANGELS. Preface First Angel’s Story Second Angel’s Story Third Angel’s Story - 581 - 582 - 584 - 587 - 596 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. Scepticism ----- 599 A Joke versified ----- 400 On the Death of a Friend .... 400 To James Corry, Esq., on his making me a Present of a Wine Strainer - - - - 400 Fragment of a Character - 400 What shall I sing Tlicc P To - -400 Country Dance and Quadrillo - - - 401 Gazel ------ 402 Lines on the Death of Joseph Atkinson, Esq., of Dublin - - - - - 402 Genius and Criticism - 403 To Lady J * r * * y, on being asked to write some- thing in her Album - 405 To the same, on looking through her album - 403 SATIRICAL AND HUMOROUS POEMS. Page To Sir Hudson Lowe - - - - 404 Amatory Colloquy between Bank and Government 404 Dialogue between a Sovereign and a One Pound Note ------ 405 An Expostulation to Lord King - - - 405 The Sinking Fund cried - 406 Ode to the Goddess Ceres. By Sir Th — m — s L — thbr— e ----- 406 A Hymn of Welcome after the Recess - - 407 Memorabilia of Last Week ... 408 All in the Family Way. A new Pastoral Ballad - 408 Ballad for the Cambridge Election - - 409 Mr. Roger Dodsworth - - - - 409 Copy of an intercepted Despatch. From his Ex- cellency Don Strepitoso Diabolo, Envoy Extra- ordinary to his Satanic Majesty - - 409 The Millennium. Suggested by the late Work of the Reverend Mr. Irv— ng “on Prophecy” - 410 The Three Doctors - - - - 411 Epitaph on a Tuft-Hunter - - - 411 Ode to a Hat ----- 411 News for Country Cousins - 412 A Vision. By the Author of Christabel - - 412 The Petition of the Orangemen of Ireland » 413 Cotton and Corn. A Dialogue - - - 414 The Canonization of Saint B— tt— rw— rth - 414 An Incantation. Sung by the Bubble Spirit -415 A Dream of Turtle. By Sir W. Curtis - -416 The Donky and his Panniers. A Fable - -416 Ode to the Sublime Porte - - - - 416 Corn and Catholics - - - - 417 A Case of Libel ----- 417 Literary Advertisement - - - - 418 The Irish Slave ----- 419 Ode to Ferdinand - 419 Hat versus Wig ----- 420 The Periwinkles and the Locusts. A Salmagun- dian Hymn ----- 420 New Creation of Peers. Batch the First - -421 Speech on the Umbrella Question. By Lord Eld — n 422 A Pastoral Ballad. By John Bull - - 422 A late Scene at Swanage - - - - 425 Wol Wo! - - - . . 423 Tout pour la Tripe - 424 Enigma ------ 424 Dog-day Reflections. By a Dandy kept in Town - 424 The “ Living Dog ” and the “ The Dead Lion ” - 425 Ode to Don Miguel - - - - 425 Thoughts on the present Government of Ireland - 426 The Limbo of lost Reputations. A Dream - 426 How to write by Proxy - 427 Imitation of the Inferno of Dante - . 427 Lament for the Loss of Lord B— th — st’s Tail - 429 The Cherries. A parable - 429 Stanzas written in Anticipation of Defeat - - 429 Ode to the Woods and Forests. By one of the Board 430 Stanzas from the Banks of the Shannon - -450 The Annual Pill - - - - - 451 “If ” and “Perhaps” - - - -451 Write on, Write on. A Ballad - 452 Song of the departing Spirit of Tithe - - 452 The Euthanasia of Van - 435 To the Reverend . One of the sixteen Rcqui- sitionists of Nottingham ... 434 Irish Antiquities ----- 454 A curious Fact ----- 454 New-fashioned Echoes - 455 Incantation. From the New Tragedy of “The Brunswickers” - - - - 455 How to make a good Politician - 455 Epistle of Condolence. Slave- Lord to Cotton-Lord 457 The Ghost of Miltiadcs - 457 Alarming Intelligence — Revolution in the Dic- tionary — Ore Galt at the Head of it - - 438 Resolutions passed at a late Meeting of Reverends and Right Reverends * CONTENTS. Aiv Tftffo Sir Andrew’* Dream - 439 A Blue Love-Song. To Miss - - 439 Sunday Ethics. A Scotch Ode ... 410 •.it - - - - - 440 The Numbering of the Clergy. Farody oa Sir Ch&rloe Han. William*’* famous Ode - 4 10 A sad Case 441 A Dream of llindostan - 441 Tho Brunswick Club - 442 Proposals for a Gynitcocracy. Addressed to a late Radical Meeting - 442 I.ordU — nl— y and St Cecilia - - -413 Advertisement - - - 443 Missing ------ 443 The Dance of Bishops ; or, tho Episcopal Quad- rille. A Dream - - - - 4 14 Dick *«**. A Character - - -445 A corrected Report of some late Speeches - - 415 Moral Positions. A Dream - - - 443 The Mad Tory and the Comet Founded on a Into distressing Incident - - - -446 From the Hon. Henry , to Lady Emma 447 Triumph of Bigotry - 447 Translation from tho Gull Language - - 448 Notions on Reform. By a Modern Reformer - 448 Tory Pledges ----- 449 St. Jerome on Earth. First Visit - 419 St. Jerome on Earth. Second Visit - - 450 Thoughts on Tar Barrels - - - - 451 The Consultation - - - - - 451 To the Rev. Ch_rl— s Ov-rt-n, Curate of Ro- maldkirk ----- 452 Scene from a Play, acted at Oxford, called « Ma- triculation ” ----- 452 Late Tithe Case ----- 452 Fool’* Paradise. Dream the First - - 453 The Rector and his Curate ; or, One Pound Two - 454 Paddy’s Metamorphosis - 454 Cocker, on Church Reform. Founded upon some late Calculations - - - - 454 Les Hommes Automates - - - - 455 How to make One’s Self a Peer. According to the newest Receipt, as disclosed in a late Heraldic Work 455 The Duke is the Lad - 43G Epistle from Erasmus on Earth to Cicero in the Shades - 43G Lines on the Departure of Lords C— st— r— gh and St— w-rt for the Continent - - 457 To the Ship in which Lord C — st — r— gh sailed for the Continent - 43 8 Sketch of the First Act of a new Romantic Drama 458 Animal Magnetism - 45 ® The Song of the Box - 4G0 Announcement of a New Thalaha. Addressed to Robert Southey, Esq. - 4GG Rival Topics. An Extravaganza - - - 461 The Boy Statesman. By a Tory - - - 461 Letter from Larry O’Branigan to the Rev. Murtagh O’ Mulligan - - - - - 462 Musings of an ITnreformcd Peer - - -462 The Reverend Pamphleteer. A Romantic Ballad - 463 A Recent Dialogue - - - - 463 The Wellington Spa 463 A Character ----- 464 A Ghost Story - - - - 404 Thoughts on the late destructive Propositions of the Tories. By a Common-Councilman - 465 Anticipated Meeting of the British Association in the Year 2836 - - - - 465 Songs of the Church. No. I. - - -466 Epistle from Henry of Ex— t-r to John of Tuam 467 Song of Old Puck ----- 467 Police Reports. Case of Imposture - -468 Reflections. Addressed to Author of Article of the Church in last Number of Quarterly Review 469 New Grand Exhibition of Models of the two Houses of Parliament - - - 469 Fago Announcement of a now grand Acceleration Com- pany for tho Promotion of Speed of Literature 470 Somo Account of the lato Dinner to Dan - - 471 New Hospital for Sick Literati - - -471 Religion and Trade - - - - 472 Musings, suggested by the late Promotion of Mrs. Nethercoat ----- 472 Intended Tribute to tho Author of an Article in tho last Number of the Quarterly Review, en- titled “ Romanism in Ireland” - - 473 Grand Dinner of Typo and Co. A poor Poet’s Dream ----- 473 Church Extension - - - - 474 Latest Accounts from Olympus - - -474 The Triumphs of Farce - - - -475 Thoughts on Patrons, Puffs, and other Matters. In an Epistle from T. M. to S. R. - - 476 Thoughts on Mischief. By Lord St — nl— y. (Ilis first Attempt in Verse.) - - - 477 Epistle from Captain Rock to Lord L — ndh — t - 477 Captain Rock in London. Letter from the Captain to Terry Alt, Esq. - - - - 478 THE FUDGES IN ENGLAND; BEING A SEQUEL TO TIIE “FUDGE FAMILY IN TARIS.” Preface ----- 479 Letter I. From Patrick Magan, Esq., to the Rev. Richard , Curate of , in Ireland - 479 Letter II. From Miss Biddy Fudge, to Mrs. Eliz- abeth ----- 480 Letter III. From Miss Fanny Fudge, to her Cousin, Miss Kitty . Stanzas (inclosed) to my Shadow ; or, Why ? — What ? — IIow ? 483 Letter IV. From Patrick Magan, Esq., to the Rev. Richard 484 Letter V. From Larry O’Branigan, in England, to his Wife Judy, at Mullinafad - - 485 Letter VI. From Miss Biddy Fudge, to Mrs. Eliz- abeth - - - - 487 Letter VII. From Miss Fanny Fudge, to her Cousin, Miss Kitty . Irregular Ode - 490 Letter VIII. From Bob Fudge, Esq., to the Rev. Mortimer O’ Mulligan - - - 491 Letter IX. From Larry O’Branigan to his Wife, Judy- ----- 492 Letter X. From the Rev. Mortimer O’Mulligan, to the Rev. - - - - 494 Letter XL From Patrick Magan, Esq., to the Rev. Richard - - - - 495 SONGS FROM M. P. ; OR, THE BLUE STOCKING. Songs ------ 496 Boat Glee 496 Cupid’s Lottery - - - - - 4 '-*7 Song ------ 497 MISCELLANEOUS TOEMS. At night ------ 497 To Lady Holland. On Napoleon’s Legacy of a Snuff-Box ----- 497 Epilogue. Written for Lady Dacre’s Tragedy of Ina 498 The Day-Dream ----- 490 Song ------ 499 Song of the Poco-curante Society - - - 499 Anne Boleyn. Translation from the metrical “ Histoire d’Anne Boleyn ” - - - 499 The Dream of the Two Sisters. From Dante - 499 Sovereign Woman. A Ballad - - - 500 Come, play me that simple Air again. A Ballad - 500 THE EPICUREAN : A TALE - - - 501 ALCIPIIRON : A FRAGMENT - - - 552 GENERAL INDEX - 5C3 PREFACES TO THE COLLECTED EDITION OP TEN VOLUMES, PUBLISHED IN 1841, 1842, ta % (first Volume. Finding it to be the wish of my Publishers that at least the earlier volumes of this collection should each be accompanied by some prefatory matter, illustrating, by a few biographical memo- randa, the progress of my humble literary career, I have consented, though not, I confess, without some scruple and hesitation, to comply with their request. In no country is there so much curiosity felt respecting the interior of the lives of public men as in England ; but, on the other hand, in no country is he who ventures to tell his own story so little safe from the imputation of vanity and self-display. The whole of the poems contained in the first, as well as in the greater part of the second, volume of this collection were written between the sixteenth and the twenty- third year of the author’s age. But I had begun still earlier, not only to rhyme but to publish. A sonnet to my schoolmaster, Mr. Samuel Whyte, written in my fourteenth year, appeared at the time in a Dublin magazine, called the Anthologia, — the first, and, I fear, almost only, creditable attempt in period- ical literature of which Ireland has to boast. I had even at an earlier period (1793) sent to this magazine two short pieces of verse, prefaced by a note to the editor, requesting the insertion ot the “ following attempts of a youthful muse ; ” and the fear and trembling with which I ventured upon this step w r ere agreeably dispelled, not only oy the appearance of the contributions, but still more by my finding myself, a few months after, hailed as “ Our esteemed correspondent, T. M.” It wa3 in the pages of this publication, — where the w hole of the poem was extracted, — that I first met with the Pleasures of Memory ; and to this day, wdien I open the volume of the Antho- logia which contains it, the very form of the type * Some confused notion of this fact has led the writer of a Memoir prefixed to tho “ Pocket Edition ” of my Poems, printed at Zwickau, to state that Brinsley Slieri- and colour of the paper brings back vividly to my mind the delight with which I first read that poem. My schoolmaster, Mr. Whyte, though amusingly vain, w r as a good and kind-hearted man ; and, as a teacher of public reading and elocution, had long enjoyed considerable reputation. Nearly thirty years before I became his pupil, Richard Brinsley Sheridan, then about eight or nine years of age, had been placed by Mrs. Sheridan under his care ; * and, strange to say, was, after about a year’s trial, pronounced, both by tutor and parent, to be “ an incorrigible dunce.” Among those w r lio took lessons from him as private pupils were several young ladies of rank, belonging to some of those great Irish families who still continued to lend to Ireland the enlivening influence of their presence, and made their country-seats, through a great part of the year, the scenes of refined as well as hospitable festivity. The Miss Montgomerys, to whose rare beauty the pencil of Sir Joshua has given immortality, were among those whom my worthy preceptor most boasted of as pupils ; and his description of them, I re- member, long haunted my boyish imagination, as though they were not earthly women, but some spiritual “ creatures of the element.” About thirty or forty years before the period of which I am speaking, an eager taste for private theatrical performances had sprung up among the higher ranks of society in Ireland ; and at Carton, the seat of the Duke of Leinster, at Cas- tletown, Marley, and other great houses, private plays were got up, of which, in most instances, the superintendence was entrusted to Mr. Whyte, and in general the prologue, or the epilogue, con- tributed by his pen. At Marley, the seat of the Latouclies, where the masque of Comus was per- formed in the year 177G, while my old master supplied the prologue, no less distinguished a hand than that of our “ ever-glorious Grattan ” 1 furnished the epilogue. This relic of his pen, dan was my tutor I “ Great attention was paid to his education by his tutor, Sheridan.” t Byron. Xvi PREFACE. too, is the more memorable, ns being, I believe, the only poetical composition he was ever known to produce. At the time when I first began to attend his school, Mr. Whyte still continued, to the no small ularm of many parents, to encourage a taste for acting among his pupils. In this line I was long Ins favourite sAoto-scholar ; and among the play- bills introduced in his volume, to illustrate the occasions of his own prologues and epilogues, there is one of a play got up in the year 1790, at Lady Borrowes’s private theatre in Dublin, where, among the items of the evening’s entertainment, is “ An Epilogue, A Squeeze to St. Paul's, Master Moore.” With acting, Indeed, is associated the very first attempt at verse-making to which my memory enables me to plead guilty. It was at a period, I think, even earlier than the date last men- tioned, that, whiie passing the summer holidays, with a number of other young people, at one of those bathing-places in the neighbourhood of Dublin, which afford 6uch fresh and healthful re- treats to its inhabitants, it was proposed among us that we should combine together in some theatrical performance ; and the Poor Soldier and a Harlequin Pantomime being the entertain- ments agreed upon, the parts of Patrick and the Motley hero fell to my shore. I was also encou- raged to write and recite an appropriate epilogue on the occasion ; and the following lines, alluding to our speedy return to school, and remarkable only for their having lived so long in my memory, formed part of this j uvenile effort : — Our Pantaloon, who did so aged look. Must now resume his youth, his task, his book: Our Harlequin, who skipp’d, laugh’d, danc’d and died, Must now stand trembling by his master’s side. I have thus been led back, step by step, from an early date to one still earlier, with the view of ascertaining, for those who take any interest in literary biography, at what period I first showed an aptitude for the now common craft of verse- making ; and the result is — so far back in child- hood lies the epoch — that I am really unable to say at what age I first began to act, sing, and rhyme. To these different talents, such as they were, the gay and social habits prevailing in Dublin afforded frequent opportunities of display ; while, at home, a most amiable father, and a mother such as in heart and head has rarely been equalled, furnished me with that purest stimulus to exertion — the desire to please those whom we, at once, most love and most respect. It was, I think, a year or two after my entrance into col- lege, that a masque written by myself, and of which I had adapted one of the songs to the air of Hadyn’s Spirit-Song, was acted, under our own humble roof in Aungier Street, by my elder sister, myself, and one or two other young per- sons. The little drawing-room over the 6hop was our grand place of representation, and young , now an eminent professor of music in Dub- lin, enacted for us the part of orchestra at the piano-forte. It will be seen from all this, that, however im- prudent and premature was my first appearance in the London world as an author, it is only lucky that I had not much earlier assumed that responsible character ; in which case the public would probably have treated my nursery produc- tions in much the same manner in which that sensible critic, my Uncle Toby, would have dis- posed of the “ work which the great Lipsius pro- duced on the day he was born.” While thus tire turn I had so early shown for rhyme and song was, by the gay and sociable circle inMhich I lived, called so encouragingly into play, a far deeper feeling — and, I should hope, power— was at the same time awakened in me by the mighty change then working in the political aspect of Europe, and the stirring in- fluence it had begun to exercise on the spirit and hopes of Ireland. Born of Catholic parents, I had come into the world with the slave’s yoke around my neck ; and it was all in vain that the fond ambition of a mother looked forward to the Bar as opening a career that might lead her son to honour and affluence. Against the young Papist all such avenues to distinction were closed; and even the University,. the professed source of public education, was to him a “ foun- tain sealed.” Can any one now wonder that a people thus wronged and trampled upon should have hailed the first dazzling outbreak of the French Revolution as a signal to the slave, wherever suffering, that the day of his deliver- ance was near at hand. I remember being taken by my father (1792) to one of the dinners given in honour of that great event, and sitting upon the knee of the chairman while the following toast was enthusiastically sent round : — “May the breezes from France fan our Irish Oak into verdure.” In a few months after was passed the memor- able Act of 1793, sweeping away some of the most monstrous of the remaining sanctions of the penal code ; and I was myself among the first of the young Helots of the land, who hastened to avail themselves of .the new privilege of being educated in their country’s university, — though still excluded from all share in those college honours and emoluments by which the ambition of the youths of the ascendant class was stimu- lated and rewarded. As I well knew that, next to my attaining some of these distinctions, my showing that I desei'ved to attain them would most gratify my anxious mother, I entered as candidate for a scholarship, and (as far as the result of the examination went) successfully. But, of course, the mere barren credit of the effort was all I enjoyed for my pains. It was in this year (1794), or about the be- ginning of the next, that I remember having, for the first time, tried my hand at political satire. In their very worst times of slavery and suffering, the happy disposition of my countrymen had kept their cheerfulness still unbroken and buoy- ant ; and, at the period of which I am speaking, the hope of a brighter day dawning npon Ireland had given to the society of the middle classes in Dublin a more than usual flow of hilarity and life. Among other gay results of this festive spirit, a club, or society, was instituted by some of our most convivial citizens, one of whose ob- jects was to burlesque, good-humouredly, the forms and pomps of royalty. With this view they established a sort of mock kingdom, of PREFACE. xvii which Dalkey, a small island near Dublin, was made the seat, and an eminent pawnbroker, named Stephen Armitage, much renowned for his agreeable singing, was the chosen and popular monarch. Before public affairs had become too serious for such pastime, it was usual to celebrate, yearly, at Dalkey, the day of this sovereign’s accession ; and, among the gay scenes that still live in my memory, there are few it recalls with more fresh- ness than the celebration, on a fine Sunday in summer, of one of these anniversaries of King Stephen’s coronation. The picturesque sea-view3 from that spot, the gay crowds along the shores, the innumerable boats, full of life, floating about, and, above all, that true spirit of mirth which the Irish temperament never fails to lend to such meetings, rendered the whole a scene not easily forgotten. The state ceremonies of the day were performed, with all due gravity, within the ruins of an ancient church that stands on the island, where his mock majesty bestowed the order of knighthood upon certain favoured personages, and among others, I recollect, upon Incledon, the celebrated singer, who arose from under the touch of the royal sword with the appropriate title of Sir Charles Melody. There was also selected, for the favours of the crown on that day, a lady of no ordinary poetic talent, Mrs. Battier, who had gained much fame by some spirited satires in the manner of Churchill, and whose kind encouragement of my early attempts in versification were to me a source of much pride. This lady, as was officially announced, in the course of the day, had been appointed his ma- jesty’s poetess laureate, under the style and title of Henrietta, Countess of Laurel. There could hardly have been devised an apter vehicle for lively political satire than this gay travesty of monarchical power, and its showy appurtenances, so temptingly supplied. The very day, indeed, after this commemoration, there appeared, in the Dalkey state-gazette, an amusing proclamation from the king, offering a large re- ward, in cronebanes ,* to the finder or finders of his majesty’s crown, which, owing to his “having measured both sides of the road” in his pedes- trian progress on the preceding night, had un- luckily fallen from the royal brow. It is not to be wondered at, that whatever na- tural turn I may have possessed for the lighter skirmishing of satire should have been called into play by so pleasant a field for its exercise as the state affairs of the Dalkey kingdom afforded ; and, accordingly, my first attempt in this line was an Ode to his Majesty, King Ste- phen, contrasting the happy state of security in which he lived among his merry lieges, with the “metal coach,” and other such precautions against mob violence, which were said to have been adopted at that time by his royal brother of England. Some portions of this juvenile squib still live in my memory ; but they fall far too short of the lively demands of the subject to be worth preserving, even as juvenilia. In college, the first circumstance that drew any attention to my rhyming powers -was my giving ip a theme, in English verse, at one of the quar- * Irish halfpence so called. terly examinations. As the sort of 6hort esgays required on those occasions were considered, in general, as a mere matter of form, and were written, invariably, I believe, in Latin prose, the appearance of a theme in English verse could hardly fail to attract some notice. It was, there- fore, with no small anxiety, that, when the mo- ment for judging of the themes arrived, I saw the examiners of the different divisions assemble, as usual, at the bottom of the hall for that pur- pose. Still more trying was it when I perceived that the reverend inquisitor, in whose hands was my fate, had left the rest of the awful group, and was bending his steps towards the table where I was seated. Leaning across to me, he asked suspiciously, whether the verses which I had just given in were my own ; and, on my answering in the affirmative, added these cheering words, “ They do you great credit ; and I shall not fail to recommend them to the notice of the Board.” This result of a step, ventured upon with some little fear and scruple, was of course very gratify- ing to me ; and the premium I received from the Board was a well-bound copy of the Travels of Anacharsis, together with a certificate, stating, in not very lofty Latin, that this reward had been conferred upon me, “ propter laudabilem in versibus componendis progressum.” The idea of attempting a version of some of the Songs or Odes of Anacreon had very early occurred to me ; and a specimen of my first ven- tures in this undertaking may be found in the Dublin Magazine already referred to, where, in the number of that work for February, 1794, ap- peared a “ Paraphrase of Anacreon’s Fifth Ode, by T. Moore.” As it may not be uninteresting to future and better translators of the poet to compare this schoolboy experiment with my later and more laboured version of the same ode. I shall here extract the specimen found in the Anthologia : — “ Let us, with the clustering vine. The rose. Love’s blushing flower, entwine. Fancy’s hand bur chaplets wreathing. Vernal sweets around us breathing, We’ll gaily drink, full goblets quaffing. At frighted Care securely laughing. “ Rose ! thou balmy-scented flower, Rear’d by Spring’s most fostering power, Thy dewy blossoms, opening bright. To gods themselves can give delight ; And Cypria’s child, with roses crown’d. Trips with each Grace the mazy round. “ Bind my brows, — I’ll tune the lyre. Love my rapturous strains shall fire. Near Bacchus’ grape-encircled shrine. While roses fresh my brows entwine. Led by the winged train of Pleasures, I’ll dance with nymphs to sportive measures.” In pursuing further this light task, the only object I had for some time in view was to lay before the Board a select number of the odes 1 had then translated, with a hope, — suggested by the kind, encouragement I had already received, — that they might be considered as deserving of some nonour or reward. Having experienced much hospitable attention from Doctor Kearney PREFACE. XVlll one of the senior fellows,* a man of most amiable character, as well as of refined scholarship, I sub- mitted to his perusal the manuscript of my trans- lation as far ns it had then proceeded, and re- quested his advice respecting my intention of laying it before the Board. On this latter point his opinion was such ns, with a little more thought, I might have anticipated, namely, that he did not sec how the Board of the University could lend their sanction, by any public reward, to writings so convivial and amatory as were almost all those of Anacreon. He very good- naturedly, however, lauded my translation, and advised me to complete and publish it ; adding, I well recollect, “ young people will like it.” I was also indebted to him for the use, during my task, of Spaletti’s curious publication, giving a facsimile of those pages of a MS. in the Vatican Library which contain the Odes, or “ Sympo- siacs,” attributed to Anacreon.t And here I 6hall venture to add a few passing words on a point which I once should have thought it pro- fanation to question, — the authenticity of these poems. The cry raised against their genuineness by Robertellus and other enemies of Henry Ste- phen, when that eminent scholar first introduced them to the learned world, may be thought to have long 6ince entirely subsided, leaving their claim to so ancient a paternity safe and unques- tioned. But I am forced, however, reluctantly, to confess that there appear to me strong grounds for pronouncing these light and beautiful lyrics to be merely modern fabrications. Some of the reasons that incline me to adopt this unwelcome conclusion are thus clearly stated by the same able scholar, to whom I am indebted for the emendations of my own juvenile Greek ode : — *' I do not see how it is possible, if Anacreon had written chiefly in Iambic dimeter verse, that Horace should have wholly neglected that metre. I may add that, of those fragments of Anacreon, of whose genuineness, from internal evidence, there can be no doubt, almost all are written in one or other of the lighter Iloratian metres, and scarcely one in Iambic dimeter verse. This may be seen by looking through the list in Fischer.” The unskilful attempt at Greek verse from my own pen, which is found prefixed to the Trans- lation, was intended originally to illustrate a picture, representing Anacreon conversing with the Goddess of Wisdom, from which the frontis- piece to the first edition of the work was taken. Ilad I been brought up with a due fear of the laws of prosody before my eyes, I certainly should not have dared to submit so untutored a produc- tion to the criticism of the trained prosodians of the English schools. At the same time, I cannot help adding that, as far as music, distinct from metre, is concerned, I am much inclined to pre- fer the ode as originally written to its present corrected shape ; and that, at all events, I enter- * Appointed Provost of the University in the year 1799, and made afterwards Bishop of Ossory. t When the monument to Provost Baldwin, which stands in the hall of the College of Dublin, arrived from Italy, there came in the same packing-case with it two copies of this work of Spaletti, one of which was pre- sented by Dr. Troy, the Roman Catholic Archbishop, as a gift from the Pope to the Library of the University, .and the other (of which I was subsequently favoured tain but very little doubt as to which of the two a composer would most willingly set to music. For the means of collecting the materials of tho notes appended to the Translation, I was chiefly indebted to the old library adjoining St. Patrick’s Cathedral, called, from the name of the archbishop who founded it, Marsh’s Library. Through my acquaintance with the deputy li- brarian, the Rev. Mr. Cradock, I enjoyed the privilege of constant access to this collection, even at that period of the year when it is always closed to the public. On these occasions I used to be locked in there alone ; and to the many solitary hours which, both at the time I am now speaking of and subsequently,! passed in hunting through the dusty tomes of this old library, I owe much of that odd and out-of-the-way sort of reading which may be found scattered through some of my earlier writings. Early in the year 1799, while yet in my nine- teenth year, I left Ireland, for the first time, and proceeded to London, with the two not very con- genial objects, of keeping my terms at the Middle Temple, and publishing, by subscription, my Translation of Anacreon. One of those per- sons to whom, through the active zeal of friends, some part of my manuscript had been submitted before it went to press, was Doctor Laurence, the able friend of Burke ; and, as an instance, how- ever slight, of that ready variety of learning — as well the lightest at the most solid — for which Laurence was so remarkable, the following ex- tract from the letter written by him, in returning the manuscript to my friend Dr. Hume, may not be without some interest : — Dec. 20. 1799. “ I return you the four odes which you were so kind to communicate for my poor opinion. They are, in many parts, very elegant and poetical : and, in some passages, Mr. Moore has added a pretty turn not to be found in the original. To confess the truth, however, they are, in not a few places, rather more paraphrastical than suits my notion (perhaps an incorrect notion) of trans- lation. “ In the fifty- third ode there is, in my judg- ment, a no less sound than beautiful emendation suggested — would you suppose it ? — by a Dutch lawyer. Mr. M. possibly may not be aware of it. I have endeavoured to express the sense of it in a couplet interlined with pencil. Will you allow me to add, that I am not certain whether the translation has not missed the meaning, too, in the former part of that passage which seems to me to intend a distinction and climax of pleasure : — ‘ It is sweet even to prove it among the briery paths ; it is sweet again, plucking, to cherish with tender hands, and carry to the fair, the flower of love.* This is nearly literal, including with the use) he presented, In like manner, to my friend Dr. Kearney. Thus, curiously enough, while Anacreon t» English was considered — and, I grant, on no un- reasonable grounds — as a work to which grave colle- giate authorities could not openly lend their sanction, Anacreon in Greek was thought no unfitting present to be received by a Protestant bishop, through the medium of a Catholic archbishop, from the hands of his holiness, the Pope. PREFACE, xix the conjectural correction of Mynheer Meden- bach. If this be right, instead of « *Tis sweet to dare the tangled fence,* I would propose something to this effect, *Ti9 sweet the rich perfume to prove, Ashy the dewy bush you roVe ; ’Tis sweet to dare the tangled fence, To cull the timid beauty thence, To wipe with tender hands away The tears that on its blushes lay ; * Then, to the bosom of the fair. The flower of love in triumph bear. “ I would drop altogether the image of the stems * dropping with gems.' I believe it is a con- fused and false metaphor, unless the painter should take the figure of Aurora from Mrs. Hastings. “ There is another emendation of the same critic, in the following line, which Mr. M. may seem, by accident, to have sufficiently expressed in the phrase of ‘ roses shed their light' “ I scribble this in very great haste, but fear that you and Mr. Moore will find me too long, minute, and impertinent. Believe me to be, very sincerely, “ Your obedient, humble servant, " JF , Laurence.” • ♦ Jpttfaa fa % Mu we. The Poems suggested to me by my visit to Ber- muda, in the year 1803, as well as by the tour which I made subsequently, through some parts of North America, have been hitherto very injudiciously arranged ; — any distinctive character they may possess having been disturbed and confused by their being mixed up not only with trifles of a much earlier date, but also with some portions of a classical story, in the form of Letters, which I had made some progress in before my departure from England. In the present edition, this awk- ward jumble has been remedied ; and all the Poems relating to my Transatlantic voyage will be found classed by themselves. As, in like manner, the line of route by which I proceeded through some parts of the States and the Canadas, has been left hitherto to be traced confusedly through a few detached notes, I have thought that to future readers of these poems, some clearer ac- count of the course of that journey might not be unacceptable, — together with such vestiges as may still linger in my memory of events now fast fading into the back-ground of time. For the precise date of my departure from England, in the Phaeton frigate, I am indebted to the Naval Kecollections of Captain Scott, then a midshipman of that ship. “ We were soon * Query, if it ought not to be lie ? The line might run. With tender hand the tears to brush, That give new softness to its blush (or, its flush). ready,” says this gentleman, “ for sea, and a few days saw Mr. Merry and suite embarked on board. Mr. Moore likewise took his passage with us on his way to Bermuda. We quitted Spithead on the 25th of September (1803), and in a short week lay becalmed under the lofty peak of Pico. In this situation the Phaeton is depicted in the fron- tispiece of Moore’s Poems.” During the voyage, I dined very frequently with the officers of the gun-room ; and it was not a little gratifying to me to learn, from this gentleman’s volume, that the cordial regard these social and open-hearted men inspired in me was not wholly unreturned on their part. After men- tioning our arrival at Norfolk, in Virginia, Cap- tain Scott says, “ Mr. and Mrs. Merry left the Phaeton, under the usual salute, accompanied by Mr. Moore;” — then, adding some kind com- pliments on the score of talents, &c.,lie concludes with a sentence which it gave me tenfold more pleasure to read, — “The gun-room mess wit- nessed the day of his departure with genuine sorrow.” From Norfolk, after a stay of about ten days, under the hospitable roof of the British Consul, Colonel Hamilton, I proceeded, in the Driver sloop of war, to Bermuda. There was then on that station another youth- ful sailor, who has since earned for himself a distinguished name among English writers of travels, Captain Basil Hall, — then a midshipman on board the Leander. In his Fragments of Voyages and Travels, this writer has called up some agreeable reminiscences of that period ; in perusing which, — so full of life and reality are his sketches, — I found all my own naval re- collections brought freshly to my mind. The very names of the different ships, then so familiar to my ears, — the Leander, the Boston, the Cam- brian, — transported me back to the season of youth and those Summer Isles once more. The testimony borne by so competent a wit- ness as Captain Hall to the truth of my sketches of the beautiful scenery of Bermuda is of far too much value to me, in my capacity of tra- veller, to be here omitted by me, however conscious of but ill deserving the praise he lavishes on me, as a poet. Not that I mean to pretend indifference to such kind tributes ; — on the contrary, those are always the most alive to praise, who feel inwardly least confidence in the soundness of their own title to it. In the present instance, however, my vanity (for so this uneasy feeling is always called) seeks its food in a dif- ferent direction. It is not as a poet I invoke the aid of Captain Hall’s opinion, but as a tra- veller and observer ; it is not to my invention I ask him to bear testimony, but to my matter-of- fact. “ The most pleasing and most exact descrip- tion which I know of Bermuda,” says this gen- tleman, “ is to be found in Moore’s Odes and Epistles, a work published many years ago. The reason why his account excels in beauty as well as in precision that of other men probably is, that the scenes described lie so much beyond the scope of ordinary observation in colder climates, and the feelings which they excite in the be- holder are so much higher than those produced by the scenery we have been accustomed to look at, that, unless the imagination be deeply drawn XX PREFACE. upon, ami the diction sustained at n correspon- dent pitch, the words alone strike the car, while the listener's fancy remains where it was. In Moore’s account there is not only no exaggeration, but, on the contrary, a wonderful degree of tem- perance in the midst of a feast which to his rich fancy must have been peculiarly tempting. He has contrived by a magic peculiarly his own, yet without departing from the truth, to sketch what was before him with a fervour which those who have never been on the spot might well be ex- cused for setting down os the sport of the poet’s invention.” * How truly politic it is in a poet to connect l»is verse with well-known and interesting lo- calities, — towed his song to scenes nlreadj' in- vested with fame, and thus lend it a chance of sharing the charm which encircles them, — I have myself, in more than one instance, very agreeably experienced. Among the memorials of this description, which, as I learn with plea- sure and pride, still keep me remembered in some of those beautiful regions of the West which I visited, I shall mention but one slight instance, as showing how potently the Genius of the Place may lend to song a life and imperishableness to which, in itself, it boasts no claim or pretension. The following lines in one of my Bermudian poems, ’Twas there, in the shade of the Calabash Tree, With a few who could feel and remember like me, still live in memory, I am told, on those fairy shores, connecting my name with the picturesque spot they describe, and the noble old tree which I believe still adorns it.t One of the few trea- sures (of any kind) I can boast the possession of, is a goblet formed of one of the fruit-shells of this remarkable tree, which was brought from Bermuda, a few years since, by Mr. Dudley Cos- tello, and which that gentleman, having had it tastefully mounted as a goblet, very kindly pre- sented to me ; the following words being part of the inscription which it bears : — “To Thomas Moore, Esq., this cup, formed of a calabash which grew on the tree that bears his name, near Wal- singham, Bermuda, is inscribed by one who,” &c. &c. From Bermuda I proceeded in the Boston, with my friend Captain (now Admiral) J. E. Douglas, to New York, from whence, after a short stay, we sailed for Norfolk, in Virginia ; and about the beginning of June, 1804,1 set out from that city on a tour through part of the States. At Wash- ington, I passed 6ome days with the English minister, Mr. Merry ; and was, by him, presented at the levee of the President, Jefferson, whom I found sitting with General Dearborn and one or two other officers, and in the same homely cos- tume, comprising slippers and Connemara stock- ings, in which Mr. Merry had been received by him — much to that formal minister’s horror — when waiting upon him, in full dress, to deliver his credentials. My single interview with this remarkable person was of very short duration ; * Fragments of Voyages and Travels, vol. ii. chap. vl. + A representation of this calabash, taken from a drawing of it made on the spot, by Dr. Savage of the Royal Artillery, has been introduced in the vignette but to have seen and spoken with the man who drew up the Declaration of American Indepen- dence was an event not to be forgotten. At Philadelphia, the society I was chiefly made acquainted with, and to which (as the verses ad- dressed to “Delaware’s green banks ”J suffi- ciently testify) I was indebted for some of my most agreeable recollections of the United States, consisted entirely of persons of the Federalist or Anti-Democratic party. Few and transient, too, as had been my opportunities, of judging for my- self of the political or social state of the country, my mind was left open too much to the influence of the feelings and prejudices of those I chiefly consorted with ; and, certainly, in no quarter was I so sure to find decided hostility, both to the men and the principles then dominant through- out the Union, ns among officers of the British navy, and in the ranks of an angry Federalist opposition. For any bias, therefore, that, under such circumstances, my opinions and feelings may be thought to have received, full allowance, of course, is to be made in appraising the weight due to my authority on the subject. All I can answer for, is the perfect sincerity and earnest- ness of the actual impressions, whether true or erroneous, under which my Epistles from the United States were written ; and so strong, at the time, I confess, were those impressions, that it was the only period of my past life during which I have found myself at all sceptical as to the soundness of that Liberal creed of politics, in the profession and advocacy of which I may be almost literally said to have begun life, and shall, most probably end it. Reaching, for the second time, New York, I set out from thence on the now familiar and easy enterprise of visiting the Falls of Niagara. It is but too true, of all grand objects, whether in nature or art, that facility of access to them much diminishes the feeling of reverence they ought to inspire. Of this fault, however, the route to Niagara, at that period — at least the portion of it which led through the Genesee country — could not justly be accused. The lat- ter part of the journey, which lay chiefly through yet but half-cleared wood, we were obliged to perform on foot ; and a slight accident I met with, in the course of our rugged walk, laid me up for some days at Buffalo. To the rapid growth, in that wonderful region, of, at least, the materials of civilization, — however ultimately they may be turned to account, — this flourishing town, which stands on Lake Erie, bears most ample testimony. Though little better, at the time when I visited it, than a mere village, consisting chiefly of huts and wigwams, it is now, by all accounts, a populous and splendid city, with five or six churches, town-hall, theatre, and other such appurtenances of a capital. In adverting to the comparatively rude state of Buffalo, at that period, I should be ungrateful were I to omit mentioning, that, even then, on the shores of those far lakes, the title of “ Poet,” — however unworthily in that instance bestowed, prefixed to the second volume of the edition in ten vo- lumes. X See Epist’.e to Mr. W. R. Spencer, p. 103. of this edition. PREFACE. xxi — bespoke a kind and distinguishing welcome for its wearer ; and that the Captain who com- manded the packet in which I crossed Lake Ontario,* in addition to other marks of courtesy, begged, on parting with me, to be allowed to decline payment for my passage. When we arrived, at length, at the inn, in the neighbourhood of the Falls, it was too late to think of visiting them that evening ; and I lay awake almost the whole night with the sound of the cataract in my ears. The day following I consider as a sort of era in my life ; and the first glimpse I caught of that wonderful cataract gave me a feeling which nothing in this world can ever awaken again.t It was through an opening among the trees, as we approached the spot where the full view of the Falls was to burst upon us, that I caught this glimpse of the mighty mass of waters folding smoothly over the edge of the precipice ; and so overwhelming was the notion it gave me of the awful spectacle I was approaching, that, during the short interval that followed, imagination had far outrun the reality ; and, vast and wonderful as was the scene that then opened upon me, my first feel- ing was that of disappointment. It would have been impossible, indeed, for any thing real to come up to the vision I had, in these few seconds, formed of it ; and those awful scriptural words, “ The fountains of the great deep were broken up,” can alone give any notion of the vague wonders for which I was prepared. But, in spite of the start thus got by imagin- ation, the triumph of reality wa3, in the end, but the greater ; for the gradual glory of the 6cene that opened upon me soon took posses- sion of my whole mind ; presenting, from day to day, some new beauty or wonder, and, like all that is most sublime in nature or art, awakening sad as well as elevating thoughts. I retain in my memory but one other dream — for such do events so long past appear — which can in any respect be associated with the grand vision I have just been describing ; and, however different the nature of their appeals to the imagination, I should find it difficult to say on which occasion I felt most deeply affected, when looking on the Falls of Niagara, or when standing by moonlight among the ruins of the Coliseum. Some changes, I understand, injurious to the beauty of the scene, have taken place in the shape of the Falls since the time of my visit to them ; and among these is the total disappearance by the gradual crumbling away of the rock, of the small leafy island which then stood near the edge of the Great Fall, and whose tranquillity and unapproachableness, in the midst of so much turmoil, lent it an interest which I thus tried to avail myself of, in a Song of the Spirit of that region J : — There, amid the island-sedge. Just above the cataraot’s edge, * The Commodore of the Lakes, as ho is styled, t The first two sentences of the above paragraph, as well as a passage that occurs in the subsequent column, stood originally as part of the Notes on one of the American Poems. Introduced in the Epistle to Lady Charlotte Raw don, p. 105. of this edition. Where the foot of living man Never trod since time began. Lone I sit at close of day, &c. &c. Another characteristic feature of the vicinity of the Falls, which, I understand, no longer exists, was the interesting settlement of the Tuscarora Indians. With the gallant Brock, § who then commanded at Fort George, I passed the greater part of my time during the few weeks I remained at Niagara ; and a visit I paid to these Indians, in company with him and his brother officers, on his going to distri- bute among them the customary presents and prizes, was not the least curious of the many new scenes I witnessed. These people received us in all their ancient costume. The young men exhibited for our amusement in the race, the bat-game, and other sports, while the old and the women sat in groups under the surrounding trees ; and the whole scene was as picturesque and beautiful as it was new to me. It is said that West, the American painter, when he first saw the Apollo, at Rome, exclaimed instantly “ A young Indian warrior I ” — and, however start- ling the association may appear, some of the graceful and agile forms which I saw that day among the Tuscaroras were such as would ac- count for its arising in the young painter’s mind. After crossing “ the fresh- water ocean ” of Ontario, I passed down the St. Lawrence to Montreal and Quebec, staying for a short time at each of these places ; and this part of my journey, as well as my voyage on from Quebec to Halifax, is sufficiently traceable through the few pieces of poetry that were suggested to me by scenes and events on the way. And here I must again venture to avail myself of the valu- able testimony of Captain Hall to the truth of my descriptions of some of those scenes through which his more practised eye followed me ; — taking the liberty to omit in my extracts, as far as may be done without injury to the style or context, some of that generous surplusage of praise in which friendly criticism delights to indulge. In speaking of an excursion he had made up the river Ottawa, — “ a stream,” he adds, “ which has a classical place in every one’s imagination from Moore’s Canadian Boat Song.” Captain Hall proceeds as follows: — “ Whil® the poet above alluded to has retained all that is essen- tially characteristic and pleasing in these boat songs, and rejected all that is not so, he lias con- trived to borrow his inspiration from numerous surrounding circumstances, presenting nothing remarkable to the dull senses of ordinary travel- lers. Yet these highly poetical images, drawn in this way, as it were carelessly and from every hand, he has combined with such graphic — I had almost said geographical — truth, that the effect is great, even upon those who have never, with their own eyes, seen the ‘ Utawa’s tide,’ nor § This brave and amiable officer was killed at Queen, ston, in Upper Canada, soon after the commencement of the war with America, in the year 1812. He was in the act of cheering on his men when he fell. The inscription on the monument raised to his memory, on Queenston Heights, does but due honour to his manly character. xxii PREFACE. • flown down the RapUl9,' nor heard the ‘ bell of St. Anne’s toll its evening chime; ’ while the same lines give to distant regions, previously conse- crated in our imagination, a vividness of interest, when viewed on the spot, of which it is difficult to say how much is due to the magic of the poetry, and how much to the beauty of the real scene.” * While on the subject of the Canadian Boat Song, an anecdote connected with that once popular ballad may, for my musical readers at least, possess some interest. A few years since, while staying in Dublin, I was presented, at his own request, to a gentleman who told me that his family had in their possession a curious relic of my youthful days, — being the first notation I had made, in pencilling, of the air and words of the Canadian Boat Song, while on my way down the St Lawrence, — and that it was their wish I should add my signature to attest the authen- ticity of the autograph. I assured him with truth that I had wholly forgotten even the existence of such a memorandum ; that it would be as much a curiosity to myself as it could be to any one else, and that I should feel thankful to be allowed to Rce it. In a day or two after, my request was complied with, and the following is the history of this musical “ relic.” In my passage down the St. Lawrence, I had with me two travelling companions, one of whom, named Harkness, the son of a wealthy Dublin merchant, has been some years dead. To this young friend, on parting with him, at Quebec, I gave, ns a keepsake, a volume I had been reading on the way, — Priestley’s Lectures on History; and it was upon a fly-leaf of this volume I found I had taken down, in pencilling, both the notes and a few of the words of the original song by which my own boat-glee had been suggested. The following is the form of my memorandum of the original air ; — . Then follows, as pencilled down at the same moment, the first verse of my Canadian Boat Song, with air and words as they are at present. From all this it will be perceived, that in my own setting of the air, I departed in almost every re- spect but the time from the strain our voyageurs had sung to us, leaving the music of the glee nearly as much my own as the words. Yet, how strongly impressed I had become with the notion that this was^ the identical air sung by the boat- men,— how closely it linked itself in my imagin- ation with the scenes and sounds amidst which it had occurred to me, — may be seen by reference to a note appended to the glee as first published, which will be found in the following pages.t To the few desultory and, perhaps, valueless re- collections I have thus called up, respecting the contents of our second volume, I have only to add that the reavy storm of censure and criticism — some of it, I fear, but too well deserved — which, both in America and in England, the publication of my “ Odes and Epistles ” drew down upon me, was followed by results which have far more than compensated for any pain such attacks at the time may have inflicted. In the most formidable of all my censors, at that period, — the great master of the art of criticism, in our day, — I have found ever since one of the most cordial and highly valued of all my friends ; while the good will I have experienced from more than one distin- guished American sufficiently assures me that any injustice I may have done to that land of freemen, if not long since wholly forgotten, is now remem- bered only to be forgiven. * “It is singularly gratifying,” the author adds, “ to discover that, to this nour, the Canadian vogageurs, never omit their offerings to the shrine of St. Anne, be- fore engaging in any enterprise : and that during its performance, they omit no opportunity of keeping up As some consolation to me for the onsets of criticism, I received, shortly after the appearance of my volume, a letter from Stockholm, addressed to “ the author of Epistles, Odes, and other poems,” and informing me that “ the Princes, Nobles, and Gentlemen, who composed the General Chapter of the most Illustrious, Equestrian, Secular, and Chapteral Order of St. Joachim,” had elected me as a Knight of this order. Notwithstanding the grave and official style of the letter, I regarded it, I own, at first, as a mere ponderous piece of plea- santry ; and even suspected that in the name of St. “ Joachim ” I could detect the low and irre- verent pun of St. Jokehim. On a little inquiry, however, I learned that there actually existed such an order of knight- hood ; that the title, insignia, &c. conferred by it had, in the instances of Lord Nelson, the Duke of Bouillon, and Colonel Imhoff, who were all of St. Joachim, been authorised by the British court ; but that since then, this sanction of the order had been withdrawn. Of course to the reduction thus caused in the value of the honour was owing its descent in the scale of distinction to “ such small deer ” of Parnassus as myself. I wrote a letter, however, full of grateful acknowledgment, to Monsieur Hansson, the Vice-Chancellor of the Order, saying that I was unconscious of having entitled myself, by any public service, to a reward due only to the benefactors of mankind ; and therefore begged leave most respectfully to de- cline it. *o propitious an intercourse. The flourishing village which surrounds the church on the “Green Isle” in question owes its existence and support entirely to these pious contributions.” t Page 104. of this edition. PREFACE. xx ill preface ta tlje Mawc. Tiie three satirical Poems, with which this Vo- lume commences, were published originally with- out the author’s name ; “ Corruption” and “ In- tolerance” in the year 1808, and the “ Sceptic” in the year following. The political opinions adopted in the first of these Satires — the Poem on Corruption — were chiefly caught up, as is in- timated in the original Preface, from the writings of Bolingbroke, Sir William Wyndham, and other statesmen of that factious period, when the same sort of alliance took place between Toryism and what is now called Radicalism, which is always likely to ensue on the ejection of the Tory party from power.* In the somewhat rash effusion, it will be seen that neither of the two great English parties is handled with much re- spect ; and I remember being taken to task, by one of the few of my Whig acquaintances that ever looked into the poem, for the following allusion to the silencing effects of official station on certain orators : — As bees, on flowers alighting, cease their hum, So, settling upon places, Whigs grow dumb. But these attempts of mine in the stately, Ju- venalian style of satire, met with but little suc- cess, — never having attained, I believe, even the honours of a second edition ; and I found that lighter form of weapon, to which I afterwards betook myself, not only more easy to wield, but, from its very lightness, perhaps, more sure to reach its mark. It would almost seem, too, as if the same unem- bittered spirit, the same freedom from all real malice with which, in most instances, this sort of squib warfare has been waged by me, was felt, in some degree, even by those who were themselves the objects of it ; — so generously forgiving have I, in most instances, found them. Even the high Personage against whom the earliest and perhaps most successful of my lighter missiles were launched, could refer to and quote them, as I learn from an incident mentioned in the Life of Sir Walter Scott, t with a degree of good-humour and playfulness which was creditable alike to his temper and good sense. At a memorable dinner given by the Regent to Sir Walter in the year 1815, Scott, among other stories with which his royal host was much amused, told of a sentence passed by an old friend of his, the Lord Justice Clerk Braxfield, attended by circumstances in which the cruelty of this waggish judge was even more conspicuous than his humour. “ The Re- gent laughed heartily,” says the biographer, “ at * Bolingbroke himself acknowledges that “ both parties were become factions, in the strict sense of the word.” t Vol. iii. p. 342. i The Standard, August 24. 1835. § “ The s&me/auteuils and girandoles — The same gold asses, pretty souls, That, in this rich and classic dome, Appear so perfectly at home; The same bright river, *mong the dishes, But not — ah I not the same dear fishes. this specimen of Braxfield’s brutal humour ; and ‘ I’ faith, Walter,’ said he, ‘ this old bigwig seems to have taken things as coolly as my tyrannical self. Don’t you remember Tom Moore’s descrip- tion of me at breakfast ? — • The table spread with tea and toast, Death-warrants and the Morning Post. ’ ” In reference to this, and other less exalted in- stances, of the good-humoured spirit in which my “ innocui sales ” have in general been taken, I shall venture to cite here a few flattering sen- tences which, coming as they did from a. political adversary and a stranger, touched me far more by their generosity than even by their praise. In speaking of the pension which had just then been conferred upon me, and expressing, in warm terms, his approval of the grant, the editor of a leading Tory journal £ thus liberally expresses himself : — “ We know that some will blame us for our prejudice — if it be prejudice, in favour of Mr. Moore ; but we cannot help it. As he tells us himself, ‘ Wit a diamond brings That cuts its bright way through * the most obdurate political antipathies. * * * We do not believe that any one was ever hurt by libels so witty as those of Mr. Moore : — great privilege of wit, which renders it impossible even for those whose enemies wits are, to hate them ! ” To return to the period of the Regency : — In the numerous attacks from the government press, which my occasional volleys of small shot against the Court used to draw down upon me, it was constantly alleged, as an aggravation of my misdeeds, that I had been indebted to the Royal personage thus assailed by me for many kind and substantial services. Luckily, the list of the benefits showered upon me from that high quarter may be despatched in a few sentences. At the request of the Earl of Moira, one of my earliest and best friends, his Royal Highness graciously permitted me to dedicate to him my Translation of the Odes of Anacreon. I was twice, I think, admitted to the honour of dining at Carlton House ; and when the Prince, on his being made Regent in 1811, gave his memorable fete, I was one of the crowd — about 1#0O, I be- lieve, in number — who enjoyed the privilege of being his guests on the occasion. There occur some allusions, indeed, in the Twopenny Post-Bag, to the absurd taste dis- played in the ornaments of the royal supper- table at that fete ; § and this violation — for such, to a certain extent, I allow it to have been — of the reverence due to the rights of the Hospitable Jove, || which, whether administered by prince or peasant, ought to be sacred from such exposure, I Late hours and claret kill’d the old ones ; — 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 — h’s wish, Promoted into silver fish, And gudgeons (so V — ns — tt — t told The Reg — t) are as rich as gold.” Twopenny Post-Bag , p. 130. || “ Ante fore* stabat Jovis Hospitis ara.” Ovid. XXIV PREFACE. am by no means disposed to defend. But, what- ever may be thought of the taste or prudence of lome of these satires, there exists no longer, I ap- prehend, much difference of opinion respecting the character of the Royal personage against whom they were aimed. Already, indeed, has the stern verdict which the voice of Ilistory can- not but pronounce upon him, been in some de- gree anticipated,* in a sketch of the domestic events of his reign, supposed to have proceeded from the pen of one who was himself an actor in some of its most painful scenes, and who, from his professional position, commanded a near in- sight into the character of that exalted indivi- dual, both ns husband and father. To the same high authority I must refer for an account of the mysterious “ Book,” t to which allusion is more than once made in the following pages. One of the earliest and most successful of the numerous trifles I wrote at that period, was the Parody on the Regent’s celebrated Letter, an- nouncing to the world that he “ had no predi- lections,” &c. This very opportune squib was, at first, circulated privately ; my friend, Mr. Perry, having for some time hesitated to publish it. He got some copies of it, however, printed off for me, which I sent round to several mem- bers of the Whig party ; and, having to meet a number of them at dinner immediately after, found it no easy matter to keep my countenance while they were discussing among them the merits of the Parody. One of the party, I re- collect, having quoted to me the following de- scription of the state of both King and Regent, at that moment, — “ A strait waistcoat on him, and restrictions on me, A more limited monarchy could not well be,” grew ratner provoked with me for not enjoying the fun of the parody as much as himself. While thus the excitement of party feeling lent to the political trifles contained in this volume a relish and pungency not their own, an effect has been attributed to two squibs, wholly unconnected with politics — the Letters from the Dowager Countess of Cork, and from Messrs. Lackington and Co. J— of which I had myself * Edinburgh Review, No. CXXXV., George the. Fourth and Queen Caroline. — ‘‘When the Prince en- tered upon public life he was found to have exhausted the resources of a career of pleasure; to have gained followers without making friends ; to have acquired much envy and some admiration among the unthink- ing multitude of polished society ; but not to command in any quarter either respect or esteem. * * * The portrait which we have painted of him is undoubtedly one of the darkest shade and most repulsive form.” t “There is no doubt whatever that The Bool-, written by Mr. Perceval, and privately printed at his house, under Lord Eldon’s superintendence and his own, was prepared in concert with the King, and was intended to sound the alarm against Carlton House and the Whigs.” — Ed. Review, ib. * Twopenny Tost-Bag, pp. 127, 128. I avail myself of the mention here of this latter squib, to recant a correction which I too hastily made in the two follow- ing lines of it: — " And, though statesmen may glory in being un- bought. In an author, we think, sir, that’s rather a fault.” Forgetting that Pope’s ear was satisfied with the sort of rhyme here used, I foolishly altered (and spoiled) the whole couplet to get rid of it. § “See, for instance,” says Mr. Lockhart, “the not the slightest notion till I found it thus al- luded to in Mr. Lockhart's Life of Sir Walter Scott. In speaking of the causes which w*ere supposed to have contributed to the comparative failure of the Poem of “ Rokcby ,” the biographer says, “ It is fair to add that, among the London circles, at least, some sarcastic flings, in Mr. Moore’s Twopenny Post-Bag, must have had an unfavourable influence on this occasion.” § Among the translations that have appeared on the Continent, of the greater part of my poe'ical works, there has been no attempt, as far as I can learn, to give a version of any of my satirical writings, — with the single exception of a squib contained in this volume, entitled “ Little Mun and Little Soul,”|| of which there is a translation into German verse, by the late distinguished oriental scholar, Professor Von Bohlen.1T Though unskilled, myself, in German, I can yet perceive — sufficiently to marvel at it — the dexterity and ease with which the Old Ballad metre of the ori- ginal is adopted and managed in the translation. As this trifle may be considered curious, not only in itself, but still more as connected with so learned a name, I shall here present it to my readers, premising that the same eminent Pro- fessor has left a version also of one of my very early facetiae , “ The Rabbinical Origin of Wo- man.” “ THERE WAS A LITTLE MAN.” ( Translated by Professor von Bohlen .) Es war ein kleiner Mann Und der hatt’n kleinen Geist Und er sprach : kleiner Geist sehn wir, zu, zu, zc, Ob uns moglich wolil wird seyn So cin kleines Redelein Das wir halten, kleiner ich und kleiner du, du, dn, Das wir halten, kleiner ich und kleiner du. Und der kleine Geist, der brach Aus dem Loche nun und sprach : Ich behaupte, kleiner Mann, du hist keck, keck, keck, Nimm nicht iibel meine Zweifel, Aber sage mir, zum Teufel, Hat die kleine kleine Red’ einen zweek, zweek, zweek, Hat die kleine kleine Red’ einen zweek ? Epistle of Lady Cork ; or that of Messrs. Lackington, booksellers, to one of their dandy authors: — “ ‘ 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 Rou-,') 1 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 waj". Now, the scheme is (though none of our hackneys can beat him) To start a fresh Poet through Higligate to meet him : Who, by means of quick proofs — no revises — long coaches — May do a few vilias, before Sc— tt approaches. Indeed, if our Pegasus be not curst shabby. He’ll reach, without 1'ound’riDg, at least Woburiv Abbey.’ ” || Alluding to a speech delivered in the year 1815 by the Right Hon. Charles Abbott (then Speaker) against Mr. Grattan’s motion for a Committee on the Claims ol the Catholics. H Author of “ The Ancient Indian.” Paternoster Row. PKEFACE. XXV Dor ldeine Mann darauf Blicss die Backen machtig auf, Und er ppracli : kleiner Geist sey geschcut, schcut, scheut ; Kleiner ich und kleiner du Sind berufen ja dazu Zu vcrdammen und bekehren alio Lout’, Lout’, Lcut*, Zu vcrdammen uud bekehren alle Lcut\ Und sio fingen beide an Der kleine Geist und kleinc Mann, Faukten ab ihre Rede so klein, klein, klcin ; Und die ganze Welt fur wahr Meint, das aufgeblas ne Paar Musst cin winziges Pfaffelein nur seyn, scyn, seyn, Musst ein winziges Pfaffelein, nur seyn. Having thus brought together, as well from the records of others, as from my own recollec- tion, whatever incidental lights could be thrown from those sources, on some of the satirical effu- sions contained in these pages, I shall now reserve all such reminiscences and notices as relate to the Irish Melodies for our next volume. It is right my readers should here be apprized, that the plan of classing my poetical works ac- cording to the order of their first publication is pursued no further than the Second Volume of this Collection ; and that, therefore, the arrange- ment of the contents of the succeeding Volumes, though not, in a general way, departing much from this rule, is not to be depended upon as observing it. JJufiuc ia % cfourtlj titolunu. The recollections connected, in my mind, with that early period of my life, when I first thought of interpreting in verse the touching language of my country’s music, tempt me again to advert to those long past days ; and even at the risk of being thought to indulge overmuch in what Colley Cibber calls “ the great pleasure of writing about one’s self all day,” to notice briefly some of those impressions and influences under which the attempt to adapt words to our ancient Melo- dies was for some time meditated by me, and, at last, undertaken. There can be no doubt that to the zeal and industry of Mr. Bunting his country is indebted for the preservation of her old national airs. Daring the prevalence of the Penal Code, the music of Ireland was made to share in the fate of its people. Both were alike shut out from the pale of civilised life ; and seldom any where but in the huts of the proscribed race could the sweet voice of the songs of other days be heard. Even of that class, the itinerant harpers, among whom for a long period our ancient music had been kept alive, there remained but few to continue the precious tradition ; and a great music-meet- ing held at Belfast in the year 1792, at which the two or tlnee still remaining of the old race of wandering harpers assisted, exhibited the last public effort made by the lovers of Irish music, to preserve to their country the only grace or ornament left to her, out of the wreck of all her liberties and hopes. Thus what the fierce legis- lature of the Pale had endeavoured vainly through so many centuries to effect, — the utter extinction of Ireland’s Minstrelsy, — the deadly pressure of the Penal Laws had nearly, at the close of the eighteenth century, accomplished ; and, but for the zeal and intelligent research of Mr. Bunting, at that crisis, the greater part of our musical treasures would probably have been lost to the world. It was in the year 1796 that this gentleman published his first volume ; and the national spirit and hope then wakened in Ireland, by the rapid spread of the democratic principle throughout Europe, could not but insure a most cordial reception for such a work ; — flat- tering as it was to the fond dreams of Erin’s early days, and containing in itself, indeed, remarkable testimony to the truth of her claims to an early date of civilisation. It was in the year 1797 that, through the me- dium of Mr. Bunting’s book, I was first made acquainted with the beauties of our native music. A young friend of our family, Edward Hudson, the nephew of an eminent dentist of that name, who played with much taste and feeling on the flute, and, unluckily for himself, was but too deeply warmed with the patriotic ardour then kindling around him, was the first who made known to me this rich mine of our country's melodies : — a mine, from the working of which my humble labours as a poet have since derived their sole lustre and value. About the same period I formed an acquaint- ance, which soon grew into intimacy, with young Robert Emmet. He was my senior, I think by one class, in the university ; for when, in the first year of my course, I became a member of the Debating Society — a sort of nursery to the au- thorised Historical Society — I found him in full reputation, not only for his learning and elo- quence, but also for the blamelessness of his life, and the grave suavity of his manners. Of the political tone of this minor school of oratory, which was held weekly at the rooms of different resident members, some notion may be formed from the nature of the questions proposed for discussion, — one of which I recollect, was “ Whether an Aristocracy or a Democracy is most favourable to the advancement of science and literature?” while another, bearing even more pointedly on the relative position of the government and the people, at this crisis, was thus significantly propounded : — “ Whether a soldier was bound, on all occasions, to obey the orders of his commanding officer 1 ” On the former of these questions, the effect of Emmet’s eloquence upon his young auditors was, I recol- lect, most striking. The prohibition against touching upon modern politics, which it was sub- sequently found necessary to enforce, had not yet been introduced ; and Emmet, who took of course ardently the side of democracy in the debate, after a brief review of the republics of antiquity, showing how much they had all done for the ad vancement of science and the arts, proceeded, lastly, to the grand and perilous example, then passing before all eye?, the young Republic of France. Referring to the circumstance told of Caesar, that ia swimming across the Rubicon, he XXVI PREFACE. contrived to carry with him his Commentaries and his sword, the young orator said, “ Thus France wades through a sea of storm and blood ; but while, in one hand, she wields the sword against her aggressors, with the other 6he upholds the glories of science and literature, unsullied by the msanguiued tide through which she struggles.” In another of his remarkable speeches, I re- member his 6aying, “ When a people advancing rapidly in knowledge and power perceive at last how far their government is lagging behind them, what then, I ask, is to be done in such a case ? What but to pull the government up to the people ? ” In a few mouths after, both Emmet and my- self were admitted members of the greater and recognised institution, called the Historical So- ciety ; and, even here, the political feeling so rife abroad contrived to mix up its restless spirit with all our debates and proceedings ; notwithstanding the constant watchfulness of the college autho- rities, as well as of a strong party within the Society itself, devoted adherents to the policy of the government, and taking invariably part with the Provost and Fellows in all their restrictive and inquisitorial measures. The most distin- guished and eloquent of these supporters of power were a young man named Sargent, of whose fate in after days I know nothing, and Jebb, the late Bishop of Limerick, who was then, as he con- tinued to be through life, much respected for his private worth and learning. Of the popular side, in the Society, the chief champion and ornament was Robert Emmet ; and though every care was taken to exclude from the subjects of debate all questions verging to- wards the politics of the day, it was always easy enough, by a side-wind of digression or allusion, to bring Ireland, and the prospects then opening upon her, within the scope of the orator's view. So exciting and powerful, in this respect, were Emmet’s speeches, and so little were even the most eloquent of the adverse party able to cope with his powers, that it was at length thought ad- visable, by the higher authorities, to send among us a man of more advanced standing, as well as belonging to a former race of renowned speakers, in that Society, in order that he might answer the speeches of Emmet, and endeavour to obviate the mischievous impression they were thought to produce. The name of this mature champion of the higher powers it is not necessary here to re- cord ; but the object of his mission among us was in some respect gained ; as it was in replying to a long oration of his, one night, that Emmet, much to the mortification of us who gloried in him as cur leader, became suddenly embarrassed in the middle of his speech, and, to use the parliament- ary phrase, broke down. Whether from a mo- mentary confusion in the thread of his argument, or possibly from diffidence in encountering an adversary so much his senior, — for Emmet was as modest as he was highminded and brave, — he began, in the full career of his eloquence, to hesitate and repeat his words, and then, after an effort or two to recover himself, sat down. • “ Let Erin remember the days of old.” f " Oh, breathe not his name." It fell to my own lot to be engaged, about the same time, in a brisk struggle with the dominant party in the Society, in consequence of a burlesque poem which I gave in as candidate for the Lite- rary Medal, entitled "An Ode upon Nothing, with Notes, by Trismegistus Rustifustius, D. D.” &c. &c. For this squib against the great Dons of learning, the medal was voted to me by a trium- phant majority. But a motion was made in the following week to rescind this vote ; and a fierce contest between the two parties ensued, which I at last put an end to by voluntarily withdrawing my composition from the Society’s book. I have already adverted to the period when Mr. Bunting’s valuable volume first became known to me. There elapsed no very long time before I was myself the happy proprietor of a copy of the work, and, though never regularly instructed in music, could play over the airs with tolerable facility on the piano-forte. Robert Emmet used sometimes to sit by me, when I was thus en- gaged ; and I remember one day his starting up as from a reverie, when I had just finished play- ing that spirited tune called the Red Fox, * and exclaiming, “ Oh that I were at the head of twenty thousand men, marching to that air !” How little did I then think that in one of the most touching of the sweet airs I used to play to him, his own dying words would find an in- terpreter so worthy of their sad, but proud feel- ing ;+ or that another of those mournful strains J would long be associated, in the hearts of his countrymen, with the memory of her§ who shared w r ith Ireland his last blessing and prayer. Though fully alive, of course, to the feelings which such music could not but inspire, I had not yet undertaken the task of adapting w'ords to any of the airs ; and it was, I am ashamed to say, in dull and turgid prose, that I made my first ap- pearance in print as a champion of the popular cause. Towards the latter end of the year 1797, the celebrated newspaper called “ The Press "was set up by Arthur O’Connor, Thomas Addis Emmet, and others chiefs of the United Irish conspiracy, with the view of preparing and ripen- ing the public mind for the great crisis then fast approaching. This memorable journal, according tortile impression I at present retain of it, was far more distinguished for earnestness of purpose and intrepidity, than for any great display of literary talent ; — the bold letters written by Emmet (the elder), under the signature of “ Montanus,” being the only compositions I can now call to mind as entitled to praise for their literary merit. It re- quired, however, but a small sprinkling of talent to make bold w r riting, at that time, palatable ; and, from the experience of my own home, I can answer for the avidity with which every line of this daring journal was devoured. It used to come out, I think, twice a week, and, on the evening of publication, I always read it aloud to our small circle after supper. It may easily be conceived that, what with my ardour for the national cause, and a growing consciousness of some little turn for authorship, I was naturally eager to become a contributor to $ “ She is far from the land where her young hero sleeps.” § Miss Curran. PREFACE. xxvii those patriotic and popular columns. But the constant anxiety about me which I knew my own family felt, — a feeling far more wakeful than even their zeal in the public cause, — withheld me from hazarding any step that might cause them alarm. I had ventured, indeed, one even- ing, to pop privately into the letter-box of The Press, a short Fragment in imitation of Ossian. But this, though inserted, passed off quietly ; and nobody was, in any sense of the phrase, the wiser iot it. I was soon tempted, however, to try a more daring flight. Without commu- nicating my secret to any one but Edward Hud- son, I addressed a long Letter, in prose, to the * * * * * of * * * *, in which a profusion of bad flowers of rhetoric was enwreathed plentifully with that weed which Shakspeare calls “the cockle of rebellion,” and, in the same manner as before, committed it tremblingly to the chances of the letter- box. I hardly expected my prose would be honoured with insertion, when, lo, on the next evening of publication, when, seated as usual in my little corner by the fire, I un- folded the paper for the purpose of reading it to my select auditory, there was my own Letter staring me full in the face, being honoured with so conspicuous a place as to be one of the first articles my audience would expect to hear. As- suming an outward appearance of ease, while every nerve within me was trembling, I contrived to accomplish the reading of the Letter without raising in either of my auditors a suspicion that it was my own. I enjoyed the pleasure, too, of hearing it a good deal praised by them ; and might have been tempted by this welcome tribute to acknowledge myself the author, had I not found that the language and sentiments of the ar- ticle were considered by both to be “ very bold.” * I was not destined, however, to remain long undetected. On the following day, Edward Hud- son, t — the only one, as I have said, entrusted with my secret, called to pay us a morning visit, and had not been long in the room, conversing with my mother, when, looking significantly at me, he said, “Well, you saw. ” Here he stopped ; but the mother’s eye had followed his, with the rapidity of lightning, to mine, and at once she perceived the whole truth. “ That Letter was yours, then ? ” she asked of me eagerly ; and, without hesitation, of course I acknowledged the fact ; when in the most earnest manner she en- treated of me never again to have any connexion with that paper ; and, as every wish of hers was to me law, I readily pledged the solemn promise she required. Though well aware how easily a sneer may be raised at the simple details of this domestic scene, I have yet ventured to put it on record, • So thought also higher authorities ; for among the extracts from The Press brought forward by the Secret Committee of the House of Commons, to show how formidable had been the designs of the United Irishmen, there are two or three paragraphs cited from this redoubtable Letter. + Of the depth and extent to which Hudson had involved himself in the conspiracy, none of our family had harboured the least notion ; till, on the seizure of the thirteen Leinster delegates, at Oliver Bond’s, in the month of March 1798, we found, to our astonish, ment and sorrow, that he was one of the number. To those unread in the painful history of this period, it is right to mention that almost all the leaders of the as affording an instance of the gentle and womanly watchfulness, — the Providence, as it may be called, of the little world of home, — by which, although placed almost in the very current of so headlong a movement, and living familiarly with some of the most daring of those who pro- pelled it, I yet was guarded from any participa- tion in their secret oaths, counsels, or plans, and thus escaped all share in that wild struggle to which so many far better men than myself fell victims. In the meanwhile, this great conspiracy was hastening on, with fearful precipitancy, to its outbreak ; and vague and shapeless as are now known to have been the views, even of those who were engaged practically in the plot, it is not any wonder that to the young and uninitiated like myself it should have opened prospects partaking far more of the wild dreams of poesy than of the plain and honest prose of real life. But a crisis was then fast approaching, when such self-delu- sions could no longer be indulged ; and when the mystery which had hitherto hung over the plans of the conspirators was to be rent asunder by the stern hand of power. Of the horrors that fore-ran and followed the frightful explosion of the year 1798, I have nei- ther inclination nor, luckily, occasion to speak. But among those introductory scenes, which had somewhat prepared the public mind for such a catastrophe, there w r as one, of a painful descrip- tion, which, as having been myself an actor in it, I may be allowed briefly to notice. It was not many weeks, I think, before this ciisis, that, owing to information gained by the college authorities of the rapid spread, among the students, not only of the principles but the organisation of the Irish Union, J a solemn Visit- ation was held by Lord Clare, the vice-chancellor of the University, with the view of inquiring into the extent of this branch of the plot, and dealing summarily with those engaged in it. Imperious and harsh as then seemed the policy of thu3 setting up a sort of inquisitorial tribunal, armed with the power of examining witnesses on oath, and in a place devoted to the instruction of youth, I cannot but confess that the facts which came out in the course of the evidence, went far towards justifying even this arbitrary proceeding ; and to the many who, like mj'self, were acquainted only with the general views of the Union leaders, without even knowing, except from eonjecture, who those leaders were, or what their plans or objects, it wo,s most startling to hear the disclosures which every succeeding wit- ness brought forth. There were a few, — and among that number, poor Robert Emmet, John Brown, and the two ******s,§ whose total United Irish conspiracy were Protestants. Among those companions of my own alluded to in these pages, I scarcely remember a single Catholic. X In the Report from the Secret Committee of the Irish House of Lords, this extension of the plot to the College is noticed as “ a desperate project of the same faction to corrupt the youth of the country by intro- ducing their organised system of treason into the University.” § One of these brothers has long been a general in the French army ; having taken a part in all those great enterprises of Napoleon which have now become matter of history. Should these pages meet the eye of General ******, they will call to his mind the days we xxviii PREFACE. t absence from the whole scene, ns well ns the dead silence that, day after day, followed the calling out of their names, proclaimed how deep had been their share in the unlawful proceedings iuquired into by this tribunal. But there was one young friend of mine, • «*»•**, whose appearance among the sus- pected and examined ns much surprised ns it deeply and painfully interested me. He and Em- met had long been intimate and attached friends ; — their congenial fondness for mathematical stu- dies having been, I think, a far more binding sympathy between them than any arising out of their political opinions. From his being called up, however, on this day, when, as it appeared afterwards, all the most important evidence was brought forward, there could be little doubt that, in addition to his intimacy W’ith Emmet, the col- lege authorities must have possessed some in- formation which led them to suspect him of being nn accomplice in the conspiracy. In the course of his examination, some questions were put to him which lie refused to answer, — most probably from their tendency to involve or inculpate others; and he was accordingly dismissed, with the me- lancholy certainty that his future prospects in life were blasted ; it being already known that the punishment for 6uch contumacy was not merely expulsion from the University, but also exclusion from all the learned professions. The proceedings, indeed, of this whole day had been such as to send me to my home in the even- ing with no very agreeable feelings or prospects. I had heard evidence given affecting even the lives of some of those friends whom I had long regarded with admiration as •well as affection ; and what was still worse than even their danger, — a danger ennobled, I thought, by the cause in which they suffered, — was the shameful spectacle exhibited by those who had appeared in evidence against them. Of these witnesses, the greater number had been themselves involved in the plot, and now came forward either as voluntary informers, or else were driven by the fear of the consequences of refusal to secure their own safety at the ex- pense of companions and friends. I well remember the gloom, so unusual, that hung over our family circle on that evening, as, talking together of the events of the day, we dis- cussed the likelihood of my being among those who would be called up for examination on the morrow. The deliberate conclusion to which my dear honest advisers came, was that, overwhelm- ing as the consequences were to all their plans and hopes for me, yet, if the questions leading to cri- minate others, which had been put to almost all ex- amined on that day, and which poor ******* alone had refused to answer, should be put to me, I must, in the same manner, and at all risks i return a similar refusal. I am not quite certain whether I received any intimation, on the follow- ing morning, that I was to be one of those examined in the course of the day ; but I rather think some such notice had been conveyed to me ; — and, at last, my awful turn came, and I stood in presence of the formidable tribunal. There sat, with severe look, the vice-chancellor, and, by his side, the memorable Doctor Duigenan,— memorable for his eternal pamphlets against the Catholics. The oath was proffered to me. “ I have nn objection, my Lord,” said I, “ to taking this oath.” ‘‘What is your objection?” he asked sternly. “ I have no fears, my Lord, that any- thing I might say would criminate myself; but it might tend to involve others, and I despise the character of the person who could be led, under any such circumstances, to inform against his associates.” This was aimed at some of the revelations of the preceding day ; and, as I learned afterwards, was so understood. “ IIow old are you, Sir ? ” he then asked. “ Between seventeen and eighteen, my Lord.” He then turned to his assessor, Duigenan, and exchanged a few words with him, in an under tone of voice. “ We can- not,” he resumed, again addressing me, “suffer any one to remain in our University who refuses to take this oath.” “ I shall, then, my Lord,” I replied, “ take the oath, — still reserving to my- 'self the power of refusing to answer any such questions as I have just described.” “ We do not sit here to argue with you , Sir,” he rejoined sharply ; upon which I took the oath, and seated myself in the witnesses’ chair. The following are the questions and answers that then ensued. After adverting to the proved existence of United Irish Societies in the Uni- versity, he asked, “ Have you ever belonged to any of these societies ? ” “ No, my Lord.” “ Have you ever known of any of the proceedings that took place in them?” “No, my Lord.” “Did you ever hear of a proposal, at any of their meet- ings, for the purchase of arms and ammu- nition?” “Never, my Lord.” “Did you ever hear of a proposition made, in one of these societies, with respect to the expediency of assas- sination ?” “ Oh no, my Lord.” He then turned again to Duigenan, and, after a few words with him, said tome : — “ When such are the answers you are able to give,* pray what was the cause of your great repugnance to taking the oath ? ” “I have already told your Lordship my chief reason ; in addition to which, it was the first oath I ever took, and the hesitation was, I think, na- tural. ”t passed together in Normandy a few summers since ; — more especially our excursion to Bayeux, when, as we talked on the way of old college times and friends, all the eventful and stormy scenes he had passed through since seemed quite forgotten. * There had been two questions put to all those examined on the first day, — “ Were you ever asked to join any of these societies?” — and “By whom were you asked? ” — which I should have refused to answer, and must, of course, have abided the consequences. + For the correctness of the above report of this short examination, I can pretty confidently answer. It may amuse, therefore, my readers, — as showing the manner in which biographers make the most of small facts, — to see an extract or tMO from another account of this affair, published not many years since by an old and zealous friend of our family. After stating with tolerable correctness one or two of my answers, the writer thus proceeds : — “ Upon this, Lord Clare repeated the question, and young Moore made such an appeal, as caused his lordship to relax, austere and rigid as he was. The words I cannot exactly re- member; the substance was as follows: — that he entered college to receive the education of a scholar and a gentleman ; that he knew not how to compromise these characters by informing against his college com panions ; that his own speeches in the debating society had been ill construed, when the worst that could be said of them was, if truth had been spoken, that they m ere patriotic . t . . that he was aware of the liigh- \ PREFACE. xxlx I was now dismissed without any further ques- tioning ; and, however trying had been this short operation, was amply repaid for it by the kind zeal with which my young friends and com- panions flocked to congratulate me; — not so much, I was inclined to hope, on my acquittal by the court, as on the manner in which I had acquitted myself. Of my reception, on returning home, after the fears entertained of so very differ- ent a result, I will not attempt any description ; — it was all that such a home alone could furnish. I have continued thus down to the very verge of the warning outbreak of 1798, the slight sketch of my early days which I ventured to commence in the First Volume of this Collection ; nor could I have furnished the Irish Melodies with any more pregnant illustration, as it was in those times, and among the events then stirring, that the feeling which afterwards found a voice in my country’s music, was born and nurtured. I shall now string together such detached no- tices and memoranda respecting this work, as I think may be likely to interest my readers. Of the few songs written with a concealed political feeling, — such as “ When he who adores thee,” and one or two more, — the most successful, in its day, was “ When first I met thee warm and young,” which alluded, in its hidden sense, to the Prince Regent’s desertion of his political friends. It was little less, I own, than profanation to disturb the sentiment of so beautiful an air by any connexion with such a subject. The great success of this song, soon after I wrote it, among a large party staying at Chatsworth, is thus al- luded to in one of Lord Byron's letters to me : — “ I have heard from London that you have left Chatsworth and all there full of ‘ entusymusy ’ . and, in particular, that ‘ When first I met thee’ has been quite overwhelming in its effect. I told you it was one of the best things you ever wrote, though that dog * * * * wanted you to omit part of it.” It has been sometimes supposed that “ Oh, breathe not his name,” was meant to allude to Lord Edward Fitzgerald : but this is a mistake ; the song having been suggested by the well- known passage in Robert Emmet’s dying speech, “Let no man write my epitaph let my tomb remain uninscribed, till other times and other men shall learn to do justice to my me- mory.” The feeble attempt to commemorate the glory of our great Duke — “When History’s Muse,” &c — is in so far remarkable, that it made up amply for its want of poetical spirit, by an out- pouring, rarely granted to bards in these days, of the spirit of prophecy. It was in the year 1815 that the following lines first made their appearance: — And still the last crown of thy toils is remaining, The grandest, the purest, ev’n thou hast yet known ; minded nobleman he had the honour of appealing to, and if his lordship could for a moment condescend to step from his high station and place himself in his situation, then say how he would act under such circum- stances, it would be his guidance.” — Herbert's Irish Varieties. London, 1836. * “ When, in consequence of the compact entered into between government and the chief leaders of the conspiracy, the State Prisoners, before proceeding into exile, were allowed to see their friends, I paid a visit to Though proud wa3 thy task, other nations unchaining, Far prouder to heal the deep wounds of thy own. At the font of that throne, for whose weal thou hast stood. Go, plead for the land that first cradled thy fame, &c. About fourteen years after these lines were written, the Duke of Wellington recommended to the throne the great measure of Catholic Emancipation. The fancy of the “Origin of the Irish Harp,” was (as I have elsewhere acknowledged*) sug- gested, by a drawing made under peculiarly painful circumstances, by the friend so often mentioned in this sketch, Edward Hudson. In connexion with another of these matchless airs, — one that defies all poetry to do it justice, — I find the following singular and touching statement in an article of the Quarterly Review'. Speaking of a young and promising poetess, Lucretia Davidson, who died very early from nervous excitement, the Revipwer says, “ She w r as particularly sensitive to music. There was one song (it was Moore’s Farewell to his Harp) to which she took a special fancy. She wished to hear it only at twilight, — thus (with that same perilous love of excitement which made her place the JEolian harp in the window when she was composing) seeking to increase the effect which the song produced upon a nervous system, already diseasedly susceptible ; for it is said that, whenever she heard this song, she became cold, pale, and almost fainting ; yet it was her favo- rite of all songs, and gave occasion to those verses addressed in her fifteenth year to her sister.” + With the Melody entitled “ Love, Valour, and Wit,” an incident is connected, which awakened feelings in me of proud, but sad pleasure — as showing that my songs had reached the hearts of some of the descendants of those great Irish fa- milies, who found themselves forced, in the dark days of persecution, to seek in other lands a re- fuge from the shame and ruin of their own ; — those, whose story I have thus associated with one of their country’s most characteristic airs : — Ye Blakcs and O’Donnells, 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. From a foreign lady, of this ancient extraction, — whose names, could I venture to mention them, would lend to the incident an additional Irish charm, — I received, about two years since, through the hands of a gentleman to whom it had been entrusted, a large portfolio, adorned inside with a beautiful drawing, representing Love, Wit, and Valour, as described in the song. In the border that surrounds the drawing are intro- duced the favourite emblems of Erin, the harp, the shamrock, the mitred head of St. Patrick* together with scrolls containing each, inscribed Edward Hudson, in the .jail of Kilmainham, where ho had then lain immured for four or five months, hearing of friend after friend being led out to death, and ex- pecting every week his own turn to come. I found that to amuse his solitude he had made a large drawing with charcoal on the wall of his prison, representing that fancied origin of the Irish Harp which, some yeais after, I adopted as the subject of one of the ‘ Melodies.’” — Life and Death of Lord Edward Fitzgerald , vol, i, t Quarterly Review, vol. xli. p. 294. d XXX PREFACE. in letters of gold, the name of some favourite melody of the fair artist. This present was accompanied by the following letter from the lady herself 5 ami her Irish race, I fear, is but too discernible in the generous in- discretion with which, in this instance, she allows praise so much to outstrip desert : — “ I.c 25 Ao&t , 185C. “ Monsieur, “ Si les pol'tes n\ ! tolent en quelque sorte tine propridtv intellectuellc dont chncun prcnd sa part & raison dela puissance qu’ils exercent, jc ne saurois en v«5rite comment faire pour justifler mon courage 1 — car il en falloit beaucoup pour avoir os<5 consacrer mon pauvre talent d’omateur it vos delieieuses poBsies, et plus encore pour en renvoycr le pale reflet h son veritable auteur. “ J’cspijre toutefois que ma sympathie pour l’lrlandc vous fera juger ma foible production avec cettc heureuse partiality qui impose silence it la critique : car, si je n’appartien« pas it rile Verte par ma naissance, lii mes relations, je puis dire que je m’y intercsse avec un cccur Ir- landais, et que j’ai conserve plus que le nom de mes pfcres. Cela 6 eul me fait esperer que mes petits voyngeurs ne subiront pas le triste no- Ticiat des Strangers. Puissent-ils remplir leur mission sur le sol natal, en agissant conjointe- ment et toujours pour la cause Irlandaise, et amener enfin une &re nouvelle pour cette htroique et malheureuse nation: — le moyen de vaincrc de tels odversaires s’ils ne font qu’un ? “ Vous dirai-je, Monsieur, les doux moments que je dois h, vos ouvrages ? ce seroit r»5p6ter une fois de plus ce que vous entendez tous les jours et de tous les coins de la terre. Aussi j’ni garde de vous ravir un terns trop precienxpar l’lcho de ccs vieilles verites. “ Si jamais mon £toile me conduit en Irlande, je ne m’y croirai pas etrangfcre. Jc sais que le pass** * * y laisse de longs souvenirs, et que la con- formity des desirs et des espdrances rapproche en d£pit de l’espace et du terns. “ Jusque-lit, recevez, je vous prie, l’assurance de ma parfaite consideration, avec laquelle j’ai l’honneur d’etre, “ Monsieur, “ Votre trfes-humble Servant©, “ La Comtesse *****.’’ Of the translations that have appeared of the Melodics in different languages, I shall here mention such as have come to my knowledge. Latin. — “Cantus Uibernici,” Nicholas Lee Torre, London, 1835. Italian. — G. Flechia, Torino, 183G — Adele Custi, Milano, 1836. French. — Madame Belloc, Paris, 1823. — Loeve Veimars, Paris, 1829. Russian. — Several detatched Melodies, by the popular Russian poet Kozlof. * The following ts a specimen of these memoran- dums, as given by Foscolo : — “ 1 must make these two verses over again, singing them, and I must transpose them — 3 o’clock, A. M. 19th October.” Frequently to sonnets of that time such notices as the following were prefixed: — “ Intonatum per Francum” — “Scriptor dedit sonum .** t The late Rev. 'William Crowe, author of tho noblo Jlrcfucc to iyc Volume. Ix spite of the satirist’s assertion, that “next to singing, tho most foolish thing Is gravely to harangue on what we sing,” — I shall yet venture to prefix to this Volume a few introductory pages, not relating so much to the Songs which it contains ns to my own thoughts and recollections respecting song-writing in ge- neral. The close alliance known to have existed be- tween poetry and music, during the infancy ol both these arts, has sometimes led to the conclu- sion that they are essentially kindred to each other, and that the true poet ought to be, if not practically, at least in taste and ear, a musician. That such was the case in the early times ot ancient Greece, and that her poets then not only 6 et their own verses to music, but sung them at public festivals, there is every reason, from all we know on the subject, to believe. A similar union between the two arts attended the dawn of modern literature, in the twelfth century, and was, in a certain degree, continued down as far as the time of Petrarch, when, as it appears from his own me- morandums, that poet used to sing his verses, in composing them ; * and when it was the custom with all writers of sonnets and canzoni to prefix to their poems a sort of key note, by which the intonation in reciting or chanting them was to be regulated. As the practice of uniting in one individual, — whether Bard, Scald, or Troubadour, — the cha- racter and functions both of musician and poet, is known to have been invariably the mark of a rude state of society, so the gradual separation of these two callings, in accordance with that .great principle of Political Economy, the division of labour, has been found an equally sure index of improving civilization. So far. in England, in- deed, has this partition of workmanship been carried, that, with the single exception of Milton, there is not to be found, I believe, among all the eminent poets of England, a single musician. It is but fair, at the same time, to acknowledge, that out of the works of these very poets might be pro- duced a select number of songs, surpassing, in fancy, grace, and tenderness, all that the language perhaps, of any other country could furnish. We witness, in our own times, — as far as the knowledge or practice of music is concerned, — a similar divorce between the two arts ; and my friend and neighbour, Mr. Bowles, is the only dis- tinguished poet of our day whom I can call to mind as being also a musician. Not to dwell further, however, on living writers, the strong feeling, even to tears, with which I have seen Byron listen to some favourite melody, has been poem of “ Lowisden ITUl,” was likewise a musician, and has left a Treatise on English versification, to which his knowledge of the sister art lends a peculiar interest. So little docs even the origin of the word “ lyric,” as applied to poetry, seem to be present to the minds of some writers, that the poet, Young, has left us an Essay on Lyric Poetry, in •which there is not a single allusipu to Music, from beginning to end PREFACE. xxxi elsewhere described by me ; and the musical taste of Sir Walter Scott I ought to be the last person to call in question, after the very cordial tribute he has left on record to my own untutored min- strelsy.* But I must say, that, pleased as my il- lustrious friend appeared really to be, when I first sung for him at Abbotsford, it was not till an evening or two after, at his own hospitable supper- table, that I saw him in his true sphere of musical enjoyment. No sooner had the quaigh taken its round, after our repast, than his friend, Sir Adam, was called upon, with the general acclaim of the whole table, for the song of “ Hey tuttie tattie,” and gave it out to us with all the true national relish. But it was during the chorus that Scott’s delight at this festive scene chiefly showed itself. At the end of every verse, the whole company rose from their seats, and stood round the table with arms crossed, so as to grasp the hand of the neighbour on each side. Thus interlinked, we continued to keep measure to the strain, by moving our arms up and down, all chanting forth vociferously, “ Hey tuttie tattie, Hey tuttie tattie.” Sir Walter’s enjoyment of this old Jacobite chorus, — a little increased, doubtless, by seeing how I entered into the spirit of it, — gave to the whole scene, I confess, a zest and charm in my eyes such as the finest musical performance could not have bestowed on it. Having been thus led to allude to this visit, I am tempted to mention a few other circumstances connected with it. From Abbotsford I proceeded to Edinburgh, whither Sir Walter, in a few days after, followed ; and during my short stay in that city an incident occurred, which, though already mentioned by Scott, in his Diary, t and owing its chief interest to the connection of his name with it, ought not to be omitted among these memo- randa. As I had expressed a desire to visit the Edinburgh theatre, which opened but the evening before my departure, it was proposed to Sir Walter and myself, by our friend Jeffrey, that we should dine with him at an early hour for that purpose, and both were good-natured enough to accompany me to the theatre. Having found, in a volume X sent to me by some anonymous corre- spondent, a more circumstantial account of the scene of that evening than Sir Walter has given in his Diary, I shall here avail myself of its gra- phic and (with one exception) accurate details. After adverting to the sensation produced by the appearance of the late Duchess of St. Alban’s in one of the boxes, the writer thus proceeds : — “ There was a general buzz and stare, for a few seconds ; the audience then turned their backs to I the lady, and their attention to the stage, to wait | till the first piece should be over ere they intended I staring again. Just as it terminated, another I party quietly glided into a box near that filled by I the Duchess. One pleasing female was with the * Life by Lockhart, vol. vi p. 128. t “ We went to the theatre together, and the house being luckily a good one, received T. M. with rapture. | I could have hugged them, for it paid back the debt of the kind reception I met with in Ireland.” X Written by Mr. Benson Hill. I § The writer was here mistaken. There was one lady of our party ; but neither Mr. nor Mrs. Lockhart i was present. j || It appears certain, notwithstanding, that he was, in ' his youth, wholly insensible to music. In speaking of him and his brother, Mr. Murdoch, their preceptor, says, three male comers. In a minute the cry ran round : — 4 Eh, yon’s Sir Walter, wi’ Lockhart an’ his wife ; § and wha’s the wee bit bodie wi’ the pawkie een ? Wow, but it’s Tam Moore, just — Scott, Scott ! Moore, Moore 1 ’ — with shouts, cheers, bravos and applause. But Scott would not rise to appropriate these tributes. Gne could see that he urged Moore to do so ; and he, though modestly reluctant, at last yielded, and bowed hand on heart, with much animation. The cry for Scott was then redoubled. He gathered him- self up, and, with a benevolent bend, acknow- ledged this deserved welcome. The orchestra played alternately Scotch and Irish Melodies.” Among the choicest of my recollections of that flying visit to Edinburgh, are the few days I passed with Lord Jeffrey at his agreeable retreat, Craig Crook. I had then recently written the words and music of a glee contained in this vo- lume, “ Ship a hoy I ” which there won its first honours. So often, indeed, was I called upon to repeat it, that the upland echoes of Craig Crook ought long to have had its burden by heart. Having thus got on Scottish ground, I find my- self awakened to the remembrance of a name which, whenever song- writing is the theme, ought to rank second to none in that sphere of poetical fame. Robert Burns was wholly unskilled in music ; yet the rare art of adapting words suc- cessfully to notes, of wedding verse in congenial union with melody, which, were it not for his example, I should say none but a poet versed in the sister-art ought to attempt, has yet, by him, with the aid of a music to which my own country’s strains are alone comparable, been exercised with so workmanly a hand, and with so rich a variety of passion, playfulness, and power, as no song- writer, perhaps, but himself, has ever yet dis- played. That Burns, however untaught, was yet, in ear and feeling, a musician, || is clear from the skill with which he adapts his verse to the structure and character of each different strain. Still more strikingly did he prove his fitness for this pe- culiar task, by the sort of instinct with which, in more than one instance, he discerned the real and innate sentiment which an air was calculated to convey, though previously associated with words expressing a totally different cast of feeling. Thus the air of a ludicrous old song, “Fee him, father, fee him,” has been made the medium of one of Burns’s most pathetic effusions ; while, still more marvellously, 44 Hey tuttie tattie ” has been elevated by him into that heroic strain, 44 Scots, whahae wi’ Wallace bled ; ” — a song which, in a great national crisis, would be of more avail than all the eloquence of a Demostlienes.il It was impossible that the example of Burns, in these, his higher inspirations, should not mate- 44 Robert’s ear, in particular, was remarkably dull and his voice untunablo. It was long before I could get him to distinguish one tune from another. If I know not whether it ha3 ever been before re- marked that the well-known lines in one of Burns’s most spirited songs, “ The title’s but the guinea’s stamp, The man’s the gold for a’ that,” may possibly have been suggested by the following pas- sage in Wycherley’s play, the 44 Country Wife : ” — 44 1 weigh the man, not his title; ’tis not the King’s stamp can make the metal better.” xxxii PREFACE. rially contribute to elevate the character of English song-writing, and even to lead to a re- union of the gift9 which it reqttires, if not, as of old, in the same individual, yet in that perfect sympathy between poet and musician which almost amounts to identity, and of which, in our own times, **c have seen so interesting an example in the few songs which bear the united names of those two sister muses, Mrs. Arkwright and the late Mrs. Hcmans. Very different was the state of the song-de- partment of English poesy at the period when I first tried my novice hand at the lyre. The di- vorce between song and sense had then reached its utmost range ; and to all verses connected with music, from a Birth-day Ode down to the libretto of the last new opera, might fairly be applied the solution which Figaro gives of the quality of the words of songs, in general, — “ Ce qui nc vaut pas la peine d’etre dit, on le chante.” It may here be suggested that the convivial lyrics of Captain Morris present an exception to the general character I have given of the songs of this period ; and, assuredly, had Morris written much that at all approached the following verses of his “ Keasons for Drinking,” (which I quote from recollection,) few would have equalled him either in fancy, or in that lighter kind of pathos, which comes, as in this instance, like a few melancholy notes in the middle of a gay air, throwing a soft and passing shade over mirth : — “ My muse, too, when her wings are dry, No frolic flights will take ; But round a bowl she’ll dip and fly. Like swallows round a lake. If then the nymph must have her share, Before she’ll bless her swain, Why, that I think’s a reason fair To fill my glass again. Then, many a lad I lik’d is dead, And many a lass grown old ; And, as the lesson strikes my head. My weary heart grows cold. But wine awhile holds off despair. Nay, bids a hope remain ; — And that I think’s a reason fair To fill my glass again.” ' How far my own labours in this field — if, in- deed, the gathering of such idle flowers may be so designated — have helped to advance, or even kept pace with the progressive improvement I have here described, it is not for me to presume to decide. I only know that in a strong and inborn feeling for music lies the source of whatever talent I may have shown for poetical composi- tion ; and that it was the effort to translate into language the emotions and passions which music appeared to me express, that first led to my writing any poetry at all deserving of the name. Dryden has happily described music as being “inarticulate poetry;” and I have always felt, in adapting words to an expressive air, that I was but bestowing upon it the gift of articulation, and thus enabling it to speak to others all that was conveyed, in its wordless eloquence, to myself. Owing to the space I was led to devote, in our * I cannot let pass the incidental mention here of this social and public-spirited nobleman, without ex- pressing my 6trong sense of his kindly qualities, and la- menting the loss which not only society, but the cause last volume, to subjects connected with the Tiish Melodies, I was forced to postpone some recollec- tions, of a very different description, respecting the gala at Boyle Farm, by which my poem, en- titled The Summer Fete, was suggested. In an old letter of my own to a friend in Ireland, giving an account of this brilliant festival, I find some memorandums which, besides their reference to the subject of the poem, contain some incidents also connected with the first appearance before the public of one of the most successful of all my writings, the story of the Epicurean. I shall give my extracts from this letter, in their original diarylike form, without alteration or dressing : — June 30. 1837. — Day threatening for the FGte. Was with Lord Essex* at three o’clock, and started about half an hour after. The whole road swarming with carriages-and-four all the way to Boyle Farm, which Lady de Roos has lent, for the occasion, to Henry ; — the five givers of the FGte, being Lords Chesterfield, Castlereagh, Al- vanley, Henry de Roos, and Robert Grosvenor, subscribing four or five hundred pounds each to- wards it. The arrangements all in the very best taste. The pavilion for quadrilles, on the bank of the river, with steps descending to the water, quite eastern — like what one sees in Daniel’s pictures. Towards five the Hite of the gay world was assembled — the women all looking their best, and scarce a single ugly face to be found. About half-past five, sat down to dinner, 450 under a tent on the lawn, and fifty to the Royal Table in the conservatory. The Tyrolese musicians sung during dinner, and there were, after dinner, gondolas on the river, with Caradori, De Begnis, Vclluti, &c., singing barcarolles and rowing oft’ occasionally, so as to let their voices die away and again return. After these succeeded a party in dominos, Madame Yestris, Fanny Ayton, &c., who rowed about in the same manner, and sung, among other things, my gondola song, “ Oh come to me when daylight sets.” The evening was delicious, and, as soon as it grew dark, the groves were all lighted up with coloured lamps, in dif- ferent shapes and devices. A little lake near a grotto took my fancy particularly, the shrub3 all round being illuminated, and the lights reflected in the water. Six-and twenty of the prettiest girls of the world of fashion, the F * * * * t * rs, Br * d * * * 11s, De R * * s’s, Miss F * * Id * * * g, Miss F * x, Miss R * ss * 11, Miss B * * ly, were dressed as Rosieres, and opened the quadrilles in the pavilion While talking with D — n (Lord P.’s brother), he said to me, “ I never read any thing so touching as the death of your heroine.” “ What ! ” said I, “ have you got so far already ? ” t “ Oh, I read it in the Literary Gazette.” This anticipation of my catastrophe is abominable. Soon after, the Marquis P— lm — a, 6aid to me, as he and I and B— m stood together, looking at the gay scene, “This is like one of your Fetes.” “ Oh yes,” said B— m, thinking he alluded to Lalla Rookh, “ quite oriental.” “ Non non,” replied P — lm— a, “ je veux dire cette Fete d’Ath&nes, j’ai lu la description dans la Gazette d’aujourd’hui.” of sound and progressive Political Reform, ha* sus- tained by his death. + The Epicurean had been published but the day before. PREFACE. xxxiii Respecting the contents of the present Volume I have but a few more words to add. Accus- tomed as I have always been to consider my 6ongs as a sort of compound creations, in which the music forms no less essential a part than the verses, it is with a feeling which I can hardly expect my unlyrical readers to understand, that I see such a swarm of songs as crowd these pages all separated from the beautiful airs which have formed hitherto their chief ornament and strength — their “ decus et tutamen.” But, in- dependently of this uneasy feeling, or fancy, there is yet another inconvenient consequence of the divorce of the words from the music, which will be more easily, perhaps, comprehended, and which, in justice to myself, as a metre-monger, ought to be noticed. Those occasional breaches of the laws of rhythm, which the task of adapt- ing words to airs demands of the poet, though very frequently one of the happiest results of his skill, become blemishes when the verse is sepa- rated from the melody, and require, to justify them, the presence of the music to whose wildness or sweetness the sacrifice had been made. In a preceding page of this preface, I have mentioned a Treatise by the late Rev. Mr. Crowe, on English versification ; and I remember his telliitg me, in reference to the point I have just touched upon, that, should another edition of that work be called for, he meant to produce, as examples of new and anomalous forms of versifi- cation, the following songs from the Irish Melo- dies : — “ Oh the days are gone when Beauty bright ” — “ At the dead hour of night, when stars are weeping, I fly,” — and, “ Through grief and through danger thy smile hath cheer’d my way.” * |)rcfau to % D'otumc. The Poem, or Romance, of Lai.la Rooiui, having now reached its twentieth edition, a short account of the origin and progress of a -work which has been hitherto, at least, so very for- tunate in its course, may not be deemed, perhaps, superfluous or misplaced. It was about the year 1812 that, impelled far more by the encouraging suggestions of friends than impelled by any confident promptings of my own ambition, I was induced to attempt a Poem upon some Oriental subject, and of those quarto dimensions which Scott’s late triumphs in that form had then rendered the regular poetical standard. A negotiation on the subject was opened with the Messrs. Longman in the same 3 ’ear, but, from some causes which have now es- caped my recollection, led to no decisive result ; nor was it till a year or two after, that any fur- * I shall avail myself of this opportunity of noticing the charge brought by Mr. Bunting against Sir John Stevenson, of having made alterations in many of the airs that formed our Irish Collection. Whatever Changes of this kind have been ventured upon (and they ther steps were taken in the matter, — their house being the only one, it is right to add, with which, from first to last, I held any communication upon the subject. On this last occasion, an old friend of mine, Mr. Perry, kindly offered to lend me the aid of his advice and presence in the interview which I was about to hold with the Messrs. Longman, for the arrangement of our mutual terms ; and what with the friendly zeal of my negotiator on the one side, and the prompt and liberal spirit with which he was met on the other, there has seldom occurred any transaction in which Trade and Poesy have shone out so advantageously in each other’s eyes. The short discussion that, then took place, between the two parties, may be comprised in a very few sentences. “I am of opinion,” said Mr. Perry, — enforcing his view of the case by arguments which it is not for me to cite, — “ that Mr. Moore ought to receive for his Poem the largest price that has been given, in our day, for 6uch a work.” “ That was,” answered the Messrs. Longman, “ three thousand guineas.” “ Exactly so,” replied Mr. Perry, “ and no less 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 to them, before they embarked so large a sum in the purchase. But, no ; — the romantic view which 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 must confess, not a little startled and alarmed me ; but, to the honour and glory of Romance, — as well on the publisher’s side as the poet’s — this very generous view of the transaction was, with- out any difficulty, acceded to, and the firm agreed, before we separated, that I was to receive three thousand guineas for my Poem. At the time of this agreement, but little of the work, as it stands at present, had yet been written. But the ready confidence in my success shown by others, made up for the deficiency of that requisite feeling, within myself ; while a strong desire not wholly to disappoint this “ au- guring hope,” became almost a substitute for in- spiration. In the year 1813, therefore, having made some progress in my task, I wrote to report the state of the work to the Messrs. Longman, adding, that I was now most willing and read}’, should they desire it, to submit the manuscript for their consideration. Their answer to this offer was as follows: — “We are certainly im- patient for the perusal of the Poem ; but solely for our gratification. Your sentiments are always honourable.” + I continued to pursue my task for another year, being likewise occasionally occupied with the Irish Melodies, two or three numbers of which made their appearance, during the period em- ployed in writing Lalla Rookh. At length, in the year 1816, 1 found my work sufficiently ad- are but few and slight'), the responsibility for them rests solely with me; as, leaving the Harmonist’s depart- ment to my friend Stevenson, I reserved to myself en- tirely the selection and management of the airs. t April 10. 1816. xxxlv PREFACE. vunccd to be placed in the lmnds of the pub- lishers. But the state of distress to which England was reduced, in that dismal year, by the exhausting effects of the series of wars she had just then concluded, and the general em- barrassment of all classes, both agricultural and commercial, rendered it a juncture the least fa- vourable that could well be conceived for the first launch into print of so light and costly a venture as Lalla Rookh. Feeling conscious, therefore, that, under such circumstances, I should act but honestly in puttiug it in the power of the Messrs. Longman to reconsider the terms of their engagement with me, — leaving them free to postpone, modify, or even, should such be their wish, relinquish it altogether, I wrote them a letter to that effect, and received the fol- lowing answer : — “ We shall be most happy in the pleasure of seeing you in February. We agree with you, indeed, that the times arc most inauspicious for ‘ poetry and thousands ; ’ but we believe that your poetry would do more than that of any other living poet at the present mo- ment.” * The length of time I employed in writing the few stories strung together in Lalla Rookh will appear, to some persons, much more than was necessary for the production of such easy and “ light o’love ” fictions. But, besides that I have been, at all times, a far more slow and pains- taking workman than would ever be guessed, I fear, from the result, I felt that, in this instance, I had taken upon myself a more than ordinary responsibility, from the immense stake risked by others on my chance of success. For a long time, therefore, after the agreement had been con- cluded, though generally at work with a view* to this task, I made but very little real progress in it, and I have still by me the beginnings of se - veral stories, continued, some of them, to the length of three or four hundred lines, which, after in vain endeavouring to mould them into shape, I threw aside, like the tale of Cambuscan, ‘‘left half-told.” One of these 6tories, entitled The Peri’s Daughter, was meant to relate the loves of a nymph of this aerial extraction with a youth of mortal race, the rightful Prince of Ormuz, who had been, from his infancy, brought up, in seclusion, on the banks of the river Amou, by an aged guardian named Mohassan. The story opens with the first meeting of these de- stined lovers, then in their childhood ; the Peri having wafted her daughter to this holy retreat, in a bright, enchanted boat, whose first ap- pearance is thus described : — ***** For, down the silvery tide afar. There came a boat, as swift and bright As shines, in heav’n, some pilgrim- star, That leaves its own high home, at night, To shoot to distant shrines of light “ It comes, it comes,” young Orian cries, And panting to Mohassan flies. Then, down upon the flowery gras3 Reclines to see the vision pass ; With partly joy and partly fear, To find its wondrous light so near, * November 9. 1816. And hiding oft his dazzled eye* Among tlio flowers on which ho lies ***** Within the boat a baby slept. Like a young pearl within its shell ; While one, who seem'd of riper years, Hut not of earth, or carth-like spheres. Her watch beside the slumbcrer kept ; Gracefully waving, in her hand. The feathers of some holy bird, With which, from time to time, she stirr'd The fragrant air, and coolly fann'd The baby’s brow, or brush’d away The butterflies that, bright and bluo As on the mountains of Malay, Around the sleeping infant flew. And now the fairy boat bath stopp’d Beside the bank, — the nymph has dropp'd Her golden anchor in the stream ; ***** A song is sung by the Peri in approaching, of which the following forms a part : — My child she is but half divine, Her father sleeps in the Caspian water ; Sea- weeds twine His funeral shrine. But he lives again in the Peri’s daughter. Fain would I fly from mortal sight To my own sweet bowers of Peristan ; But, there, the flowers are all too bright For the eyes of a baby horn of man. On flowers of earth her feet must tread ; So hither my light- wing’d bark hath brought her Stranger, spread Thy leafiest bed. To rest the wandering Peri’s daughter. In another of these inchoate fragments, a proud female 6aint, named Banou, plays a principal part ; and her progress through the streets of Cufa, on the night of a great illuminated festival, I find thus described : — It was a scene of mirth that drew A smile from ev’n the Saint Banou, As, through the hush’d, admiring throng, She went with stately steps along, And counted o’er, that all might see, The rubies of her rosary. But none might see the worldly smile That lurk’d beneath her veil, the while : — Alla forbid ! for, who would -wait Her blessing at the temple’s gate, — What holy man would ever run To kiss the ground she knelt upon. If once, by luckless chance, he knew She look’d and smil’d as others do. Her hands were join’d, and from each wrist By threads of pearl and golden twist Hung relics of the saints of yore. And scraps of talismanic lore, — Charms for the old, the sick, the frail, Some made for use, and all for sale. On either side, the crowd withdrew. To let the Saint pass proudly through ; While turbau’d heads, of every hue. Green, white, and crimson, bow’d around. And gay tiaras touch’d the ground, — As tulip-bells, when o’er their beds The musk-wind passes, bend their heads. Nay, some there were, among the crowd Of Moslem heads that round her bow’d. So fill’d with zeal, by many a draught Of Shiraz wine profanely quaff’d, That, sinking low in reverence then. They never rose till morn again. PREFACE. XXXV There are yet two more of these unfinished sketches, one of which extends to a much greater length than I was aware of ; and, as far as I can judge from a hasty renewal of my acquaintance with it, is not incapable of being yet turned to account. In only one of these unfinished sketches, the tale of the Peri’s Daughter, had I yet ventured to invoke that most home-felt of all my inspira- tions, which has lent to the story of The Fire- worshippers its main attraction and interest. That it was my intention, in the concealed Prince of Ormuz, to shadow out some impersonation of this feeling, I take for granted from the prophetic words supposed to be addressed to him by his aged guardian : — Bright child of destiny ! even now I read the promise on that brow, That tyrants shall no more defile The glories of the Green-Sea Isle, But Ormuz shall again be free, And hail her native Lord in thee I In none of the other fragments do I find any trace of this sort of feeling, either in the subject or the personages of the intended story ; and this was the reason, doubtless, though hardly known, at the time, to myself, that, finding my subjects so slow in kindling my own sympathies, I began to despair of their ever touching the hearts of others ; and felt often inclined to say, “ Oh no, I have no voice or hand For such a song, in such a land.” Had this series of disheartening experiments been carried on much further, I must have thrown aside the work in despair. But, at last, fortunately, as it proved, the thought occurred to me of founding a story on the fierce struggle so long maintained between the Ghebers,* or ancient Fire-worshippers of Persia, and their haughty Moslem masters. From that moment, a new and deep interest in my whole task took possession of me. The cause of tolerance was again my inspiring theme ; and the spirit that had spoken in the melodies of Ireland soon found itself at home in the East. Having thus laid open the secrets of the work- shop to account for the time expended in icriting this work, I must also, in justice to my own industry, notice the pains I took in long and laboriously reading for it. To form a storehouse, ns it were, of illustration purely Oriental, and so familiarise myself with its various treasures, that, as quick as Fancy, in her airy spiritings, required the assistance of fact, the memory was ready, like another Ariel, at her “ strong bidding,” to furnish materials for the spell- work, — such was, for a long while, the sole object of my studies ; and whatever time and trouble this preparatory pro- cess may have cost me, the effects resulting from it, as far as the humble merit of truthfulness is concerned, have been such as to repay me more than sufficiently for my pains. I have not for- * Voltaire, in his tragedy of “ Les Gufcbres,” written with a similar under-current of meaning, was accused of having transformed his Fire-worshippers into Jan- senists: — ‘‘Quelques figuristes,” he says, “ pretendeut que les Gu&bres gout les Jansenisteg.” gotten how great was my pleasure, when told by the late Sir James Mackintosh, that he was once asked by Colonel Wilks, the historian of British India, “ whether it was true that Moore had never been in the East ? ” “ Never,” answered Mack- intosh. “ Well, that shows me,” replied Colonel Wilks, “ that reading over D’Herbelot is as good as riding on the back of a camel.” I need hardly subjoin to this lively speech, that although D’Herbelot’s valuable work was, of course, one of my manuals, I took the whole range of all such Oriental reading as was acces- sible to me ; and became, for the time, indeed, far more conversant with all relating to that dis- tant region, than I have ever been with the scenery, productions, or modes of life of any of those countries lying most within my reach. We know that D’Anville, though never in his life out of Paris, was able to correct a number of errors in a plan of the Troad taken by De Choiseul, on the spot ; and, for my own very dif- ferent, as well as far inferior, purposes, the know- ledge I had thus acquired of distant localities, seen only by me in day-dreams, was no less ready and useful. An ample reward for all this painstaking has been found in such welcome tributes as I have just cited ; nor can I deny myself the gratifica- tion of citing a few more of the same descrip- tion. From another distinguished authority on Eastern subjects, the late Sir John Malcolm, I had myself the pleasure of hearing a similar opinion publicly expressed ; — that eminent per- son having remarked, in a speech spoken by him at a Literary Fund Dinner, that together with those qualities of the poet which he much too partially assigned to me was combined also “ the truth of the historian.” Sir William Ouseley, another high authority, in giving his testimony to the same effect, thus notices an exception to the general accuracy for which he gives me credit: — “Dazzled by the beauties of this composition,! few readers can perceive, and none surely can regret, that the poet, in his magnificent catastrophe, Iras forgotten, or boldly and most happily violated, the precept of Zoroaster, above noticed, winch held it impious to consume any portion of a human body by fire, especially by that which glowed upon their altars.” Having long lost, I fear, most of my Eastern learning, I can only cite, in defence of my catastrophe, an old Oriental tradition, which relates that Nimrod, when Abraham refused, at his command, to worship the fire, ordered him to be thrown into the midst of the flames. A pre - cedent so ancient for this sort of use of the wor- shipped element, appears, for all purposes at least of poetry, to be fully sufficient. In addition to these agreeable testimonies, I have also heard, and, need hardly add, with some pride and pleasure, that parts of this work have been rendered into Persian, and found their way to Ispahan. To this fact, as I am willing to think it, allusion is made in 6ome lively verses t The Fire-worshippers. 4; Tradunt autem Hebraei hanc fabulam quod Abra- ham in ignem missus sit quia ignern orare noluit. — St. Hieron. in Qucest. in Genes im. XXXVI PREFACE. written many years since, by my friend, Mr. Luttrcll : — " I’m told, dear Moore, your lay* are sung, (Can It bo true, you lucky man ? ) By inoouliglit, in the Persian tongue. Along the streets of Ispahan." That some knowledge of the work may have really reached that region, appears not impro- bable from a passage in the Travels of Mr. Frazer, who says, that “ being delayed for some time at a town on the shores of the Caspian, he "was lucky enough to be able to amuse himself with a copy of Lalla Rookh, which a Persian had lent him.” Of the description of Balbec, in “ Paradise and the Peri,” Mr. Come, in his Letters from the East, thus speaks: “The description in Lalla Rookh of the plain and its ruins is exquisitely faithful. The minaret is on the declivity near at hand, and there wanted only the muezzin’s cry to break the silence.” I shall now tax my readers’ patience with but one more of these generous vouchers. Whatever of vanity there may be in citing such tributes, they show, at least, of what great value, even in poetry, is that prosaic quality, industry ; since, as the reader of the foregoing pages is now fully ap- prized, it was in a slow and laborious collection of small facts, that the first foundations of this fanciful Romance were laid. The friendly testimony I have just referred to, appeared, some years since, in the form in which I now give it, and, if I recollect right, in the Athenaeum : — “ I embrace this opportunity of bearing my individual testimony (.if it be of any value) to the extraordinary accuracy of Mr. Moore, in his topographical, antiquarian, and characteristic de- tails, whether of costume, manners, or less-chang- ing monuments, both in his Lalla Rookh and in the Epicurean. It has been my fortune to read his Atlantic, Bermudean, and American Odes and Epistles, in the countries and among the people to which and to whom they related ; I enjoyed also the exquisite delight of reading his Lalla Rookh in Persia itself ; and I have perused the Epicurean, while all my recollections of Egypt and its still existing wonders are as fresh as when I quitted the banks of the Nile for Arabia : — I owe it, therefore, as a debt of gratitude (though the payment is most inadequate), for the great pleasure I have derived from his productions, to bear my humble testimony to their local Among the incidents connected with this work, I must not omit to notice the splendid Divertisse- ment, founded upon it, which was acted at the Chateau Royal of Berlin, during the visit of the Giand Duke Nicholas to that capital, in the year 1822. The different stories composing the work were represented in Tableaux Vivans and songs ; and among the crowd of royal and noble personages engaged in the performances, I shall mention those only who represented the principal * Lalla Scukli, Divertissement mftle de Chants ct ; de Danses, Berlin, 1822. The work contains a series of i 1 characters, and whom I find thus enumerated in the published account of the Divertissement.* '• Fodltdln, Grand-Nu.lr . f CmU • Itaacl, (WortcAal t de Cour). Alins, Roi de Bucharic . S. A. I. Lt Grand Due. Lalla Rofikh . . . S. A . I. La Grand Duchesne. Aurungzcb, lo Grand f S. A. It. Lt Prince Guil- Mogul . . . I lautne , f l ire du Roi. ... „ , ,, . f S. A. R. Le Due de Cum - Abdallah, Tire d Alirls { ber i and . . „ fS. A. It. La Princcsse La Rcine, son epousc . { / 007., arose from the proceeds of the sale of the first edition of a biographical work, then recently published, which will long be memorable, as well from its own merits and subject, as from the lustre that has been since shed back upon it from the public career of its noble author. To a gift from such hands might well have been applied the words of Ovid, .... acceptissima semper Munera sunt, auctor quae pretiosa facit. In this volume, and its immediate successor, will be found collected almost all those delinquen- cies of mine, in the way of satire, which have ap- peared, from time to time, in the public journals, during the last twenty or thirty years. The com- ments and notices required to throw light on these political trifles must be reserved for our next volume. !jprefitte la the $ttntb Volume. Ix one of those Notices, no less fricr.dly than they are able and spirited, which this new Edition of my Poetical Works has called forth from a lead- ing political journal, I find, in reference to the numerous satirical pieces contained in these volumes, the following suggestion :* — “ It is now more than a quarter of a century since this bundle of political pasquinades 6et the British public in a roar ; and though the events to which they allude may be well known to every reader, ‘Cujus octavum trepidavit etas Claudere lustrum,’ there are many persons, now forming a part of the literary public, who have come into existence since they happened, and who cannot be expected, even if they had the leisure and opportunity, to rummage the files of our old newspapers for a history of the perishable facts on which Mr. Moore has so often rested the flying artillery of his wit. Many of those facts will be considered beneath the notice of the grave historian ; and it is, therefore, incumbent on Mr. Moore — if he wishes his poli- tical squibs, imbued as they are with a wit and humour quite Aristophanic, to be relished, as they deserve to be relished, by our great-grandchildren — to preface them with a rapid summary of the events which gave them birth.” Without pausing here to say how gratifying it is to me to find my long course of Anti-Tory warfare thus tolerantly, and even generously spoken of, and by so distinguished an organ of public opinion, I shall, as briefly as I can, advert to the writer’s friendly suggestion, and then men- tion some of those reasons which have induced me to adopt it. That I was disposed, at first, to annex some such commentary to this series of squibs, may have been collected from the concluding sen- tences of my last Preface; but a little further con- sideration has led me to abandon this intention. To that kind of satire which deals only with the lighter follies of social life, with the passing modes, whims, and scandal of the day, such illus- trative comments become, after a short time, ne- cessary. But the true preserving salt of political satire is its applicability to future times and ge- nerations, as well as to those which had first called it forth ; its power of transmitting the scourge of ridicule through succeeding periods, with a lash still fresh for the back of the bigot and the oppres- sor, under whatever new shape they may present themselves. I can hardly flatter myself with the persuasion that any one of the satirical pieces contained in this Volume is likely to possess this principle of vitality ; but I feel quite certain that without it, not all the notes and illustrations in which even the industry of Dutch commentator- ship could embalm them would insure to these trifles a life much beyond the present hour. Already, to many of them, that sort of relish — by far the least worthy source of their success — which the names of living victims lend to 6uch sallies, has become, in the course of time, wanting. But, as far as their appositeness to the passing po- * The Times, Jan. 9. 1841 PREFACE. xliii litical events of the day has yet been tried — and the dates of these satires range over a period of nearly thirty years — their ridicule, thanks to the undying nature of human absurdity, appears to have lost, as yet, but little of the original freshness of its first application. Nor is this owing to any peculiar felicity of aim, in the satire itself, but to the sameness, throughout that period, of all its original objects; — the unchangeable nature of that spirit of Monopoly by which, under all its various impersonations, commercial, religious, and political, these satires had been first provoked. To refer but to one instance, the Corn Question, — assuredly, the entire appositeness, at this very moment, of such versicles a3 the following, re- dounds far less to the credit of poesy than to the disgrace of legislation, — How can you, my Lord, thus delight to torment all The Peers of the realm about cheap’ning their corn, tV hen you know if one hasn’t a very high rental, ’Tis hardly worth while to be very high-born. That, being by nature so little prone to spleen or bitterness, I should yet have frequented so much the thorny paths of satire, has always, to myself and those best acquainted with me, been a matter of surprise. By supposing the imagination, how- ever, to be, in such cases, the sole or chief prompter of the satire — which, in my own instance, I must say, it has generally been — an easy solution is found for the difficulty. The same readiness of fancy which, with but little help from reality, can deck out “ the Cynthia of the minute ” with all possible attractions, will likewise be able, when in the vein, to shower ridicule on a political ad- versary, without allowing a single feeling of real bitterness to mix itself with the operation. Even that sternest of all satirists, Dante, who, not content with the penal fire of the pen, kept an Inferno ever ready to receive the victims of his wrath, — even Dante, on becoming acquainted with some of the persons whom he had thus doomed, not only re- voked their awful sentence, but even honoured them with warm praise ; * and probably, on a little further acquaintance, would have admitted them into his Paradiso. When thus loosely and shallowly even the sublime satire of Dante could strike its roots in his own heart and memory, it is easy to conceive how light and passing may be the feeling of hostility with which a partizan in the field of satire plies his laughing warfare ; and how often it may happen that even the pride of hitting his mark outlives but a short time the flight of the shaft. I cannot dismiss from my hands these political trifles, — ' This swarm of themes that settled on my pen. Which I, like summer-flies, shake off again,” — without venturing to add that I have now to connect with them one mournful recollection — one loss from among the circle of those I have longest looked up to with affection and admira- tion — which I little thought, when I began this series of prefatory sketches, I should have to mourn before their close. I need hardly add, * In his Convito he praises very warmly some per- sons whom he had before abused. — See Foscolo, Dis- cor80 sul Testo di Dante. t Tnis will be seen whenever those valuable papers that, in thus alluding to a great light of the social and political world recently gone out, I mean the late Lord Holland. It may be recollected, perhaps, that, in men- tioning some particulars respecting an early squib of mine, — the Parody on the Prince Regent’s Letter, — I spoke of a dinner at which I was pre- sent on the very day of the first publication of that Parody, when it was the subject of much conversation at table, and none of the party, except our host, had any suspicion that I was the author of it. This host was Lord Holland ; and as such a name could not but lend value to any anecdote connected with literature, I only forbore the pleasure of adding such an ornament to my page, from knowing that Lord Holland had long viewed with disapprobation and regret much of that conduct of the Whig party towards the Regent in 1812-13, t of the history of which this squib, and the welcome reception it met with, forms an humble episode. Lord Holland himself, in addition to his higher intellectual accomplishments, possessed in no or- dinary degree the talent of writing easy and playful vers de societe ; and, among the instances I could give of the lightness of his hand at such trifles, there is one no less characteristic of his good-nature than his wit, as it accompanied a copy of the octavo edition of Bayle,J which, on hearing me rejoice one day that so agreeable an author had been at last made portable, lie kindly ordered for me from Paris. So late, indeed, as only a month or two before his lordship’s death, he was employing himself, with all his usual cheerful eagerness, in transla- ting some verses of Metastasio ; and occasionally consulted both Mr. Rogers and myself as to dif- ferent readings of some of the lines. In one of the letters which I received from him while thus occupied, I find the following postscript : — “ ’Tis thus I turn th’ Italian’s song, Nor deem I read his meaning wrong. But with rough English to combine The sweetness that’s in every line, Asks for your Muse, and not for mine. Sense only will not quit the score ; We must have that, and — little More." He then adds, “I send you, too, a melancholy Epigram of mine, of which I have seen many, alas, witness the truth : — “ A minister’s answer is always so kind ! I starve, and he tells me he’ll keep me in mind. Half his promise, God knows, would my spirits re- store : Let him keep me — and, faith, I will ask for no more.” The only portion of the mass of trifles contained in this volume, that first found its way to the public eye through any more responsible channel than a newspaper, was the Letters of the Fudge Family in England, — a work which was sure, from its very nature, to encounter the double risk of being thought dull as a mere sequel, and light and unsafe as touching on follies connected with the name of Religion. Into the question of come to be published, which Lord Holland left behind him, containing Memoirs of his own times and of those immediately preceding them. X In sixteen volumes, published at Paris, by Desoer. xliv rKEFACE. the comparative dulncss of any of my produc- tions, it is not for me, of course, to enter ; but to the charge of treating religious subjects irreve- rently, I shall content myself with replying in the words of Pascal, — 44 II y a bien de la diflerence entre rire de la religion ct rire de ceux qui la profunent par leurs opinions extravagantes.” preface to % Sent!) Volume. The Story which occupies this volume was in- tended originally to le told in verse ; and a great portion of it was at first written in that form. This fact, as well as the character, perhaps, of the whole work, which a good deal partakes of the cast and colouring of poetry, have been thought sufficient to entitle it to a place in this general collection of my poetical writings. IIow little akin to romance or poesy were 6ome of the circumstances under which this work was first projected by me, the reader may have seen from a preceding preface ; * and the follow- ing rough outline, which I have found among my papers, dated Paris, July 25. 1820, will show both my first general conception, or fore-shadowing of the story, and likewise the extent to which I thought right, in afterwards working out this de- sign, to reject or modify some of its details. “ Began my Egyptian Poem, and wrote about thirteen or fourteen lines of it. The story to be told in letters from a young Epicurean phi- losopher, who, in the second century of the Chris- tian era, goes to Egypt for the purpose of dis- covering the elixir of immortality, which is sup- posed to be one of the secrets of the Egyptian priests. During a Festival on the Nile, he meets with a beautiful maiden, the daughter of one of the priests lately dead. She enters the catacombs, and disappears, ne hovers around the spot, and at last finds the well and secret passages, &c. by which those who are initiated enter. He sees this maiden in one of those theatrical spectacles which formed a part of the subterranean Elysium of the Pyramids — finds opportunities of conversing with her — their intercourse in this mysterious region described. They are discovered ; and he is thrown into those subterranean prisons where they who violate the rules of Initiation are confined. He is liberated from thence by the young maiden, and taking flight together, they reach some beautiful region, where they linger, for a time, delighted, and she is near becoming a victim to liis arts. But taking alarm, she flies ; and seeks refuge with a Christian monk, in the Thebaid, to whom her mother, who was secretly a Christian, had consigned her in dying. The struggles of her love with her religion. A persecution of the Christians takes place, and she is seized (chiefly through the unintentional means of her lover), and suffers martyrdom. The scene of her martyrdom described, in a letter from the Solitary of the Thebaid, and the attempt made by the young philosopher to rescue her. lie is • Preface to the Eighth Volume, p. xli. of this edition. carried oft* fro n thence to the cell of the Solitary. His letters from that retreat, after he has become a Christian, devoting his thoughts entirely to re- pentance and the recollection of the beloved saint who had gone before him — If I don’t make something out of all this, the deuce is in’t.” According to this plan, the events of the story were to be told in Letters, or Epistolary Poems, addressed by the philosopher to a young Athenian friend ; but for greater variety, as well as con- venience, I afterwards distributed the task of nar- ration among the chief personages of the Tale. The great difficulty, however, of managing, in rhyme, the minor details of a 6tory so as to be clear without growing prosaic, and still more the diffuse length to which I saw narration in verse would extend, deterred me from following this plan any further ; and I then commenced the tale anew in its present shape. Of the Poems written for my first experiment, a few specimens, the best I could select, were in- troduced into the prose story ; but the remainder I had thrown aside, and nearly forgotten even their existence, when a circumstance somewhat characteristic, perhaps, of that trading spirit, which has now converted Parnassus itself into a market, again called my attention to them. The late Mr. Macrone, to whose general talents a?d enterprise in business all who knew him will bear ready testimony, had long been anxious that I should undertake for him some new Poem or Story, affording such subjects for illustration as might call into play the fanciful pencil of Mr. Turner. Other tasks and ties, however, had ren- dered my compliance with this wish impracti- cable ; and he was about to give up all thoughts of attaining his object, when on learning from me accidentally that the Epicurean was still my own property, he proposed to purchase of me the use of the copyright for a single illustrated edition. The terms proffered by him being most liberal, I readily acceded to the proposed arrangement ; but, on further consideration, there arose 6ome difficulty in the way of our treaty — the work it- self being found insufficient to form a volume of such dimensions as would yield any hope of de- fraying the cost of the numerous illustrations then intended for it. Some modification, therefore, of our terms was thought necessary ; and then first was the notion suggested to me of bringing forth from among my papers the original sketch, or opening of the story, and adding these fragments, as a sort of make-weight, in the mutual adjust- ment of our terms. That I had myself regarded the first experi- ment as a failure, was sufficiently shown by my relinquishment of it. But, as the published work had then passed through several editions, and had been translated into most of the languages of Europe, it was thought that an insight into the anxious process by which such success had been attained, might, as an encouragement, at least, to the humble merit of painstaking, be deemed of 6ome little use. The following are the translations of this Tale which have reached me : viz. two in French, two in Italian (Milan, 1836— Venice, 1835), one in German (Inspruc, 1828), and one in Dutch, by M. Herman van Loghem (Deventer, 1829). THE POETICAL WORKS OF THOMAS MOOR E. ODES OE ANACREON TRANSLATED INTO ENGLISH VERSE, WITH NOTES. TO IIIS ROYAL HIGHNESS THE PRINCE OF WALES. SlR, lx allowing me to dedicate this Work to Your Royal Highness, you have conferred upon me an honour which I feel very sensibly : and I have only to regret, that the pages which you have thus distinguished are not more deserving of such illustrious patronage. Believe me, Sir, With every sentiment of respect, Your Royal Highness’s Very grateful and devoted Servant, Thomas Moore. ADVERTISEMENT. It may be necessary to mention, that, in ar- ranging the Odes, the Translator has adopted the order of the Vatican MS. For those who wish to refer to the original, he has prefixed an Index, which marks the number of each Ode in Barnes and the other editions. INDEX. BARNES 1. ANAKPEHN iloo'j [jii . 63. 2. A0Ti jdOl XvgY, V ' 0/XY.pOV . 48. 3. Ays, '(wygoMfuv oc^iari . 49. 4. Toy oigyud$uv d^ttTTS . 28. 17. r^oMfe [m>i EatiiiXXov oCrco . . 29. 18. Aors fJOOl, don yvvoaxis . 21. 19. Tloigci ty,v (raw, B xQvXXt . 22. 20. At M ovtrdi tov Egurd . 30. 21. 'H yq /u,sXd/vd jrm/ . . 19. 22. r H TdvrdXou tot s/ttyi . 20. 23. ®sXu Xiyav A rgubd; 1. 24. <1> vtns xs^dTd Tdvoci; . 2. 25. 2y fjoiv i£itv . 66. 62. Aye dvi, yi/miv, x txi , . 57. 42. UoSzOJ /MV A 10VDC0D . . 42. 63. Tov E oojtx yx% tov xZ^ov . . 58. 43. 'ZtzQxvods /mv x^oTx^oim . . 6. 64. Tovvov/mxi A6 ®£»J XlY.y Tl dt) [Mi . 61. 45. *0 txv frivoj tov oivov . . 25. G6. Qzxckiv xvxvffx, Ky^7 . 62. 46. I5s, tru; ix°os pxvtvros . 37. 67. Tl or xi ttxoQzviov (3Xztuv . 67. 47. Eyu yz^ojv /mzv zi/ju . . 38. 68. EyovTx‘ 'H &ZXUV OtVOCTtroe,, SO^IH nor eg O Xv/mctov JL ffoeairr' A vxxqzovtx, Kerogatrcc tods z^ojtxs, 'Ytro/MZiSixirc-xs g/jre* 2 OQi, S’ u; A VXXgZOVTX Tov Ti QiXy./mx TY,s K vdr^tjs, / Ti ZUiTlXXx TOD Avxiov, \ > ’Elir vroozois roLxvitn < TyJos tror’ ptdoroios i iXxooS yiXoJV ZXZITO, \ /mzBduv tz xxi Xv^iZoov. j ?Ts§i y XDTOV XfM$” EoUTiS i < ToouzgoTs CTOfflV XO^DOV' tx (3 zXz/mv o fjczv Kudrins em/ZI XX?.%S, oiffTODS ( tv^ozvtxs, lx xz^xwov" ; o Bs Xzvxx xxXXiQvXXois £ xgivx oiiv pohoicri irXz$xs, ( ZQlXil ffTZQCiJV yigCVTX. \ XXTX S’ ZdOusIz 'OXd/MTOV l l£o<*>r/] &zxivx (3x E ^utri, too Adxim 1. TTopfvpe otj vox trisyllabica. Anacr. Fragm. XXIX. 3. ed. Fischer, iroptfrvper) x AQpoSittj. Anacr. Fragm. X XXVI. 1. oupr) Sevre p.e iropiftvpcr), ut legendum plane ex Athenaeo. AAnropvpozs rair^ai dixit Pseud-Ana- creon, Od. VHI. 2. Theocr. Id. XV. 125. iropiftvpeot 6e Tairifre c avco p-aXcuccvrepot virvut. 5 Tmesi9 pro ap^exopevov. 'Theocr. Id. VII. 142. wcoTcomo £ov8cu TTf.pi, iTtdcucas &p.$i peXitTcjcu, h. e. dptpe- TTtoT&VTO. t>. Pseud- Anacr. Od. Ln. 12. rpop-epouq ttotiv v opevet. 7, 10. i p.ey, hie — 6 Se, tile. Bion, Id. I. 82. \w pev me raw 1 , [ is i' ciri to(ov eflatv’, *•. r. A. itidem de Amori- hns. 8, 9. erroiet — e< Kepawov. Pseud-Anacreon. Od. XXVIII. 18. to de fiXeppa wv aXdrjcoe \ ano tov irvpos 7TOITJITOV. 10, 11. KaXXtvXXoie — fioSoiat. Pseud- Anacr. Od. V. 3. to fioSo v to vXXov. 15. Tmesis pro KuTafiaao. Pseud-Anacr. Od. III. 15. ava S' evdv Xvyvov Aifras, h. e. avaip-aq. 18. Supple ovopa, quo tovto referatur. Eurip. Phcen. 12. tovto yap -rraTrjp | e8ero, h. e. tovto ovopa.. PpoTtDv vXa iruvra adumbratum ex Pseud-Anacr. Od. 111. 4. peponwv Se QvX a Travra. 21. Pseud-Anacreon, Od. XXIV. 2. ftiorov ipifiov 6 Severs. ODES OF ANACREON. 8 A izi y' 6t £ii 'Or/, &too, trov y' uvzv [x-v, ? 'O troQ&iToiTos burncvTm < n« e « rm irept rov Ava- KpeovToq 2 The History of Anacreon, by Ga^on (le Po5te sans fard, as he styles himself), is professedly a romance ; nor does Mademoiselle Scuderi, from whom he bor- rowed the idea, pretend to historical veracity in her account of Anacreon and Sappho. These, then, are allowable. But how can Barnes be forgiven, who, with all the confidence of a biographer, traces every wan- dering of the poet, and settles him at last, in his old age, at a country villa near Teos ? 3 The learned Bayle has detected some infidelities of quotation in LeFevre (Dictionnaire Historique, «S*c.). Madame Dacier is not more accurate than her father : they have almost made Anacreon prime minister to the monarch of Samos. 4 The Asiatics were as remarkable for genius as for luxury. “ Ingenia Asiatics inclyfa per gentes feefere tain known about his family; and those who pre- tend to discover in Plato that he was a descendant of the monarch Codrus, show much more of zeal than of either accuracy or judgment. 6 The disposition and talents of Anacreon rccom mended him to the monarch of Samos, and he was formed to be the friend of such a prince as Polycrates. Susceptible only to the pleasures, he felt not the corruptions of the court ; and, while Pythagoras fled from the tyrant, Anacreon was celebrating his praises on the lyre. We are told too by Maximus Tyrius, that, by the influence of his amatory songs, he softened the mind of Poly- crates into a spirit of benevolence towards his subjects. 7 The amours of the poet, and the rivalship of the tyrant 8 , 1 shall pass over in silence ; and there are few, I presume, who will regret the omission of most of those anecdotes, which the industry of some editors has not only promulged, but dis- cussed. Whatever is repugnant to modesty and virtue is considered in ethical science, by a suppo- sition very favourable to humanity, as impossible; and this amiable persuasion should be much more Poetse, Anacreon, inde Mimnermus et Antimachus,” & c. — Solinus. 6 I have not attempted to define the particular Olym- piad, but have adopted the idea of Bayle, who says. “ Je n’ai point marque d’Olympiade ; car pour un homme qui a vecu 85 ans, il me semble que l’on ne doit point s’enfermer dans des bornes si etroites.” 6 This mistake is founded on a false interpretation of a very obvious passage in Plato’s Dialogue on Tem- perance; it originated with Madame Dacier, and has been received implicitly by many. Gail, a late editor of Anacreon, seems to claim to himself the merit of de- tecting this error; but Bayle had observed it beforo him. 7 Avatcpecov laptotti Uo\vKparr)v tfpepcoae. Maxim. Tjt. § 21. Maximus Tyrius mentions this among other instances of the influence of poetry. If Gail had read Maximus Tyrius, how could he ridicule this idea in Moutonnet, as unauthenticated ? 8 In the romance of Clelia, the anecdote to which I allude is told of a young girl, with whom Anacreon fell in love while she personated the god Apollo in a mask. But here Mademoiselle Scuderi consulted nature morn than truth. •1 MOORE’S WORKS. stionglv entertained, where the transgression wars w ith nature as well as virtue. But why are we not allowed to indulge in the presumption ? Why are we officiously reminded that there have been really 6uch instances of depravity ? Hipparchus, who now maintained at Athens the power which his father Pisistratus had usurped, was one of those princes who may be said to have polished the fetters of their subjects. lie was the first, according to Plato, who edited the poems of Homer, and commanded them to be sung by the rhapsodists at the celebration of the Panathenaia. From his court, which was a sort of galaxy of genius, Anacreon could not long be absent. Hipparchus sent a barge for him ; the poet readily embraced the invitation, and the Muses and the Loves were wafted with him to Athens. 1 The manner of Anacreon's death was singular. We are told that in the eighty-fifth year of his nge he was choked by a grape-stone ‘J ; and, however we may smile at their enthusiastic par- tiality, who see in this easy and characteristic death a peculiar indulgence of Heaven, we can- not help admiring that his fate should have been 60 emblematic of his disposition. Ccclius Calca- gninus alludes to this catastrophe in the follow- ing epitaph on our poet 3 : — Those lips, then, hallow’d sage, which pour’d along A music sweet as any cygnet’s song. The grape hath clos’d for ever ! Here let the ivy kiss the poet’s tomb, Here let the rose he lov’d with laurels bloom. In bands that ne’er shall sever. But far be thou, oh 1 far, unholy vine, By whom the favourite minstrel of the Nine Lost his sweet vital breath ; Thy God himself now blushes to confess, Once hallow’d vine ! he feels he loves thee less, Since poor Anacreon’s death. 1 There is a very interesting French poem founded upon this anecdote, imputed to Desyvetaux, and called “ Anacreon Citoyen.” 2 Fabricius appears not to trust very implicitly in this story. “ Uva; pass® acino tandem suffocatus, si cre- dimus Suidae in oivottott)<; ; alii enim hoc mortis genere periisse tradunt Sophoclem .” — Fabricii Tiibliothcc.Grcec. lib. ii. cap. 13. It must be confessed that Lucian, who colls us that Sophocles was choked by a grape-stone, in the very same treatise mentions the longevity of Ana- creon, and yet is silent on the manner of his death. Could he have been ignorant of such a remarkable coin- cidence, or, knowing, could he have neglected to remark it? See Regnier’s introduction to his Anacreon. 3 At te, sancte senex, acinus sub Tartara misit; Cygnete clausit qui tibi vocis iter. Yos, hederae, tumulum, tumulum voscingite, lauri, Hoc rosa perpetuo vernet odora loco ; At vitis procul bine, procul liinc odiosa facessat, Quae causam dirae protulit, uva, neeis, Creditur ipse minus vitem jam Bacchus amare, In vatem tautum quae fuit ausa nefas. The author of this epitaph, Caelius Calcagninus, has translated or imitated the epigrams ct? rrjv M vpcovot fiow, which are given under the name of Anacreon, 4 Barnes is convinced (but very gratuitously) of the synchronism of Anacreon and Sappho. In citing his authorities, he has strangely neglected the line quoted by Fulvius Ursinus, as from Anacreon, among the testi- monies to Sappho : — Xafiwv cioapas la-rr^ai irapGevov advct)vov. Fabricius thinks that they might have been contem- porary, but considers their amour as a tale of imagina- tion. Vossius rejects the idea entirely ; as do also Claus Borricliius and others. It has been supposed by some writers that Ana- creon and Sappho were contemporaries ; and the very thought of an intercourse between persona so congenial, both in warmth of passion and de- licacy of genius, gives such play to the imagina- tion, that the mind loves to indulge in it. But the vision dissolves before historical truth ; and Chamadeon and Ilermesianax, who are the source of the supposition, are considered as having merely indulged in a poetical anachronism. 4 To infer the moral dispositions of a poet from the tone of sentiment which pervades his works is sometimes a very fallacious analogy ; but the soul of Anacreon speaks so unequivocally through his odes, that we may safely consult them as the faithful mirrors of his heart. 5 We find him there the elegant voluptuary, diffusing the se- ductive charm of sentiment over passions and propensities at which rigid morality must frown. His heart devoted to indolence, seems to have thought that there is wealth enough in happiness, but seldom happiness in mere wealth. The cheerfulness, indeed, with which he brightens his old age is interesting and endearing : like His own rose, he is fragrant even in decay. But the most peculiar feature ofliis mind is that love of sim- plicity, which he attributes to himself so feelingly, and which breathes characteristically throughout all that he has sung. In truth, if we omit those few vices in our estimate which religion, at that time, not only connived at, but consecrated, we shall be inclined to say that the disposition of our poet was amiable ; that his morality was relaxed, but not abandoned ; and that Virtue, with her zone loosened, may be an apt emblem of the character of Anacreon. 5 Of his person and physiognomy time has pre- served such uncertain memorials, that it were better, perhaps, to leave the pencil to fancy ; and few can read the Odes of Anacreon without imagining to themselves the form of the animated 5 An Italian poet, in some verses on Belleau’s trans- lation of Anacreon, pretends to imagine that our bard did not feel as he wrote : — Lvaeum, Venercm, Cupidinemque Senex lusit Anacreon poeta. Sed quo tempore nec eapaciore* Rogabat cyathos, nec inquietis Urebatur amoribus, sed ipsis Tantum versibus et jocis amabat. Nullum prae se habitum gerens amanita. To Love and Bacchus ever young While sage Anacreon touch’d the lyre. He neither felt the loves he sung. Nor fill’d his bowl to Bacchus higher. Those flowery days had faded long, When youth could act the lover’s part ; And passion trembled in his song. But never, never, reach’d his heart. 6 Anacreon’s character has been variously coloured. Barnes lingers on it with enthusiastic admiration ; but he is always extravagant, if not sometimes also a little profane. Baillet runs too much into the opposite ex- treme, exaggerating also the testimonies which he has consulted ; and we cannot surely agree with him when he cites such a compiler as Athenaeus, as “ un des plus savans critiques de l’antiquite.” — Jugement des Sga- vans, M. CV. Barnes could hardly have read the passage to which he refers, when he accuses Le Fevre of having censured our poet’s character in a note on Longinus ; the note in question being manifest irony, in allusion to some cen- sure passed upon Le Fevre for his Anacreon. It is clear, indeed, that praise rather than censure is inti- mated. See Johannes Vulpius (de Utilitate Poetices), who vindicates our poet’s reputation. ODES OF ANACREON. 5 old bard, crowned with roses, and singing cheer- fully to his lyre. But the head of Anacreon, prefixed to this work*, has been considered so authentic, that we scarcely could be justified in the omission of it ; and some have even thought that it is by no means deficient in that benevolent suavity of expression which should characterise the countenance of such a poet. After the very enthusiastic eulogiums bestowed Doth by ancients and moderns upon the poems of Anacreon 2, we need not be diffident in expressing our raptures at their beauty, nor hesitate to pro- nounce them the most polished remains of anti- quity. 1 2 3 They are, indeed, all beauty, all en- chantment. 4 * He steals us so insensibly along with him, that we sympathise even in his excesses. In his amatory odes there is a delicacy of com- pliment not to be found in any other ancient poet. Love at that period was rather an unrefined emotion : and the intercourse of the sexes was animated more by passion than by sentiment. They knew not those little tendernesses which form the spiritual part of affection ; their ex- pression of feeling was therefore rude and un- varied, and the poetry of love deprived it of its most captivating graces. Anacreon, however, at- tained some ideas of this purer gallantry ; and the same delicacy of mind which led him to this refinement, prevented him also from yielding to the freedom of language, which has sullied the pages of all the other poets. His descriptions are warm ; but the warmth is in the ideas, not the words, ne is sportive without being wanton, and ardent without being licentious. His poetic in- vention is always most brilliantly displayed in those allegorical fictions which so many have endeavoured to imitate, though all have con- fessed them to be inimitable. Simplicity is the distinguishing feature of these odes, and they interest by their innocence, as much as they 1 It is taken from the Bibliotheca of Fulvius Ursinus. Bellori has copied the same head into his Imagines. Johannes Faber, in his description of the coin of Ursi- nus, mentions another head on a very beautiful corne- lian, which he supposes was worn in a ring by some admirer of the poet. In the Iconographia of Canini there is a youthful head of Anacreon from a Grecian medal, with the letters TEI02 around it ; on the reverse there is a Neptune, holding a spear in his right hand, and a dolphin, with the word TIANfiN inscribed, in the left ; “ volendoci dcnotare (says Canini) che quelle cit- tadini la coniassero in honore del suo compatriota poeta.” There is also among the coins of De Wilde one, which though it bears no effigy, was probably struck to the memory of Anacreon. It has the word THIQN encircled with an ivy crown. “ At quidni re- spicit luec corona Anacreontem, nobilemlyricum ? ” — De Wilde. 2 Besides those which are extant, he wrote hymns, elegies, epigrams, &c. Some of the epigrams still exist. Horace, in addition to the mention of him (lib. iv. od. 9.), alludes also to a poem of his upon the rivalry of Circe and Penelope in the affections of Ulysses, lib. i. od. 17. ; and the scholiast upon Nicander cites a frag- ment from a poem upon Sleep by Anacreon, and attri- butes to him likewise a medicinal treatise. Fulgentius mentions a work of his upon the war between Jupiter and the Titans, and the origin of the consecration of the eagle. 3 See Horace, Maximus Tyrius, &c. “ Ilis style (says Scaliger) is sweeter than the juice of the Indian reed.” — Poet. lib. i. cap. 44. ‘‘From the softness of his verses (Olaus Borrichius) the ancients bestowed on him the epithets sweet, delicate, graceful,” &e. — Dis- aertaliones Academica ?, de Poetis, diss. 2. Scaliger again praises him thus in a pun : speaking of the /xeAoc, or ode, “ Anacreon autem non solum dedit hsec fxe\r) *ed etiam in ipsis mella.” See the passage of Rapin, fascinate by their beauty. They may be said, indeed, to be the very infants of the Muses, and to lisp in numbers. I shall not be accused of enthusiastic partiality by those who have read and felt the original ; but, to others, I am conscious, this should not be the language of a translator, whose faint reflection of such beauties can but ill justify his admiration of them. In the age of Anacreon music and poetry were inseparable. These kindred talents were for a long time associated, and the poet always sung his own compositions to the lyre. It is probable that they were not set to any regular air, but rather a kind of musical recitation, which was varied according to the fancy and feelings of the moment. 6 The poems of Anacreon were sung at banquets as late as the time of Aulus Gellius, who tells us that he heard one of the odes per- formed at a birth-day entertainment. 6 The singular beauty of our poet’s style, and the apparent facility, perhaps, of his metre have at- tracted, as I have already remarked, a crowd of imitators. Some of these have succeeded w r ith wonderful felicity, as may be discerned in the few odes which are attributed to writers of a later period. But none of his emulators have been half so dangerous to his fame as those Greek ecclesiastics of the early ages, who, being con- scious of their own inferiority to their great pro- totypes, determined on removing all possibility of comparison, and, under a semblance of moral zeal, deprived the world of some of the most ex- quisite treasures of ancient times. 7 The works of Sappho and Alcaeus were among those flowers of Grecian literature which thus fell beneath the rude hand of ecclesiastical presumption. It is true they pretended that this sacrifice of genius was hallowed by the interests of religion ; but I have already assigned the most probable motive s ; quoted by all the editors. I cannot omit citing also the following very spirited apostrophe of the author of the Commentary prefixed to the Parma edition : “ O vos sublimes animae, vos Apollinis alumni, qui post unum Alcmanem in tota Hellade lyricam poesim exsuscitastis, coluistis, amplificastis, quae so vos an ullus unquam fuerit vates qui Teio cantori vel naturae candore vel metri suavitate palmam praeripuerit.” See likewise Vincenzo Gravini della Rag. Poetic, libro primo, p. 97. Among the Ritratti of Marino, there is one of Anacreon beginning “Cingetemi la fronte,” &c. &c. i “ We may perceive,” says Vossius, “ that the itera- tion of his words conduces very much to the sweetness of his style.” Henry Stephen remarks the same beauty in a note on the forty- fourth ode. This figure of itera- tion is his most appropriate grace : — but the modern writers of Juvenilia and Basia have adopted it to an ex- cess which destroys the effect, 5 In the Paris edition there are four of the original odes set to music, by Le Sueur, Gossec, Mehul, and Cherubini. “ On chante du Latin, et del’Italien,” says Gail, “ quelquefois mfeme sans les entendre ; qui em- pfcche que nous ne chantions des odes Grecques ? ” The chromatic learning of these composers is very unlike what we are told of the simple melody of the ancients ; and they have all, as it appears to me, mistaken the accentuation of the words. 6 The Parma commentator is rather careless in re- ferring to this passage of Aulus Gellius (lib. xix. cap. 9.). The ode was not sung by the rhetorician Julianus, as he says, but by the minstrels of both sexes, who were introduced at the entertainment. 7 See what Colomesius, in his ‘ Literary Trea- sures,” has quoted from Alcyonius de Exilio ; it may be found in Baxter. Colomesius, after citing the pas- sage, adds, “ Hsec auro contra cara non potui non apnonere.” 3 We may perceive by the beginning of the first (5 MOORE’S WORKS. and if Gregorius Kaziauzenus had not written Anacreontics, we might now perhaps have the works of the Teian unmutilated, and be em- powered to say exultingly with Horace : — Nec si quid olim luslt Anacreon Dclcvit a-fas. The zeal by which these bishops professed to be actuated, gave birth more innocently, indeed, to an absurd species of parody, as repugnant to piety as it is to taste, where the poet of voluptuousness was made a preacher of the Gospel, and his muse, like the Venus in armour at Lacedremon, was arrayed in all the severities of priestly instruction. Such was the “ Anacreon Recantatus,” by Carolus de Aquino, a Jesuit, published 1701, which con- sisted of a series of palinodes to the several songs of our poet. Such, too, was the Christian Ana- creon of Patriganus, another Jesuit 1, who prepos- terously transferred to a most sacred subject all that the Grecian poet had dedicated to festivity and love. His metre has frequently been adopted by the modern Latin poets ; and Scaliger, Taubman, Barthius 2, and others, have shown that it is by no means uncongenial with that language. 3 The Anacreontics of Scaliger, however, scarcely de- serve the name ; a3 they glitter all over with conceits, and, though often elegant, are always laboured. The beautiful fictions of Angerianus 1 preserve more happily than any others the deli- cate turn of those allegorical fables, which, pass- ing so frequently through the mediums of version and imitation, have generally lost their finest rays in the transmission. Many of the Italian poets have indulged their fancies upon the sub- jects, and in the manner of Anacreon. Bernardo Tasso first introduced the metre, which was after- wards polished and enriched by Chabriera and others. 3 To judge by the references of Degen, the German language abounds in Anacreontic imitations ; and Hagedorn 6 is one among many who have as- sumed him as a model. La Farre, Chaulieu, and the other light poets of France, have also professed to cultivate the muse of Teos ; but they have at- hymn of Bishop Synesius, that he made Anacreon and Sappho his models of composition. Aye p.01, Xiyeia oppuy%, Mera Tijcav aoiSav, Mera Aeafihav re ptoXvav. Mar gun ins and Damasccnus were likewise authors of pious Anacreontics. 1 This, perhaps. Is the “Jesuita quidem Gripcu- lus ” alluded to by Barnes, who has himself composed an Avaxpecvv Xpiortavoc, as absurd as the rest, but some- what more skilfully executed. ‘2 1 have seen somewhere an account of the MSS. of Barthius, written just after his death, which mentions many more Anacreontics of his than I believe have ever been published, 3 Thus too Albertus, a Danish poet: — Fidii tui minister Gaudebo semper esse, Gaudebo semper illi Li tare thure mulso ; Gaudebo semper ilium Laudare pumilillis Anacreonticillis. See the Danish Poets collected by Rostgaard. These pretty littlenesses defy translation. A beau- tiful Anacreontic by Hugo Grotius, may be found lib. i. Farraginis. tained till Iter negligence with little of the simple grace thnt embellishes it. In the delicate bard of Schiras? we find the kindred spirit of Anacreon: some of his gazelles, or songs, possess all the cha- racter of our poet. We come now to a retrospect of the editions of Anacreon. To Henry Stephen we are indebted for having first recovered his remains from the obscurity in which, so singularly, they had for many ages reposed. He found the seventh ode, as we are told, on the cover of an old book, and communicated it to Victorius, who mentions the circumstance in his “Various Readings.” Ste- phen was then very young ; and this discovery was considered by some critics of that day as a literary imposition. 8 In 1554, however, he gave Anacreon to the world 9, accompanied with anno- tations and a Latin version of the greater part of the odes. The learned still hesitated to receive them as the relics of the Teian bard, and suspected them to be the fabrication of some monks of the sixteenth century. This was an idea from which the classic muse recoiled ; and the Vatican manu- script, consulted by Scaliger and Salmasius, con- firmed the antiquity of most of the poems. A very inaccurate copy of this MS. was taken by Isaac Vossius, ana this is the authority which Barnes has followed in his collation. Accord- ingly he misrepresents almost as often as he quotes ; and the subsequent editors, relying upon his authority, have spoken of the manuscript with not less confidence than ignorance. The literary world, however, has at length been gra- tified with this curious memorial of the poet, by the industry of the Abb6 Spaletti, who published at Rome, in 1781, a fac-simile of those pages of the Vatican manuscript which contained the odes of Anacreon.io A catalogue has been given by Gail of all the different editions and translations of Anacreon. Finding their number to be much greater than I could possibly have had an opportunity of con- sulting, I shall here content myself with enume- rating only those editions and versions which it has been in my power to collect ; and which, though very few, are, I believe, the most important. 4 To Angerianus Prior is indebted for some of his happiest my thological subjects. a See Crescimbeni, Historia della Volg. Poes. 6 “L’aimable Hagedorn vaut quelquefois Ana- creon. — Dorat, Idee la Poesie Allemande. 7 See Toderini on the learning of the Turks, as translated by de Cournard. Prince Cantemir has made the Russians acquainted with Anacreon. See his Life, prefixed to a translation of his Satires, by the Abbe de Guasco. 8 Robortellus, in his work “ De Ratione corrigendi,’ pronounces these verses to be the triflings of some insipid Grsecist. 9 Itonsard commemorates this event : — Je vay boire a Henrie Etienne Qui des enfers nous a rendu, Du vieil Anacreon perdu, La douce lyre Te'ienne. Ode XV. book 5. I fill the bowl to Stephen’s name, Who rescued from the gloom of night The Teian bard of festive fame, And brought his living lyre to light. 10 This manuscript, which Spaletti thinks as old as the tenth century, was brought from the Palatine into the Vatican library ; it is a kind of anthology of Greek epigrams, and in the 676th page of it are found the H apufxfiia Sv/xTroaiaxa of Anacreon. ODES OF ANACREON. The edition by Henry Stephen, 1554, at Paris — the Latin version is attributed by Colomesius to John Dorat. 1 The old French translations, by Ronsard and Belleau — the former published in 1555, the latter in 1556. It appears from a note of Muretus upon one of the sonnets of Ronsard, that Henry Stephen communicated to this poet his manuscript of Ana- creon, before he promulgated it to the world. 2 The edition by Le Fevre, 1660. The edition by Madame Dacier, 1681, with a prose translation. 8 The edition by Longepierre, 1684, with a trans- lation in verse. The edition by Baxter ; London, 1695. A French translation by La Fosse, 1704. “ L’Histoire des Odes d’Anacr&m,” by Ga$on ; Rotterdam, 1712. A translation in English verse, by several hands, 1713, in winch the odes by Cowley are inserted. The edition by Barnes ; London, 1721. The edition by Dr. Trapp, 1733, with a Latin version in elegiac metre. A translation in English verse, by John Addi- son, 1735. A collection of Italian translations of Anacreon, published at Venice, 1736, consisting of those by Corsini, Regnier 4 , Salvini, Marclietti, and one by several anonymous authors. 8 A translation in English verse, by Fawkes and Doctor Broome, 1760. 6 Another, anonymous, 1768. The edition by Spaletti, at Rome, 1781; with the fac-simile of the Vatican MS. The edition by Degen, 1786, who published also a German translation of Anacreon, esteemed the best. 1 “ Le m&me (M. Vossius) m’a dit qu’il avoit possede un Anacreon, ou Scaliger avoit marque de sa main, qu’Henri Etienne n’etoit pas l’auteur de la version Latine des odes de ce poete, mais Jean Dorat.” — Pau- las Colomesius , Particularity. Colomesius, however, seems to have relied too impli- citly on Vossius ; — almost all these Particularity begin with “ M. Vossius m’a dit.” 2 “ La fiction de ce sonnet, comme l’auteur m6me m’a dit, est prise d’une ode d’ Anacreon, encore non imprim6e, qu’il a depuis traduit, 2v piev fiXrj \eXidwv. 3 The author of Nouvelles do la Rep. des Lett, be- stows on this translation much more praise than its merits appear to me to justify. 4 The notes of Regnier are not inserted in this edi- tion ; but they must be interesting, as they were for the most part communicated by the ingenious Menage, who, we may perceive, from a passage in the Menagiana, bestowed some research on the subject. “ C’est aussi lui (M. Bigot) qui s’est donne la peine de conferer des manuscrits cn Italiedans le terns que je travaillois sur Anacreon. — Menagiana , seconde partie. 5 I find in Haym’s Notizia de’ Libri rari, Venice, 1670, an Italian translation by Cappone, mentioned. 6 This is the most complete of the English transla- tions. • This ode is the first of the series in the Vatican manuscript, which attributes it to no other poet than Anacreon. They who assert that the manuscript im- putes it to Basilius, have been misled by the words T ov avrov /3a0a\pioi K\v$opievoi, KVfjLcuvovreq ev avroiq, et? atppodiaia, kcu eviraOeiav cttto- rjvraL’ ovre de adiieoi , ovre ncucovpyoi , ovre tfivcrecoq ovre ap.ovaoc. — Adamantius. “ The eyes that are hu- mid and fluctuating show a propensity to pleasure and love ; they bespeak too a mind of integrity and benefi- cence, a generosity of disposition, and a genius for poetry.” Baptista Porta tells us some strange opinions of the ancient physiognomists on this subject, their reasons for which were curious, and perhaps not altogether fanciful. Vide Physiognom. Johan. Baptist. Portae. 9 I took the trreath, whose inmost twine Breath'd of him, ^ rc .] Philostratus has the same thought in one of his EpairiKa, where he speaks of the garland which he had sent to his mistress : — Et de /3ov\ei rc xapt^eaOai, ra \ei\frava avTnrepitp-ov, pirjieeTi. i rve- ovra podwv uovov aXka kcu. arov. “ If thou art inclined to gratify thy lover, send him back the remains of the garland, no longer breathing of roses only, but of thee I ” Which pretty conceit is borrowed (as the author of the Observer remarks) in a well-known little song of Ben Jonson’s • — • “ But thou thereon didst only breathe And send it back to me ; Since when it looks and smells, I swear. Not of itself, but thee I ” 10 And ah! I feel its magic uojp;] This idea, as Longepierre remarks, occurs in an epigram of the seventh book of the Anthologia : — E fore p.ot, irivovrt, avv ear clou a a. XapucXco AaOprj rov? idiovt; apie/3a\e aredavojt;, IT vp oXoov darrret pie. While I unconscious quaff’d my wine ’T was then thy fingers slily stole Upon my brow that wreath of thine. Which- since has madden’d all my soul 8 MOORE’S WORKS. I feel that even his garland’s touch Can make the bosom love too much. ODE II. 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’ clastic bound, And reel us through the dance’s round. Great Bacchus 1 we shall sing to thee, In wild but sweet ebriety ; Flashing around such sparks of thought, 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 Bing. ODE III.- Listen to the Muse’s lyre. Master of the pencil’s fire ! Sketch’d in paintings bold display, Many a city first portray ; Many a city, revelling free, Fall of 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 earthly heaven of love These delighted mortals prove. 1 Proclaim the laws of festal rite .] The ancients prescribed certain laws of drinking at their festivals, for an account of which see the commentators. Anacreon here act3 the svmposiarch, or master of the festival. I have translated according to those who consider kv- i reXXa Oeapcuv as an inversion of fleoyxov? KvweXXuv. - La Fosse has thought proper to lengthen this poem by considerable interpolations of his own, which he thinks are indispensably necessary to the completion of the description. 3 This ode, Aulus Gellius tells us, was performed at an entertainment where he was present, 4 While many a rose-lipp'd bacchant maid, <^c.] I have availed myself here of the additional lines given in the Vatican mannscript, which have not been accu- rately inserted in any of the ordinary editions : — rloirjtTOV a/A7rc\ov<; fJLOl Hat /9orpvac tear avrcov Ka« patvaScu ; Tpvywtrronounces to be the genuine offspring of Anacreon, t has, indeed, all the features of the parent : — et facile insciis Noscitetur ab omnibus. 3 Where many an early rose was iceeping, I found the urchin C'upid sleeping.'] This idea is prettily imitated in the following epigram by Andreas Naugerius : — Florentes dum forte vagans mea Hyolla per hortos Texit odoratis lilia cana rosis, Ecce rosas inter latitantem invenit Amorem Et simul annexis floribus implicuit. Luctatur primo, et contra nitentibus alis Indomitus tentat solvere vincla puer : Mox ubi lacteolas et dignas matre papillas Vidit et ora ipsos nata movere Deos, Impositosque comae ambrosios ut sentit odores Quosque legit diti messe beatus Arabs ; “ I (dixit) mea, quaere novum tibi, mater, Amorem, Imperio sedes haec erit apta meo.” As fair Hyolla, through the bloomy grove, A wreath of many mingled flow’rets wove. Within a rose a sleeping Love she found. And in the twisted wreaths the baby bound. Awhile he struggled, and impatient tried To break the rosy bonds the virgin tied ; But when he saw her bosom’s radiant swell. Her features, where the eye of Jove might dwell ; And caught tli’ ambrosial odours of her hair, Rich as the breathings of Arabian air ; “ Oh ! mother Venus,” (said the raptur’d child. By charms, of more than mortal bloom, beguil’d,) “ Go, seek another boy, thou’st lost thine own, “ Hyella’s arms shall now bo Cupid’s throne 1 ” ODE VII.4 Thk women tell me every day That all my bloom has past away. “ Behold," the pretty w r antons cry, “ Behold this mirror with a sigh ; The locks upon thy brow are few, And, like the rest, they ’re withering too ! ” Whether decline has thinn’d my hair, I'm sure I neither know nor care ; 5 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 ; r > And had I but an hour to live, That little hour to bliss I’d give. -- ODE VIII J I care not for the idle state Of Persia’s king 8, the rich, the great : I envy not the monarch’s throne, Nor wish the treasur’d gold my own. This epigram of Naugerius is imitated by Lodovico Dolce in a poem, beginning Mentrc raccoglie hor uno, hor alto fiore Vicina a un rio di chiare et lucid’ onde, Lidia, &c. & c. 4 Alberti has imitated this ode in a poem, begin Ring Nisa mi dice e Clori Tirsi, tu se’ pur veglio. 5 Whether decline has thinn'd my hair, I'm sure I neither knoio nor care;] Henry Stephen very justly remarks the elegant negligence of expres- sion in the original here : E yco 8e too; Kopaf pev, Etr’ etaiv, eir a-nrfkQov, Ov/c oi.6a. And Longepierre has adduced from Catullus, what ho thinks a similar instance of this simplicity of man- ner : — Ipse quis sit, utrum sit, an non sit, id quoque nescit. Longepierre was a good critic ; but perhaps the line which he has selected is a specimen of a carelessness not very commendable. At the same time I confess, that none of the Latin poets have ever appeared to me so capable of imitating the graces of Anacreon as Catullus, if he had not allowed a depraved imagination to hurry him so often into mere vulgar licentiousness. 6 That still as death approaches nearer. The joys of life are sweeter, dearer ;] Pontanushas a very delicate thought upon the subject of old age : — Quid rides, Matrona? senem quid temnis amantem ? Quisquis amat nulla est conditione senex. Why do you scorn my want of youth. And with a smile my brow behold ? Lady dear ! believe this truth, That he who loves cannot be old. 7 “ The German poet Lessing has imitated this ode. Vol. i. p. 24.” Degen. Gail de Editionibus. Baxter conjectures that this was written upon the occasion of our poet’s returning the money to Poly- crates, according to the anecdote in Stobaius. 8 I care not for the idle state Of Persia's king, <§ c.] “ There is a fragment of Ar- chilochus in Plutarch, ‘ De tranquillitate animi,’ which our poet has very closely imitated here ; it begins, Ov poi ra Vvycco tov woXvxpvcrov peXcc." BARNES. In one of the monkish imitators of Anacreon we find the same thought : — i'v\T)v tprjv epcoTci), Tt trot QeXetq yeveaOai ; €*cA«c Evyew ra «a» ra ; 10 MOOKL’S WORKS. But ohl be miito the rosy wreath, Its freshness o’er my brow to breathe ; Be mine the rich perfumes that flow, To cool and scent my locks of snow.* To-day I’ll haste to quaff my wine, As if to-morrow ne’er would shine ; But if to-morrow comes, why then — I’ll hasto to quaff my wine again. And thus while all our days are bright. Nor time has dimm’d their bloomy light, Let us the festal hours beguile With mantling cup and cordial smile { And shed from each new bowl of wine The richest drop on Bacchus’ shrine, For Death may eome, with brow unpleasant, May come, when least wc wish him present, And beckon to the sable shore, And grimly bid us — drink no more ! ODE IX. I pray thee, by the gods above, 2 Give me the mighty bowl I love, And let me sing, in wild delight, “ I will — I will be mad to-night 1 ” Alcmaeon once, as legends tell. Was frenzied by the fiends of hell ; Orestes too, with naked tread, Frantic pac’d the mountain-head ; And why ? a murder’d mother’s shade Haunted them still where’er they stray’d. But ne’er could I a murderer be, The grape alone shall bleed by me ; Yet can I shout, with wild delight, “ I will — I will be mad to-night. ” Alcides’ self, in days of yore, Imbrued his hands in youthful gore, And brandish’d, with a maniac joy, The quiver of th’ expiring boy : 1 He mine the rich perfumes that Jioto. To cool and scent my locks ofsnoio .] In the original, /ivpour i KaraOpexeiv tnrrjvrjv. On account of this idea of perfuming the beard, Cornelius de Pauw pronounces the whole ode to be the spurious production of some lascivious monk, who was nursing his beard with unguents. But he should have known, that this was an ancient eastern custom, which, if we may believe Savary, still exists : “ Vous voyez, Monsieur (says this traveller), que l’usage antique de se parf umer la teteet labarbe *, celebre par le prophfete Roi, Eubsiste encore do nos jours.” Lettre 12. Savary likewise cites this very ode of Anacreon. Angerianus has not thought the idea inconsistent, having Introduced it in the following lines : — Hive mihi cura, rosis et cingere tempora myrto, Et curas multo dclapidafe mero. IIspc mihi cura, comas et barbam tingere succo Assyrio et dulces continuare jocos. This be my care, to wreathe my brow with flowers, To drench my sorrows in the ample bowl ; To pour rich perfumes o’er my beard in showers, And give full loose to mirth and joy of soul ! 2 The poet is here in a frenzy of enjoyment, and it is, Indeed, “amabilis insania; ” — Furor di poesia, Di lascivia, e di vino, Triplicate furore, Baccho, Apollo, et Amove. Ritratti del Cavalier Marino. * “ Sicut unguentum in capite quod descend'd in barbam Aaronis. Pseaume cxxxiii.” Ami Ajax, with tremendous shield, Infuriate scour’d the guiltless field. But I, whose hands no weapon ask, No armour but this joyous flask ; The trophy of whose frantic hours Is but a scatter’d wreath of flowers, Ev’ 11 1 can sing with wild delight, “ I will — I will be mad to-night I ’ ODE X.3 How am I to punish thee, For the wrong thou’st done to me, Silly swallow, prating thing 4_ Shall I clip that wheeling wing ? Or, as Tereus did, of old, 5 (So the fabled tale is told,) Shall I tear that tongue away, Tongue that utter’d such a lay ? Ah, how thoughtless hast thou been Long before the dawn wa9 seen, When a dream came o’er my mind, Picturing her I worship, kind, Just when I was nearly blest, Loud thy matins broke my rest ! ♦ ODE XI.® “ Tell me, gentle youth, I pray thee, What in purchase shall I pay thee For this little waxen toy, Image of the Paphian 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,) This is truly, as Scaliger expresses it, Insanire dulce Et sapidum furere furorem. 3 This ode is addressed to a swallow. I find from Degen and from Gail’s index, that the German poet Wcisse has imitated it, Seherz. Lieder, lib. ii. carm. 5.; that Ramler also has imitated it, Lyr.- Blumenlese, lib. iv. p. 555. ; and some others. See Gail de F.ditionibus. We are here referred by Degen to that dull book, the F. pi sties of Alciphron, tenth epistle, third book ; where Iophon complains to Eraston of being awakened by the crowing of a cock, from his vision of riches. 4 Silly swaUow, prating thing, fyc.") The loquacity of the swallow was proverbialised ; thus Nicostratus Et to TroWa Kai Ta\eco<; \a\eiv Hv tov ^ povetv Trxpa 8 wap. at ; With Reason I cover my breast as a shield. And fearlessly meet little Love in the field ; Thus fighting his godship, I’ll ne’er be dismay'd ; But if Bacchus should ever advance to his aid, Alas ! then unable to combat the two. Unfortunate warrior, what should I do ? This idea of the irresistibility of Cupid and Bacchus united, is delicately expressed in an Italian poem, which is so truly Anacreontic, that its introduction here may be pardoned. It is an imitation, indeed, of our poet’s sixth ode : — Lavossi Amore in quel vicino flume Ove giuro (Pastor) che bevend’ io Bevei le fiamme, anzi 1’ istesso Dio, Ch’ or con 1’ humide piume Lascivetto mi scherza al cor intorno. Ma che sarei s’ io lo bevessi un giorno, Bacco, nel tuo liquore ? Sarei, piu che non sono ebro d’ Amore. The urchin of the bow and quiver Was bathing in a neighbouring river, Where, as I drank on yester-eve, (Shepherd-youth, the tale believe,) ’Twas not a cooling, crystal draught, ’Twas liquid flame I madly quaft ’d; For Love was in the rippling tide, I felt him to my bosom glide ; And now the wily, wanton minion Plays round my heart with restless pinion. A day it was of fatal star, But ah, ’twere even more fatal far, If, Bacchus, in thy cup of fire, I found this flutt’ring young desire : Then, then indeed my soul would prove, Ev’n more than ever, drunk with love l 12 MOORE’S WORKS. And, having now no other dart, He shot himself into my heart 1 1 My heart — alas the luckless day 1 Receiv’d the god, nnd died away. Farewell, farewell, my faithless shield 1 Thy Lord at length is forc’d to yield. Vain, vain, is every outward care, The foe’s within, and triumphs there. ODE XIV.2 Count me, on the summer trees, Every leaf that courts the breeze ; 3 Count me, on the foamy deep, Every wave that sinks to sleep ; Then, when you have number’d these Billowy tides and leafy trees, Count me all the flames I prove, All the gentle nymphs I love. First, of pure Athenian maids Sporting in their olive shades, You may reckon just a score, Nay, I’ll grant you fifteen more. 1 And, having now no other dart. He shot himself into my heart /] Dryden has { •arodied this thought in the following extravagant ines: — I’m all o’er Love ; Nay, I am Love, Love shot, and shot so fast, He shot himself into my breast at last. 2 The poet, in this catalogue of his mistresses, means nothing moi e than, by a lively hyperbole, to inform us, that his heart, unfettered by any one object, was warm with devotion towards the sex in general. Cowley is indebted to this ode for the hint of his ballad, called “ The Chronicle and the learned Menage has imitated It in a Greek Anacreontic, which has so much ease and spirit, that the reader may not be displeased at seeing it here : — IIP02 BIQNA. Ei aXcreeov ra v\\a, ,\eifMoviovt re iroiac, Ei macros atrrpcL rravra, TlapaKTiovi re yp-appovs, A\o( re KvparcvSrj, Awtj, Bi.au>, apidpeiv, Kai Tovt epovs epcora j, Avvr), Btor, apidpe iv. Koprjv, rvvaiKa, \r)pav, Epucpyv, Mecryv, Meyetrrtjv, Aevicrjv re teat MeAaivav, OpetaSaq, Navaia;, KyprjtSas re iraaat O ao c <£iAo? llaVTCOV Kopoi; p€V COT IV. AVTTjV vccov Epcorcov, Aetnroivav Atf>poSfrrjv, Xpvarjv, KaXrjv, yXvKCiav, Epa.op.iav, •noBeivrjv, Aei povrjv (fnXrjaat Eyorye py Svvatprjv Tell the foliage of the woods, Tell the billows of the floods. Number midnight’s starry store, And the sands that crowd the shore, Then, my Bion, thou mayst count Of ray loves the vast amount. I’ve been loving, all my days, Many nymphs, in many ways ; Virgin, widow, maid, and wife — I’ve been doting all my life. Naiads, Nereids, nymphs of fountains, Goddesses of groves and mountains, Fair and sable, great and small. Yes, I swear I’ve lov’d them all I Soon was every passion over, I was but the moment's lover; Oh ! I’m such a roving elf. That the Queen of Love herself. In the fum’d Corinthian grove, Where such countless wantons rove,* Chains of beauties may be found, Chains, by which my heart is bound ; There, indeed, are nymphs divine, Dangerous to a soul like mine. 5 Many bloom in Lesbos’ isle ; Many in Ionia smile ; Rhodes a pretty swarm can boast ; Caria too contains a host. Sum them all — of brown and fair You may count two thousand there, What, you stare ? I pray you peace 1 More I’ll find before I cease. Have I told you all my flames, ’Mong the amorous Syrian dames ? Have I number’d every one, Glowing under Egypt’s sun ? Or the nymphs, who blushing sweet Deck the shrine of Love in Crete ; Where the god, with festal play, Holds eternal holiday ? Still in clusters, still remain Gadcs’ warm, desiring train ; 6 Though she practis’d all her wiles. Rosy blushes, wreathed smiles, All her beauty’s proud endeavour Could not chain my heart for ever. 3 Count me, on the summer trees. Every leaf, fyc.] This figure is called, by rheto- ricians, the Impossible (aSwarov), and is very frequently made use of in poetry. The amatory writers have ex- hausted a world of imagery by it, to express the infi- nite number of kisses which they require from the lips of their mistresses : in this Catullus led the way. — Quam sidera multa, cum tacet nox, Furtivos liominum vident amores ; Tam te basia multa basiare Vesano satis, et super, Catullo est : Qu* nec per numerare curiosi Possint, nec mala fascinare lingua. Carm. 7. As many stellar eyes of light. As through the silent waste of night. Gazing upon this world of shade, Witness some secret youth and maid, Who fair as thou, and fond as I, In stolen joys enamour’d lie, — So many kisses, ere I slumber, Upon those dew-bright lips I’ll number; So many kisses we shall count. Envy can never tell the’ amount. No tongue shall blab the sum, but mine; No lips shall fascinate, but thine ! 4 In the fam'd Corinthian grove , Where such countless wantons rove , -fc.] Corinth was very famous for the beauty and number of its courte- zans. Venus was the deity principally worshipped by the people, and their constant prayer was, that the gods should increase the number of her worshippers. We may perceive from the application of the verb Kopivdia- feiv, in Aristophanes, that the lubricity of the Corin- thians had become proverbial. 5 There, indeed, are nymphs divine. Dangerous to a soul like mine !] “ With justice has the poet attributed beauty to the women of Greece.” — Degen. M. de Pauw, the author of Dissertations upon the Greeks, is of a different opinion ; he thinks that by a capricious partiality of nature, the other sex had all the beauty ; and by this supposition endeavours to account for a very singular depravation of instinct among that people. 6 Cades' warm, desiring train;"] The Gaditanian girls were like the Baiadicrcs of India, whose dances aro thus described by a French author; “Les danses sont presque toutes des pantomimes d’amour ; le plan, lc dessein, les attitudes, les mesures, les sons et les ca- dences de ces ballets, tout respire cette passion et en exprime les voluptes et les fureurs.” — Histoire du Commerce des Europ. dans les deux hides. Raynal. The music of the Gaditanian females had all the ODES OF ANACREOX. 13 Still there lies a myriad more On the sable India’s shore ; These, and many far removed, All are loving — all are loved I ODE XV. Tell me, why, my sweetest dove, 1 Thus your humid pinions move, Shedding through the air in showers Essence of the balmiest flowers ? Tell me whither, whence you rove, Tell me all, my sweetest dove. Curious stranger, I belong To the bard of Teian song ; With his mandate now I fly To the nymph of azure eye ; — She, whose eye has madden’d many,'- But the poet more than any. Venus, for a hymn of love, Warbled in her votive grove, 2 3 * (’Twas 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. voluptuous character of their dancing, as appears from Martial : — Cantica qui Nili, qui Gaditana susurrat. Lib. iii. epig. 63. Lodovico Ariosto had this ode of our bard in his mind, when he wrote his poem “ De diversis amori- bus.” See the Anthologia Italorum. 1 The dove of Anacreon, bearing a letter from the poet to his mistress, is met by a stranger, with whom this dialogue is imagined. The ancients made use of letter-carrying pigeons, when they went any distance from home, as the most certain means of conveying intelligence back. That tender domestic attachment, which attracts this delicate little bird through every danger and difficulty, till it settles in its native nest, affords to the author of “ The Pleasures of Memory ” a fine and interesting exemplifi- cation of his subject. Led by what chart, transports the timid dove The wreaths of conquest, or the vows of love I Sec the poem. Daniel Heinsius, in speaking of Dousa, who adopted this method at the siege of Leyden, ex- presses a similar sentiment. Quo patria; non tendit amor ? Mandata referre Postquam hominem nequiit mittcre, misit avem. Fuller tells us, that at the siege of Jerusalem, the Christians intercepted a letter, tied to the legs of a dove, in which the Persian Emperor promised assistance to the besieged. — Holy War, cap. 24. book 1. 2 She, whose eye has madden'd many, c xpvaeyv xeipaj C7r’ EvpvnvXyv, 11 .MOORE’S WORKS. Paint her jetty ringlets playing, Silky locks, like tendrils straying ; * 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 smoothly rise In jetty arches o’er her eyes, Each, a crescent gently gliding, Just commingling, just dividing. But, hast thou any'sparkles warm, The lightning of her eyes to form ? Let them effuse the azure rays That in Minerva’s glances blaze, Mix’d with the liquid light that lies In Cytherea’s languid eyes.s O'er her nose and cheek be shed Flushing white and soften’d red ; Mingling tints, as when there glows In snowy milk the bashful rose. 4 1 Paint her jetty ringlets playing , Silky locks . like tendrils straying ;J The ancients have been very enthusiastic in their praises of the beauty of hair. Apuleius, in the second book of his Milesiacs, says, that Venus herself, if she Mere bald, though surrounded by the Graces and the Loves, could not be pleasing even to her husband Vulcan. Stesichorus gave the epithet KaXXnrXoKap.o<; to the Graces, and Simonides bestowed the same upon the Muses, See Hadrian Junius’s Dissertation upon Hair. To this passage of our poet, Seldon alluded in a note on the Polyolbion of Drayton, Song the Second, where observing, that the epithet “ black-haired ” M as given by some of the ancients to the goddess Isis, he says, “ Nor will I swear, but that Anacreon (a man very ju- dicious in the provoking motives of Manton love), in- tending to bestow on his sweet mistress that one of the titles of woman’s special ornament, well-haired (*aXXt- wXo/ca/Ao?), thought of this when he gave his painter direction to make her black-haired.” 2 And, if painting hath the skill To make the spicy balm distil, t §-c.] Thus Philo- stratus, speaking of a picture: enaivco rov evSpotrov Ton) podcov, kcu yeypx9at avra. p.era oap-rji;. “ I admire the dewiness of these roses, and could say that their very smell was painted.” 3 Mix'd with the liquid light that lies In Cytherea's languid eyes.] Marchetti explains thus the irypov of the original : Dipingili umidetti Tremuli e lascivetti. Quai gli ha Ciprigna P alma Dea d’ Amore. Tasso has painted in the same manner the eyes of Armida : Qual raggio in onda le scintilla un riso Negli umidi occhi tremulo elascivo. Within her humid, melting eyes A brilliant ray of laughter lies, Soft as the broken solar beam. That trembles in the azure stream. The mingled expression of dignity and tenderness, which Anacreon requires the painter to infuse into the eyes of his mistress, is more amply described in the subsequent ode. Both descriptions are so exquisitely- touched, that the artist must have been great indeed, if he did not yield in painting to the poet. 4 Mingling tints, as when there glows. In snowy milk the bashful rose.] Thus Propertius, eleg. 3. lib. ii. Utque rosa: puro lacte natant folia. And Davenant, in a little poem called “ The Mis- tress,” Then her lip, so rich in blisses, Sweet petitioner for kisses, 5 * Rosy nest, where lurks Persuasion, Mutely courting Love’s invasion. Next, beneath the velvet cliin, Whose dimple hides a Love within,® Mould her neck with grace descending, In a heaven of beauty ending ; While countless charms, above, below, Sport and flutter round its snow. Now let a floating, lucid veil, Shadow her form, but not conceal ; 7 * A charm may peep, a hue may beam, And leave the rest to Fancy’s dream, Enough — ’tis she 1 ’tis all I seek ; It glows, it lives, it soon will speak 1 ODE XVII.8 And now with all thy pencil’s truth, Portray Bathyllus, lovely youth ! Let his hair, in masses bright, Fall like floating rays of light ; 9 Catch as it falls the Scythian snow, Bring blushing roses steep’d in milk. Thus too Taygctus : — Quae lac atquc rosas vincis candore rubenti These last words may perhaps defend the “ flushing white** of the translation. 5 Then her lip, so rich in blisses. Sweet petitioner for kisses,] The “lip, provoking kisses,” in the original, is a strong and beautiful ex- pression. Achilles Tatius speaks of xeiXy paXOana -npoq to. cXt) para, “ Lips soft and delicate for kissing.” A grave old commentator, Dionysius Lambinus, in his notes upon Lucretius, tells us, with the apparent au- thority of experience, that “ Suavius viros osculantur puellie labiosa:, quam qua; sunt brevibus labris.” And Abieas Sylvius, in his tedious uninteresting story of the loves of Euryalus and Lucrctia, where he particu- larises the beauties of the heroine (in a very false and laboured style of latinity), describes her lips thus : “ Os parvum decensque, laba corallini colons ad morsum aptissima.” — Epist. 114. lib. i. 6 Next, beneath the velvet chin. Whose dimple hides a Love within, fyc.] Madame Dacier has quoted here two pretty lines of Varro : — Sigilla in mento impressa Amoris digitulo Vcstigio demonstrant mollitudinem. In her chin is a delicate dimple, By Cupid’s own Angers imprest ; There Beauty, bcM-itchingly simple, Has chosen her innocent nest. 7 Now let a floating, lucid veil, Shadow her form, but not conceal; $c.] This deli- cate art of description, Mhich leaves imagination to complete the picture, has been seldom adopted in the imitations of this beautiful poem. Ronsard is cxcep- tionably minute ; and Politianus, in his charming por- trait of a girl, full of rich and exquisite diction, has lifted the veil rather too much. The “ questo che tu m’ intendi ” should be always left to fancy. 8 The reader, Mho M'ishes to acquire an accurate idea of the judgment of the ancients in beauty, Mill be in- dulged by consulting Junius de Pictura Veterum, lib. iii. c. 9., Mhere he M-ill find a very curious selection of descriptions and epithets of personal perfections. Junius compares this ode . with a description of Theodoric, king of the Goths, in the second epistle, first book, of Sidonius Apollinaris. 9 Let his hair, in masses bright. Fall like floating rays of light ; fyc.] He here de- scribes the sunny hair, the “ flava coma,” which the ancients so much admired. The Romans gave this colour artificially to their hair. See Stanisl. Kobien* zyck. de Luxu Romanorum. ODES OF ANACREON. 15 Fair as the neck of Paphia’s boy, Where Paphia’s arms have hung in joy. Give him the winged Hermes’ hand , 5 With which he waves his snaky wand ; Let Bacchus the broad chest supply, And Leda’s sons the sinewy thigh ; While, through his whole transparent frame Thou show’st the stirrings of that flame, Which kindles, when the first love-sigh Steals from the heart, unconscious why. But sure thy pencil, though so bright, Is envious of the eye’s delight, Or its enamour’d touch would show The 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 the sun-god’s portrait there ; 7 Why paint Batliyllus ? when, in truth, There, in that god, thou’st sketch’d the youth, Enough — let this bright form be mine, And send the boy to Samos’ shrine ; Phoebus shall then Batliyllus be, Bathyllus then, the deity ! And there the raven’s die confuse With the golden sunbeam’s hues. Let no wreath, with artful twine , 1 The flowing of his locks confine ; But leave them loose to every breeze, To take what shape and course they please. Beneath the forehead, fair as snow, But flush’d with manhood’s early glow, And guileless as the dews of dawn , 2 Let the majestic brows be drawn, Of ebon hue, enrich’d by gold, Such as dark, shining snakes unfold. Mix in his eyes the power alike, With love to win, with awe to strike ; 3 Borrow from Mars his look of ire, From Venus her soft glance of fire ; Blend them in such expression here, That we by turns may hope and fear I Now from the sunny apple seek The velvet down that spreads his check ; And there, if art so far can go, Th’ ingenuous blush of boyhood show. While, for his mouth — but no, — in vain Would words its witching charm explain. Make it the very seat, the throne, That Eloquence would claim her own ; 4 And let the lips, though silent, wear A life-look, as if words were there . 5 Next thou his ivory neck must trace, Moulded with soft but manly grace ; 1 Let no wreath , with artful twine, fyc.] If the original here, which is particularly beautiful, can admit of any additional value, that value is conferred by Gray’s admiration of it. See his letters to West. Some annotators have quoted on this passage the description of Photis’s hair in Apuleius ; but nothing can be more distant from the simplicity of our poet’s manner, than that affectation of richness which dis- tinguishes the style of Apuleius. 2 But flush'd with manhood's early glow, And guileless as the dews of dawn, q-c.] Torrentius, upon the words “ insignem tenui fronte,” in Horace, Od. 33. lib. i., is of opinion, incorrectly I think, that “tenui” here bears the same meaning as the word anaXov. 3 Mix in his eyes the power alike. With love to win, with aive to strike ; Src .] Tasso gives a similar character to the eyes of Clorinda : Lampeggiar gli occhi, e folgorar gli sguardi Dolci ne 1’ ira. Her eyes were flashing with a heavenly heat, A fire that, even in anger, still was sweet. The poetess Veronica Cambara is more diffuse upon this variety of expression : Occhi lucenti e belli, Come esser puo ch’ in un medesmo istante Nascan de voi si nuove forme et tante ? Lieti, mesti, superbi, humil’, altieri, Vi mostrate in un punto, onde di spemc, Et di timor, de empiete, & c. &c. Oh I tell me, brightly-beaming eye, Whence in your little orbit lie So many different traits of fire, Expressing each a new desire. Now with pride ot scorn you darkle, Now with love, with gladness, sparkle, While we who view the varying mirror, Feel by turns both hope and terror. Chevreau, citing the lines of our poet, in his critique on the poems of Malherbe, produces a Latin version of them from a manuscript which he had seen, entitled “Joan. Falconis Anacreontici Lusus.” 4 That Eloquence would claim her own;] In the original, as in the preceding ode, Pitho, the goddess of ODE XVIII. s Now the star of day is high, Fly, my girls, in pity fly, persuasion, or eloquence. It was worthy of the delicate imagination of the Greeks to deify Persuasion, and give her the lips for her throne. We are here re- minded of a very interesting fragment of Anacreon, preserved by the scholiast upon Pindar, and supposed to belong to a poem reflecting with some severity on Simonides, who was the first, we are told, that ever made a hireling of his muse : OvS" apyvpey ttot eXap-^-e Tleidcv. Nor yet had fair Persuasion shone In silver splendours, not her own. 5 And let the lips, though silent, wear A life-look, as if words were there.'] In the original XaXcov aiwiry. The mistress of Petrarch “ parla con silenzio,” which is perhaps the best method of female eloquence. 6 Give him the winged Hermes' hand, Spc.] In Sliak. speare’s Cymbehne there is a similar method of de- scription : — this is his hand, His foot mercurial, his martial thigh, The brawns of Hercules. We find it likewise in Hamlet. Longepierre thinks that the hands of Mercury are selected by Anacreon, on account of the graceful gestures which were supposed to characterise the god of eloquence ; but Mercury was also the patron of thieves, and may perhaps be praised as a light-fingered deity. 7 But hold — forbear — I see the sun-god' s portrait there ;] The abrupt turn here is spirited, but requires some explanation. While the artist is pursuing the portrait of Bathyllus, Ana- creon, we must suppose, turns round aud sees a picture of Apollo, which was intended for an altar at Samos. He then instantly tells the painter to cease his work ; that this picture will serve for Bathyllus; and that, when he goes to Samos, he may make an Apollo of the portrait of the boy which he had begun. “ Bathyllus (says Madame Dacier) could not be more elegantly praised, and this one passage docs him more honour than the statue, however beautiful it might be, which Poly crates raised to him.” 8 An elegant translation of this ode, says Degen, may be found in Ramler’s Lyr. Blumenlese, lib. v. p. 403. 16 MOORE’S WORKS. Bring mo 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, 2 Drop them o’er my brow in showers. Scarce a breathing chaplet now Lives upon my feverish brow ; Kvery dewy rose I wear Sheds its tears, and withers there.* But to you, my burning heart , 4 AVhat can now relief impart ? Can brimming bowl, or flowret’s dew, Cool the flame that scorches you ? ♦ i 1 Bring me trine in brimming urns , &c.) Orig. ir*iv apvort. The amystis M as a method of drinking used among the Thracians. Thus Horace, “ Threicid vincat amystide.” Mad. Dacier, Longepierre, &c. &c. Parrhasius, in his twenty -sixth epistle (Thesaur. Critic, vol. i.>, explains the amystis as a draught to be exhausted without drawing breath, “ uno haustu.” A note in the margin of this epistle of Parrhasius says, • Politianus vestem esse putabat,” but adds no reference. Give me all those humid flowers, <§ c.] According to the original reading of this line, the poet says, “ Give me the flower of wine ” — Date flosculos Lyiei, as it is in the version of Elias Andreas ; and Deh porgetimi del fiore Di quel alino e buon liquore, as Regnier has it, who supports the reading. The word av9oq would undoubtedly bear this application, which is someM*hat similar in its import to the epigram of Simonides upon Sophocles : — ’Eo-fieaSrji; yepate 2oon cXecq, av9oq aocSwv ’ and flos in the Latin is frequently applied in the same nunner — thus Cetlicgus is called by Ennius, Flos inlibatus populi, suadseque medulla, “ The immaculate flower of the people, and the very marrow of persua- sion.” See these verses cited by Aulus Gellius, lib. xii., which Cicero praised, and Seneca thought ridiculous. But in the passage before us, if we admit eictLvwv, according to Faber’s conjecture, the sense is sufficiently clear, without having recourse to such refinements. 3 Every dewy rose I wear Sheds its tears, and withers there .] There are some beautiful lines, by Angerianus, upon a garland, which I cannot resist quoting here : — Ante fores madidx sic sic pendete corollae, Mane orto imponet Caelia vos capiti ; At quum per niveam cervicem influxerit humor, Dicite, non roris sed pluvia haec lacrimae. By Celia’s arbour all the night 'Hang, humid wreath, the lover’s vow ; And haply at the morning light. My love shall twine thee round her brow. Then, if upon her bosom bright Some drops of dew shall fall from thee, Tell her, they are not drops of night. But tears of sorrow shed by me ! In the poem of Mr. Sheridan’s, “ Uncouth is this moss-covered grotto of stone,” there is an idea very sin- gularly coincident with this of Angerianus : — And thou, stony grot, in thy arch may,’st preserve Some lingering drops of the night-fallen dew ; Let them fall on her bosom of snow, and they’ll serve As tears of my sorrow entrusted to you. 4 But to you, my burning heart, 4-c.] The transi- tion here is peculiarly delicate and impassioned ; but the commentators have perplexed the sentiment by a variety of readings and conjecture. 5 The description of this bower is so natural and animated, that we almost feel a degree of coolness and freshness while we peruse it. Longepierre has quoted from the first book of the Anthologia, the follo.ymg epigram, as somewhat resembling this ode : — ODE XIX . 5 IIehe recline you, gentle maid , 6 Sweet ia this embowering shade ; Sweet the young, the modest trees, liuflled by the kissing breeze ; Sweet the little founts that weep, Lulling soft the mind to sleep ; Hark ! they whisper as they roll, Calm persuasion to the soul j 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 . 7 + ODE XX . 8 Oxe day the Muses twin’d the hands Of infant Love with flow’ry bands ; Yipyeo kcu tear epav t£ev iririrv, a to pe\i\po v IIpoc fjLa.XaK.ovq rjxet kckX ipeva {efvpov;. teal Kpovvio pa peXlOTayeq, evQa peXt oStov H$vv eprjp.aiot.q vrrvov ayco KaXapoiq. Come, sit by the shadowy pine That covers my sylvan retreat ; And see how the branches incline The breathing of zephyr to meet. See the fountain that, flowing, diffuses Around me a glittering spray ; By its brink, as the traveller muses, I soothe him to sleep with my lay. 6 Here recline you , gentle maid, 9tp.evoiq. In life thou wert my morning star. But now that death has stol’n thy light, Alas ! thou shincst dim and far, Like the pale beam that weeps at night. In the Veneres Blyenburgicse, under the head of “ Allusioncs,” we find a number of such frigid conceits upon names, selected from the poets of the middle ages. 1 Who, my girl, would pass it by? Surely neither you nor /.] The finish given to the picture by this simple exclamation rtq av ow 6pa>v wapeXOot, is inimitable. Yet a French translator says on the passage, “ This conclusion appeared to me too trifling after such a description, and I thought proper to add someu-hat to the strength of the original.” 8 The poet appears, in this graceful allegory, to de scribe the softening influence which poetry holds over the mind, in making it peculiarly susceptible to the impressions of beauty. In the folloning epigram, how- ever, by the philosopher Plato (Diog. Lacit. lib. 5.), the Muses arc represented as disavowing the influence of Love. A K.wrrpiq Movoaioi, Kopaota, rav A^poSt-rav T ipar , y tov Epuira vpptv eOTrXicrop,ai~ A l Movtrai iron 'Avirpiv, A pet ra orwpvXa ravra* 'Ilpuv ov ireraraL tovto to iraiSapiov. “ Yield to my gentle power, Parnassian maids Thus to the Muses spoke the Queen of Charms — “ Or Love shall flutter through your classic shades. And make your grove the camp of Paphian arms 1 ” “ No.” said the virgins of the tuneful bou er, “ We scorn thine own and all thy urchin’s art ; Though Mars has trembled at the infant’s power, His shaft is pointless o’er a Muse’s heart! ” There is a sonnet by Benedetto Guidi, the thought of which Mas suggested by this ode. Scherzava dentro all’ auree chiome Amore Dell’ alma donna della vita mia : E ♦•'ota era il piacer ch’ ci ne sentia, Che non sapea, nb volea uscirne fore. ODES OF ANACREON. 17 And to celestial Beauty gave The captive infant for her slave. Ilis mother comes, with many a toy, To ransom her beloved boy ; 1 His mother sues, but all in vain, — He ne’er will leave his chains again. Even should they take his chains away, The little captive still would stay. “ If this,” he cries, “ a bondage be, Oh, who could wish for liberty ? ” + ODE XXI.2 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 all your sober thinking •. Since Nature’s holy law is drinking ; I’ll make the laws of nature mine, And pledge the universe in wine. + ODE XXII. The Phrygian rook, that braves the storm, Was once a weeping matron’s form ; 3 Quando ecco ivi annodar si sente il core. Si, che per forza ancor convien che stia : Tai lacci alta beltate orditi avia Del crespo crin, per farsi eterno onore. Onde offre infin dal ciel degna mcrccde, A clii scioglie il ligliuol la belle dea Da tanti nodi, in ch’ ella stretto il vede. Ma ei vinto a due occhi 1’ arme cede : Et t’ affatichi indarno, Citerea ; Clie s’ altri ’1 scioglie, egli a legar si ricdc. Love, wandering through the golden maze Of my beloved’s hair, Found, at each step, such sweet delays. That rapt he linger’d there. And how, indeed, was Love to fly, Or how his freedom find, When every ringlet was a tie, A chain, by Beauty twin’d. In vain to seek her boy’s release Comes Venus from above: Fond mother, let thy efforts cease. Love’s now the slave of Love. And, should we loose his golden chain. The prisoner M ould return again ! Sic blbit assidufc fontes et flumina Pontus, Sic semper sitiens Sol maris haurit aquas. Ne te igitur jactes plus me, Silene, bibisse ; Et milii da victas tu quoque, Bacclie, man us. HirroLYTUs Catiluit’S. While life ivas mine, the little hour In drinking still unvaried Aom' ; I drank as earth imbibes the shower, Or as the rainbow drinks the dew ; As ocean quaffs the rivers up, Or flushing sun inhales the sea : Silenus trembled at my cup, And Bacchus Mas outdone by me . I cannot omit citing those remarkable lines of Sliak- speare, M-here the thoughts of the ode before us are pre- served with such striking similitude: I’ll example you M-ith thievery. The sun’s a thief, and with his great attraction Robs the vast sea. The moon’s an arrant thief. And her pale fire she snatches from the sun. The sea’s a thief, whose liquid surge resolves The mounds into salt tears. The earth’s a thief, That feeds, and breeds by a composture stol’n From general excrements. Timon of Athens, act iv. sc. 5, 1 His mother comes, with many a toy, To ransom her beloved boy ; #c.] In the first idyl of Moschus, Venus thus proclaims the reu ard for her fugitive child : — O ptavvraq yepaq i$ei, I'.todoq tol, to QtXapta to Kv7 rptSoq' yv S’ ayayyq vtv Ov yvptvov to iAapta, tv S', to tjeve, /cat. 7rXeov i{et j. On him. M ho the haunts of my Cupid can sIiom-, A kiss of the tenderest stamp I’ll bestow ; But he, who can bring back the urchin in chains, Shall receive even something more su’eet for his pains. Subjoined to this ode, we find in the Vatican MS. the follouing lines, which appear to me to boast as little sense as metre, and which are most probably the inter- polation of the transcriber : — HSvpteXyq Avaxpecov HSvpteXyq Se 1a.Tr(pco TltvSaptxov to Se plot pteXoq Ex/yxepaaaq Ttq ey\eot T a Tpta ravra ptot donee K at A tovvooq eta eXdcov Kat Ila ty irapaxpooq Kat axrroq Y.pcoq xav eirtctv. - Those critics who have endeavoured to throw the *:hains of precision over the spiritof this beautiful trifle, require too much from Anacreontic philosophy. Among others, Gail very sapiently thinks that the poet uses the epithet pteXatiry, because black earth absorbs moisture more quickly than any other ; and accordingly he in- dulges us Mith an experimental disquisition on the subject. — See Gail’s notes. One of the Capilupi has imitated this ode, in an epi- taph on a drunkard : — Dum vixi sine fine bibi, sic imbrifer arcus hie tcllus pluvias sole perusta bibit. 3 a iceeping matron's form ;] Niobe. — Ogil- vic, in his Essay on the Lyric l’oetry of the Ancients, in remarking upon the Odes of Anacreon, saj r s, “ In some of his pieces there is exuberance and even M ild- ness of imagination ; in that particularly, which is addressed to a young girl, where he wishes alternately to be transformed to a mirror, a coat, a stream, a bracelet, and a pair of shoes, for the different purposes which he recites: this is mere sport and Mantonness.” It is the wantonness, hoM-ever, of a very graceful Muse : “ ludit amabiliter.” The compliment of this ode is exquisitely delicate, and so singular for the period in which Anacreon lived, when the scale of love had not yet been graduated into all its little progressive refinements, that if M e M ere inclined to question the authenticity of the poem, Me should find a much more plausible argument in the features of modern gallantry which it bears, than in any of those fastidious conjec- tures upon which some commentators have presumed so far. Degen thinks it spurious, and De Pauw pro- nounces it to be miserable. Longepierre and Barnes refer us to several imitations of this ode, from M-hich I shall only select the folloMing epigram of Diony. sius: — Etd' atvepto q yevoptyv, ov Se ye arei \ovoa Trap avyaq, Erydea yvptvwoatq, kcu pte nveovra Xafiotq. Etde fcoSov yevoptyv i>-rro-noppa pte \cpotv Apaptevy, Kopuoatq oreOeot \toveotq. Etde xptvov yevoptyv Xevx oypoov, opa pte \epotv Apaptevy, ptaXXov oyq \portyq nopeoyq. I wish I could like zephyr steal To wanton o’er thy mazy vest ; And thou Mouldst ope thy bosom-veil, And take me panting to thy breast « I wish I might a rose-bud grow. And thou wouldst cull me from the bower- To place me on that breast of snow, W here I should bloom, a wintry flower. C IS MOORE’S WORKS. And Proguc, hapless, frautic maid, Is now a swallow in the shade. Oh ! that a mirror's form were mine, That I might catch that smile divine ; And like my own fond fancy be, Kcflccting thee, and only thee ; Or could I be the robe which holds That graceful form within its folds ; Or, turn'd into a fountain, lave Thy beauties in my circling wave. Would I were perfume for thy hair, To breathe my soul in fragrance there ; Or, better still, the zone, that lies Close to thy breast, and feels its sighs ! * Or ev’n 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 — Ev’u to be trod by them were sweet ! 2 ODE XXIII.3 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. I wish I were the lily’s leaf. To fade upon that bosom warm, Content to -wither, pale and brief. The trophy of thy fairer form I I may add, that Plato has expressed as fanciful a wish in a distich preserved by Laertius : Acrrtpat aaaOpat, Aarrjp epot’ a9e yevotpyv Qvpavot, tie 7roXXoic oppaatv at ae fiXenu. TO STELLA. Why dost thou gaze upon the sky ? Oh ! that I were that spangled sphere, And every star should be an eye, To wonder on thy beauties here I Apuleius quotes this epigram of the divine philoso- pher, to justify himself for his verses on Critias and Charinus. See his Apology, where he also adduces the example of Anacreon ; “ Fecere tamen et alii talia, et si vos ignoratis, apud Graecos Teius quidam,” &c. &t 1 Or, better still, the zone, that lies Close to thy breast, and feels its sighs!] This rainy was a riband, or band, called by the Romans fascia and stropliium, which the women wore for the purpose of restraining the exuberance of the bosom. Vide Polluc. Onomast. Thus Martial : — FasciS. crescentes dominse compcsce papillas. The women of Greece not only wore this zone, hut condemned themselves to fasting, and made use of cer- tain drugs and powders for the same purpose. To these expedients they were compelled, inconsequence of their inelegant fashion of compressing the waist into a very narrow compass, which necessarily caused an excessive tumidity in the bosom. See Dioscoridcs, lib. v. 2 Nay, sandals for those airy feet — Ev'n to be trod by them were street fj The sophist Philostratus, in one of his love-letters, has borrowed this thought; co aderci nodet, co KaXXot eXev8epot, to rpia- ev6a.1p.ajv eyco icat paicaptot eav tt ary a ere pe. — “ Oh lovely feet ! oh excellent beauty I oh ! thrice happy and blessed should I be, if you would but tread on me ! ” In Shakspearc, Romeo desires to be a glove : — Oh ! that I were a glove upon that hand, That I might kiss that cheek 1 And, in his Passionate Pilgrim, we meet with an idea somewhat like that of the thirteenth line ; — 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 1 ” 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. 4 But still its fainting sighs repeat, “ The tale of love alone is sweet ! ” 5 Then fare thee well, seductive dream, That mad’st me follow Glory’s theme ; For thou my lyre, and thou my hoart, Shall never more in spirit part ; And all that one has felt so well The other shall as sweetly tell 1 ODE XXIV. 6 To all that breathe the air of heaven, Some boon of strength has Nature given. In forming the majestic bull, She fenced with wreathed horns his skull ; A hoof of strength she lent the steed, And wing’d the timorous hare with speed. She gave the lion fangs of terror, And, o’er the ocean’s crystal mirror, He, spying her, bounc’d in, where as he stood, “ O Jove ! ” quoth she, “ why was not I a flood ? ” In Burton’s Anatomy of Melancholy, that whimsical farrago of “all such reading as was never read,” we find a translation of this ode made before 1652. — “ Englished by Mr B. Holiday, in his Technog. act i. scene 7.” 3 According to the order in which the odes aro usually placed, this (OeXco Xeyeiv ArpeiSat) forms the first of the series ; and is thought to be peculiarly designed as an introduction to the rest. It however characterises the genius of tlic Teian but very inade- quately, as wine, the burden of his lays, is not even mentioned in it : cum multo Yoncrem confundere mero Precepit Lyrici Teia Musa senis. OVID. The twenty-sixth Ode, 1v pev Xeyat rra Qyftyt, might, with just as much propriety, be placed at the head of his songs. We find the sentiment of the ode before us expressed by Bion with much simplicity in his fourth idyl. The above translation is, perhaps, too paraphrastical ; but the ode has been so frequently translated, that I could not otherwise avoid triteness and repetition. 4 In all the glow of epic fire. To Hercules I wake the lyre .] Madame Dacier generally translates Xvpy into a lute, which I believe is inaccurate. “ D’expliquer la lyre des anciens (says M. Sorel) par un lutb, e’est ignorer la difference qu’il y a entre ces deux instrumens de musique.” — Bibliothequc Frangoise. 5 But still its fainting siqhs repeat, “ The tale of love alone is sweet ! ”] The word avre- tf> covet, in the original, may imply that kind of musical dialogue practised by the ancients, in which the lyre ■was made to respond to the questions proposed by the singer. This was a method which Sappho used, as we are told by Hermogenes ; “ 6rav ryv Xvpav epcora rcfico, /cat 6rav awry aTroicpivTjTai .” — Ilept 1 6aov, rop. 6evr. 6 Henry Stephen has imitated the idea of this ode in the following lines of one of his poems : — Provida dat cunctis Natura animantibus arrna, Et sua foemineum possidet arma genus, Unguldque utdefenditequum, atqueutcornua taurum, Armata est formal feemina pulchra sua. ODES OF AN ACRE OX. 19 Taught the unnumber d scaly throng To trace their liquid path along ; While for the umbrage of the grove, She plum’d the warbling world of love. To man she gave, in that proud hour, The boon of intellectual power, i Then, what, oh woman, what, for thee, Was left in Nature’s treasury ? She gave thee beauty — mightier far Than all the pomp and power of war. 2 Nor steel, nor fire itself hath power Like woman in her conquering hour. Be thou but fair, mankind adore thee, Smile, and a world is weak before thee ! 3 ODE XXV.4 Once in each revolving year, Gentle bird I w r e 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 seelc’st the genial bowers Of Memphis, or the shores of Nile, Where sunny hours for ever smile. And thus thy pinion rests and roves, — Alas ! unlike the swarm of Loves, That brood within this hapless breast, And never, never change their nest ! 3 Still every year, and all the year, They fix their fated dwelling here ; And the same thought occurs in those lines, spoken by Corisca in Pastor i'ido : Cosi noi la bellezza Ch’ e vertu nostra eosi propria, come La forza del leone, E 1* ingegno de P huomo. The lion boasts his savage powers, And lordly man his strength of mind : But beauty’s charm.is solely ours, Peculiar boon, by Heav’n assign’d. “ An elegant explication of the beauties of this ode (says Degen) may be found in Grimm an den Anmerk. liber einige Oden des Anakr.” 1 To man she gave , in that proud hour, The boon of intellectual pouter."] In my first attempt to translate this ode, I had interpreted povrjpa, with Baxter and Barnes, as implying courage and military virtue; but I do not think that the gallantry of the idea suffers by the import which I have now given to it. For, why need we consider this possession of wisdom as exclusive? and in truth, as the design of Anacreon is to estimate the treasure of beauty, above all the rest which Nature has distributed, it is perhaps even re- fining upon the delicacy of the compliment, to prefer the radiance of female charms to the cold illumination of wisdom and prudence ; and to think that women’s eyes are the books, the academies, From whence doth spring the true Promethean fire. 2 She gave thee beauty — mightier far. Than all thepomp and power of war. ] Thus Achilles Tatius : — KaXXos o^vrepov TupataKet fteXovg, kcu, 6ta tcov otf>daXpwv etq ttjv i {rvxgv Karappet. 0daXpoq yap 6doq tpw 7 t/ca> Tpavp-aru “ Beauty wounds more swiftly than the arrow, and passes through the eye to the very soul ; for tho eye is the inlet to the wounds of love.” 3 Be thou but fair, mankind adore thee. Smile , and a world is weak before thee /] Longe- pierre’s remark here is ingenious : — “ The Romans,” says he, “ were so convinced of the power of beauty, that they used a word implying strength in the place of the epithet beautiful. Thus Plautus, act 2. scene 2. Facchid.' Sed Bacchis etiam fortis tibi visa. Fortis, IJ Cit formosa,’ say Servius and Nonius.' 1 * And some their infant plumage try, And on a tender winglet fly ; While in the shell, impregn’d with fires, Still lurk a thousand more desires ; Some from their tiny prisons peeping, And some in formless embryo sleeping. Thus peopled, like the vernal groves, My breast resounds with warbling Loves ; One urchin imps the other’s feather, Then twin-desires they wing together, And fast as they thus take their flight, Still other urchins spring to light. But is there then no kindly art, To chase these Cupids from my heart ; Ah, no I I fear, in sadness fear, They will for ever nestle here I * . ODE XXVI.6 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, That drank the current of my heart ; Nor naval arms, nor mailed steed, Have made this vanquish’d bosom bleed ; No — ’twas from eyes of liquid blue, A host of quiver’d Cupids flew ; 7 And now my heart all bleeding lies Beneath that army of the eyes 1 4 "We have here another ode addressed to the swallow, Alberti has imitated both in one poem, beginning Perch’ io pianga al tuo canto, Rondinella importuna, &c. 5 Alas! unlike the swarm of Loves, That brood within this hapless breast, And never, never change their nest /] Thus Love is represented as a bird, in an epigram cited by Longe- pierre from the Anthologia : — Atet pot dvvet pev ev ovaatv rj\oc epcorot, Oppa de atya rtodot g to yXvKV daicpv tpepeu OvS’ -f) vv%, ov eyyoq enotpictev, aXX' vtto iXrpiov Hdrj 7 row Kpadtrj yveoaroq eveart Twrroq. Q TTTavot, py nat 7 tot etXaq op pact t Kpvmopevoq. Archer Love I though slily creeping. Well I know where thou dost lie ; 1 saw thee through the curtain peeping. That fringes Zenophelia’s eye. The poets abound with conceits on the archery of the eyes, but few have turned the thought so naturally as Anacreon. Ronsard gives to the eyes of his mistress “ un petit camp d’amours.” 20 MOORE'S WORKS. ODE XXVII. i Wk read the flying courser’s name Upon his side, in marks of flame j 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 XXVIII .3 As, by his Lemnian forge’s flame, The husband of the Paphian dame Moulded the glowing steel, to form Arrows for Cupid, thrilling warm ; And Venus, as he plied his art, Shed honey round each new-made dart, While Love, at hand, to finish all, Tipp’d every arrow’s point with gall ; * It chanc’d the Lord of Battles came To visit that deep cave of flame. 1 This ode forms a part of the preceding in the Vatican MS., but I have conformed to the editions in translating them separately. “ Compare with this (savs Degen) the poem of Ramler, Wahrzeiclicn der Licbe, in Lyr. Blumenlese, lib. iv. p. 513.” ii But in the lover's glowing eyes. The inlet to his bosom lies ;J “ We cannot see into • lie heart,” says Madame Dacier. But the lover answers II cor ne gli occhi et ne la fronte ho scritto. M. La Fosse has given the following lines, as enlarg- ing on the thought of Anacreon : — Lorsque je vois tin amant, II cache en vain son tourment, A' le trahir tout conspire, Sa langueur, son embarras, Tout ce qu’il peut faire ou dire, Meme ce qu’il ne dit pas. In vain the lover tries to veil The flame that in his bosom lies ; His cheeks’ confusion tells the tale, We read it in his languid eyes ; And while his words the heart betray, His silence speaks ev’n more than they. 3 This ode is referred to by La Mothe le Vayer, who, I believe, was the author of that curious little work, called “ Hexameron Rustique.” He makes use of this, as well as the thirty-fifth, in his ingenious but indelicate explanation of Homer’s Cave of the Nymphs.— Journee Quatrieme. 4 While Love, at hand, to finish all. Tipp'd every arrow's point with gall ; ] Th us Clau- dian : — Labuntur gemini fontes, hie dulcis, amarus Alter, et infusis corrumpit mella venenis. Unde Cupidineas armavit fama sagittas. In Cyprus’ isle two rippling fountains fall, And one with honey flows, and one with gall ; In these, if we may take the tale from fame, The son of Venus dips his darts of flame. See Alciatus, emblem 91., on the close connection which subsists between sweets and bitters. _ “ Apes ideo pungunt (says Petronius), quia ubi dulce, ibi et acidum invenies.” The allegorical description of Cupid’s employment, in Horace, may vie with this before us in fancy, though not in delicacy : ferns et Cupido Semper ardentes acucns sagittas Cote cruenta. And Cupid, sharpening all his fiery darts, Upon a whetstone stain’d with blood of hearts. Sccundus has borrowed this, but has somewhat ’Twas from the ranks of war he rush’d ; Ilis spear with many a life-drop blush’d ; lie saw the fiery darts, and smil’d Contemptuous at the archer-child. “ What ! ” said the urchin, “ dost thou smile ? Here, hold this little dart awhile, And thou wilt find, though swift of flight, My bolts are not so feathery light.” Mars took the shaft — and, oh, thy look, Sweet Venus, when the shaft he took ! — Sighing, he felt the urchin’s art, And cried, in agony of heart, “ It is not light — I sink with pain ! Take — take thy arrow back again.” “ No,” said the child, “ it must not be ; That little dart was made for thee 1 ” ODE XXIX. Yes — loving is a painful thrill, And not to love more painful still softened the image by the omission of the epithet " ern- entd.” Fallor an ardentes acuebat cote sagittas ? Eleg. 1. 5 Yes — loving is a painful thrill. And not to love more painful still ; tyc.] The follow- ing Anacreontic, addressed by Menage to Daniel Huct, enforces, with much grace, the “ necessity of loving : ” II epi tov deiv tfuXrjacu. IT pog Uerpov AavirjXa Y errov M eya Oavpa rwv aoiSevv Xapircov 0aXog, Terre, QiXecvpev, co iraipc, QcXeycrav ol t,arat. $tXer)t Xecopev to iraipe. ASikcos Se XotSopovvrt Ay tov? epcorag ■fj/j.oov Kaicov ev^opat to povvov , 1 va py 6wa.tr eieeivog itXectv re teat ifitXetodai, Thou! of tuneful bards the first, Thou ! by all the Graces nurst ; Friend ! each other friend above, Come with me, and learn to love. Loving is a simple lore. Graver men have learn’d before ; Nay, the boast of former ages, Wisest of the wisest sages, Sophroniscus’ prudent son, Was by love’s illusion won. Oh ! how heavy life would move, If we knew not how to love ! Love’s a whetstone to the mind ; Thus ’tis pointed, thus refined, When the soul dejected lies, Love can waft it to the skies ; When in languor sleeps the heart. Love can wake it with his dart ; When the mind is dull and dark. Love cart light it with his spark ! Come, 0I1 ! come then, let us haste All the bliss of love to tasta ; * This line is borrowed from an epigram by Alpheus of Mitylene which Menage, I think, says somewhere he was himself the first to produce to the world : *vxr)<; eoriv Epa>? aKovy : — ODES OF ANACREON-. 21 But oil, it is the worst of pain, To love and not be lov’d again ! Affection now has fled from earth, Nor fire of genius, noble 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 grovelling eyes could first adore. Whose heart could pant for sordid ore. Since that devoted thirst began, Man has forgot to feel for man ; 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 arts, It rends asunder loving hearts. ODE XXX.* ’Twas in a mocking dream of night — I fancied I had wings as light As a young bird’s, and flew as fleet ; While Love, around whose beauteous feet, I knew not why, hung chains of lead, Pursued me, as I trembling fled ; And, strange to say, as swift as thought, Spite of my pinions, I was caught ! What does the wanton Fancy mean By such a strange, illusive scene ? Let us love both night and day, Let us love our lives away ! And when hearts, from loving free, (If indeed such hearts there be,) Frown upon our gentle flame. And the sweet delusion blame ; This shall be my only curse, (Could I, could I wish them worse ?) May they ne’er the rapture prove, Of the smile from lips we love ! 1 Barnes imagines from this allegory, that our poet married very late in life. But I see nothing in the ode which alludes to matrimony, except it be the lead upon the feet of Cupid ; and I agree in the opinion of Madame Dacier, in her life of the poet, that he was always too fond of pleasure to marry. 2 The design of this little fiction is to intimate, that much greater pain attends insensibility than can ever result from the tenderest impressions of love. Longe- pierre has quoted an ancient epigram which bears some similitude to this ode : — Lecto compositus, vix prima silentia noctis Carpcbam, et somno Iumina victa dabam ; Cum me sa»vus Amor prensum, sursumque capillis Excitat, et lacerum pervigilare jubet. Tu famulus meus, inquit, ames cum millo puellas, Solus To, solus, dure jaccre potes? Exilio et pedibus nudis, tunicaque soluta, Orane iter impedio, nullum iter expedio. Nunc propero, nunc ire piget ; rursumque redire Pcenitet ; et pudor est stare via media. Ecce tacent voces hominum, strepitusque ferarum, Et voluernm cantus, turbaque fida canum. So’ us ego ex cunctis paveo somnumque torumque, Et sequor imperium, saeve Cupido, tuum. Upon my couch I lay, at night profound, My languid eyes in magic slumber bound, When Cupid came and snatch’d me from my bed, And forc’d me many a weary way to tread. “ What I (said the god) shall you, whose vows are known, Who love so many nymphs, thus sleep alone? ” I rise and follow ; all the night I stray, Unshelter’d, trembling, doubtful of my \my I fear she whispers to my breast, That you, sweet maid, have stol’n its rest ; That though my fancy, for a while, Hath hung on many a woman’s smile, I soon dissolv’d each passing vow. And ne’er was caught by love till now I ODE XXXI.2 Arm’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 many a torrent, wild and deep. By tangled brake and pendent steep, With weary foot I panting flew. Till my brow dropp’d witli chilly dew. - * And now my soul, exhausted, dying, To my lip was faintly flying ; 4 And now I thought the spark had fled, When Cupid hover’d o’er my head. And fanning light his breezy pinion, Rescued my soul from death’s dominion ; 5 Then said, in accents half-reproving, “ Why hast thou been a foe to loving ? ” ODE XXXII.6 Strew me a fragrant bed of leaves, Where lotus with the myrtle weaves ; Tracing with naked foot the painful track. Loth to proceed, yet fearful to go back. Yes, at that hour, when Nature seems interrVl, Nor warbling birds, nor lowing flocks are heard, I, I alone, a fugitive from rest. Passion my guide, and madness in my breast, Wander the world around, unknowing where, The slave of love, the victim of despair ! 3 Till my broio dropp'd with chilly dew.] I have followed those who read reipev iSpooq for rreipev iSpoc ; the former is partly authorised by the MS. which reads rreipev ISpcog. I And now my soul , exhausted, dying , To my Up was faintly flying ; <$c.] In the original, he saj's, his heart flew to his nose; but our manner more naturally transfers it to the lips. Such is the effect that Plato tells us he felt from a kiss, in a distich quoted by Aulus Gellius : — Tyv ifruxyv, Ayadcova iX(ov, err i \ei\ev oovye evt; 4are not the grasshoppers happy in having dumb wives ? ’ ” This note is originally Henry Ste- phen’s ; but I chose rather to make a lady my authority for it. ODES OE ANACREON. 23 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 thee revere ! The Muses love thy shrilly tone ; 1 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, 2 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! ODE XXXV. 3 Cupid once upon a bed Of roses laid his weary head ; Luckless urchin, not to see Within the leaves a slumbering bee; The bee awak’d — with anger wild The bee awak’d, and stung the ehiid. 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! ” ODE XXXVI. 4 If hoarded gold possess’d the 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 hour should swell my store ; 1 The Muses love thy shrilly tone; fyc . j Philo, de Animal. Proprietat. calls this insect Movcrat? £4X0?, the darling of the Muses ; and M ovacov opvcv, the bird of the Muses ; and we find Plato compared for his eloquence to the grasshopper, in the following punning lines of Timon, preserved by Diogenes Laertius : T gov Travreov S' yyetro TrXarvaTaroi, aXX’ ayopyryi Hdvenyi teroyparpoq, ol O' 'E Kadypov Aevdptt e$efo/4«>o4 ona Xeipioeooav iet.cn,. This last line is borrowed from Homer’s Iliad, y, where there occurs the very same simile. 2 Melodious insect , child of earth, ] Longepierre has quoted the two first lines of an epigram of Antipater, from the first book of the Anthologia, where he prefers the grasshopper to the swan : Aj>Ket remyag peOvaac dpoooq, aXXa ttlovtcs Aeideiv kvkvcov etat yeycovorepoi. In dew, that drops from morning’s wings, The gay Cicada sipping floats ; And, drunk with dew, his matin sings Sweeter than any cygnet’s notes. 3 Theocritus has imitated this beautiful ode in his nineteenth idyl ; but is very inferior, I think, to his original, in delicacy of point and naivete of expression. Spenser, in one of his smaller compositions, has sported more diffusely on the same subject. The poem to which I allude begins thus : — Upon a day, as Love lay sweetly slumbering All in his mother’s lap ; A gentle bee, with his loud trumpet murmuring, About him flew by hap, & c. &c. In Almclovcen’s collection of epigrams, there is one by Luxorius, correspondent somewhat with the turn of Anacreon, where Love complains to his mother of being wounded by a rose. The ode before us is the very flower of simplicity. The infantine complainings of the little god, and the natural and impressive reflections which they draw from Venus, are beauties of inimitable grace. I may be par- doned, perhaps, for introducing here another of Me- nage’s Anacreontics, not for its similitude to the subject of this ode, but for some faint traces of the same natural simplicity which it appears to me to have preserved : Epcog 1 tot tv yoptiaiq Taiv vapOevcov acorov, Tyv p .01 ffreXyv KopivvaV) eidev, tO? 7 rpog avryv Upotjedpape’ TpayyXoi Atdvpaq re \eipaq airrcav iCXet, pe, pyrep, tint. KaXovpevy Kopcvva, Myryp, epvOpiafet,, ’Hi irapdevoq pev ova a. K avroi de dvcrycpaivcov, ’Hi oppacri 7r\avy9eti, E pa>i epvOpiaKeu Eyco, de ol i rapaarai. Mi; Svoxepcuvty ypi. Kvirpiv re Kat Kopcvvav Aiciyvcocrat ovk eyovot Ka4 ol fiXei Tovreq ofy. As dancing o’er the enamell’d plain. The flow’ret of the virgin train, My soul’s Corinna lightly play’d. Young Cupid saw Ihe graceful maid ; He saw, and in a moment flew, And round her neck his arms he threw • Saying, with smiles of infant joy, ’ ‘ Oh ! kiss me, mother, kiss thy boy ! ” Unconscious of a mother’s name. The modest virgin blush’d with shame ! And angry Cupid, scarce believing That vision could be so deceiving — Thus to mistake his Cyprian dame ! It made ev’n Cupid blush with shame. “Be not asham’d, my boy,” I cried. For I was lingering by his side ; “ Corinna and thy lovely mother. Believe me, are so like each other. That clearest eyes are oft betray’d, And take thy Venus for the maid.” 1 Fontenclle has translated this ode, in his dialoguo between Anacreon and Aristotle in the shades, where on weighing the merits of both these personages, ho bestows the prize of wisdom upon the poet. “The German imitators of this ode are, Lessin^ in his poem ‘Gestern Briider,’ &c. ; Gleim, in the ode •An den Tod;’ and Schmidt in dor Poet Blumeni Gotting. 1783, p. 7.” — Degen. 24 MOORE’S WORKS. That when Death came, with shadowy pinion, To waft me to his bleak dominion, l I might, by bribes, my doom delay, And bid him call some distant day. But, since, not all earth's golden store Can buy for us one bright hour more, Why should we vainly mourn our fate, Or sigh at life’s uncertain date ? Nor wealth nor grandeur can illume The silent midnight of the tomb. No — give to others hoarded treasures — Mine be the brilliant round of pleasures : The goblet rich, the board of friends, Whose social souls the goblet blends : 1 2 3 And mine, while yet I’ve life to live, Those joys that love alone can give. ODE XXXVII.3 *Twas night, and many a circling bowl Had deeply warm’d my thirsty soul ; As lull’d in slumber I was laid, Bright visions o’er my fancy play’d. With maidens, blooming as the dawn, I seem’d to skim the opening lawn ; Light, on tiptoe bath’d in dew, We flew, and sported as we flew 1 Some ruddy striplings who look’d on — With cheeks, that like the wine- god’s shone, Saw me chasing, free and wild, These blooming maids, and slyly smil’d ; Smil’d indeed with wanton glee, Though none could doubt they envied me. And still I flew — and now had caught The panting nymphs, and fondly thought 1 That when Death came, with shadoiry pinion , To i raft me to his bleak dominion , #c.] The com- mentators* who are so fond of disputing “ de lanii ca- priua,” have been very busy on the authority of the phrase lv av Save tv eircXBg. The reading of lv' av ©a- varos eireXdrj, which De Medenbach proposes in his Aincenitates Literariae, was already hinted by Le Fevrc, who seldom suggests any thing worth notice. 2 The goblet rich, the board of friends. Whose social souls the goblet blends ;] This com- munion of friendship, which sweetened the bowl cf Anacreon, has not been forgotten by the author of the following scholium, where the blessings of life are enumerated with proverbial simplicity. ‘Yyiaiveiv p.ev apicrov avdpi Ovtjtu). A evrepov de, icaXov $vyv yevcadcu. To rpirov de, irXovreiv adoXcoc. Hat to reraprov avveJSav era rcov iXoov. Of mortal blessings here the first is health. And next those charms by which the eye we move ; The third is wealth, unwounding guiltless wealth, And then, sweet intercourse with those we love ! 3 “ Compare with this ode the beautiful poem * der Traum ’ of Uz.” — Degen. Le Fevre, in a note upon this ode, enters into an elaborate and learned justification of drunkenness ; and this is probably the cause of the severe reprehension which he appears to have suffered for his Anacreon. “ Fuit olim fateor (says he in a note upon Longinus), cum Sapphoncm amabam. Sed ex quo ilia me perdi- tissima fuemina pene miserum perdidit cum scelera- tissimo suo congerrone, (Anacreontem dico, si nescis, Lector,) noli sperare,” &c. &c. He adduces on this ode the authority of Plato, who allowed ebriety, at the Dionysian festivals, to men arrived at their fortieth year. He likewise quotes the following line from Alexis, which he says no one, who is not totally ignorant of the world, can hesitate to confess the truth of : — Oi/Jetc $i\o7ro7-77; euTiv avOpwiroi; kclko<;. “ No lover of drinking was ever a vicious man ” To gather from each rosy lip A kiss that Jove himself might sip — When sudden all my dream of joys, Blushing nymphs and laughing hoys, All were gone I •» — *• Alas! ” I said, Sighing for th' illusion fled, “ Again, sweet sleep, that scene restore, Oh I let me dream it o'er and o’erl ” * ODE XXXYIII.s ’ Let us drain the ncctar’d bowl, Let us raise the song of soul To him, the god who loves so well The nectar’d bowl, the choral swell ; Tite god who taught the sons of earth To thrid the tangled dance of mirth ; Him who was nurs’d with infant Love, And cradled in the Paphian grove ; Him, that the snowy Queen of Charms So oft has fondled in her arms. 7 Oh ’tis from him the transport flows, Which sweet intoxication knows ; With him, the brow forgets its gloom, And brilliant graces learn to bloom. Behold I— my boys a goblet bear, Whose sparkling foam lights up the air. Where are now the tear, the sigh ? To the winds they fly, they fly! Grasp the bowl ; in nectar sinking r Man of sorrow, drown thy thinking ! Say, can the tears we lend to thought In life’s account avail us aught ? Can we discern with all our lore, The path we’ve yet to journey o’er ? Alas, alas, in ways so dark, ’Tis only wine can strike a spark ! s * When sudden all my dream of joys, Jl lushing nymphs and laughing boys, . AW were gone!'] “ Nonnus says of Bacchus, almost m the same words that Anacreon uses, — Eypofievog de TlapQevov ovk CKiyyae, kch ydeXev avfi; taveiv.' Waking, he lost the phantom’s charms. The nymph had faded from his arms ; Again to slumber he essay’d, Again to clasp the shadowy maid. LOXGEPIEREE. 5 “ Again, siceet sleep, that scene restore. Oh! let me dream it o'er and o’er/”] Doctor Johnson, in his preface to Shakspearo, animadverting upon the commentators of that poet, who pretended, in every little coincidence of thought, to detect an imita- tion of some ancient poet, alludes in the following words to the line of Anacreon before us: — ‘‘I have been told that when Caliban, after a pleasing dream, says, ‘I cried to s’eep again,’ the author imitates Ana- creon, who had, like any other man, the same wish on the same occasion.” 6 “ Compare with this beautiful ode to Bacchus the verses of Hagedorn, lib. v., ‘das Gesellschaftliclie : * and of Burger, p. 51, &c. &c.” — Degen. 7 Him, that the snoicy Queen of Charms So oft has fondled in her arms.] Robertellus, upon theepithalamium of Catullus, mentions an ingenious derivation of Cytherea, the name of Venus, -napa to tcevdcLv TOVC epcoTac, which seems to hint that “ Love’s fairy favours are lost, when not concealed.” 8 Alas, alas, in ways so dark, ’ Tis only wine can strike a spark /] The brevity of life allows arguments for the voluptuary as well as the moralist. Among many parallel passages which Longc- pierre has adduced, 1 shall content myself with this epigram from the Anthologia. ODES OF ANACREON. 25 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 ; Or from the lips of love inhale A more ambrosial, richer gale ! To hearts that court the phantom Care, Let him retire and shroud him there ; While we exhaust the nectar’d bov/1, And swell the choral song of soul To him, the god who loves so well The nectar’d bowl, the choral swell 1 ODE XXXIX. How I love the festive boy, Tripping through the dance of joy ! How I love the mellow sage, Smiling through the veil of age 1 And whene’er this man of years In the dance of joy appears, Snows may o’er his head be flung, But his heart — his heart is young. 1 ODE XL. I know that Heaven hath sent me here To run this mortal life’s eareer ; The scenes which I have journey’d o’er, Return no more — alas ! no more j Aovaapevot, UpoSucrj, irvKacrcopcS a, kcu tov anparov ‘EXk copev, KvXiKaq pec^ovaq apapevoc. P ouoq 6 \cu povrcov eari, /3ioq. eira ra Xonra Vypaq kcoXvocc, kcu to TeXoq 6a.va.roq. Of which the following is a paraphrase: — Let’s fly, my love, from noonday’s team, To plunge us in yon cooling stream ; Then, hastening to the festal bower. We’ll pass in mirth the evening hour ; ’Tis thus our age of bliss shall fly, As sweet, though passing as that sigh. Which seems to whisper o’er your lip, “ Come, while you may, of rapture sip.” For age will steal the graceful form, W ill chill the pulse, while throbbing warm ; And death — alas ! that hearts, which thrill Like yours and mine, should e’er be still ! 1 Snows may o'er las head he flung. Tint his heart — Ids heart is young .] Saint Pavin makes the same distinction in a sonnet to a young girl. Je sais bien quo les destinees Ont mal compass6 nos annees ; Nc regardez que mon amour ; l’cut-6tre en serez vous emue. II est jeune ct n’est que du jour, Belle Iris, que je vous ai vue. Fair and young thou bloomest now. And I full many a year have told ; But read the heart and not the brow. Thou slialt not find my love is old. lily love’s a child ; and thou canst say How much his little age may be, For he was born the very day When first I set my eyes on thee 1 2 Xever can heart that feels with me Descend to he a slave to thee /] Longepierre quotes hero an epigram from the Anthologia, on account of the similarity of a particular phrase. Though by no means Anacreontic, it is marked by an interesting sim- plicity which has induced me to paraphrase it, and may atone for its intrusion. EX7rt? a iai av rv\y peya \aipere. rovXi.fx.ev evpov. OvSev epoi \ vptv , waifcre tov; per' epe. At length to Fortune, and to you Delusive Hope! a last adieu And all the path I’ve j r et to go, I neither know nor ask to know. Away, then, wizard Care, nor think Thy fetters round this soul to link ; Never can heart that feels with me Descend to be a slave to thee ! 2 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 l 3 ODE XLI. When Spring adorns the dewy scene, IIow sweet to walk the velvet green, And hear the west wind’s gentle sighs, As o’er the scented mead it flies ! IIow sweet to mark the pouting vine, Ready to burst in tears of wine ; And with some maid, who breathes but love, To walk, at noontide, through the grove 4 Or sit in some cool, green recess — Oh, is not this true happiness ? ODE XLII.5 Yes, be the glorious revel mine, Where humour sparkles from the wine. The charm that once beguil’d is o’er. And I have reach’d my destin’d shore. Away, away, your flattering arts May now betray some simpler hearts. And you will smile at their believing, And they shall weep at your deceiving ! 3 Bacchus shall bid my winter bloom. And Venus dance me to the tomb!'] The same commentator has quoted an epitaph, written upon our poet by Julian, in which he makes him promulgate the precepts of good fellowship even from the tomb. IIoXXuki pev rod' aeicra, kcu ck rvp/9ov 8e fiorjaco, ntvere, npiv tclvttjv apL/3aXrjode kovlv. This lesson oft in life I sung, And from my grave I still shall cry, “ Drink, mortal, drink, while time is young. Ere death has made thee cold as I.” 4 A nd with some maid, who breathes but love, To walk, at noontide , through the grove.] Thus Horace : — Quid habes illius, illius Quae spirabat amorcs Quae me surpuerat mihi. Lib. iv. Carm. 13. And does there then remain but this, And hast thou lost each rosy ray Of her, who breath’d the soul of bliss, And stole me from myself away ? 5 The character of Anacreon is here very strikingly depicted. His love of social, harmonised pleasures, i's expressed with a warmth, amiable and endearing. Among the epigrams imputed to Anacreon is the fol- lowing ; it is the only one worth translation, and it breathes the same sentiments with this ode : — Ov cXoq, 6q Kpyrrjpi 7 rapa 7 rXeeo oivo-ttotoXcov, N eiKea kcu nroXepov SaKpvoevra Xeyei. AXX’ iartq M ovaecov re, kou ayXaa Scop' AQpoSirqq Evpptaycov, eparrjq pvyaKerat evpoavvrjq. When to the lip the brimming cup is prest. And hearts are all afloat upon its stream. Then banish from my board th’ unpolish’d guest. Who makes the feats of war his barbarous theme. But bring the man, who o’er his goblet wreathes The Muse’s laurel with the Cyprian flower ! Oil ! give me him, whose soul expansive breathes And blends refinement with the social hour. MOORE’S WORKS. 20 Around me, let the youthful choir Respond to ray enlivening lyre ; And while the red cnp foams along, Mingle in soul os well ti9 song, Then, while I sit, with flowrets crown’d. To regulate the goblet’s round, Let but the nymph, our banquet’s pride, Be seated smiling by my side, And earth has not a gift or power That I would envy, in that hour. Envy ! — oh never let its blight Touch the gay hearts met here to-night. Far hence be slander’s sidelong wounds, Nor harsh dispute, nor discord’s sounds Disturb a scene, where all should be Attur.cd to peace and harmony. Come, let us hear the harp’s gay note Upon the breeze inspiring float, While round us, kindling into love, Young maidens through the light dance move. Thus blest with mirth, and love, and peace, Sure such a life should never cease I ODE XLIII. While our rosy fillets shed Freshness 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 raptures from its strings,! Some airy nymph, with graceful bound, Keeps measure to the music’s sound ; Waving, in her snowy hand, The leafy Bacchanalian wand, Which, as the tripping wanton flies, Trembles all over to her sighs. A youth the while, with loosen’d hair, Floating on the listless air, 1 And while the harp, impassion'd, /lings Tuneful rapture from its strings, gc.] Respecting the barbiton, a host of authorities may be collected, which, after all, leave us ignorant of the nature of the instrument. There is scarcely any point upon which we are so totally uninformed as the music of the an- cients. The authors * extant upon the subject are, I imagine, little understood ; and certainly, if one of their moods was a progression by quarter-tones, which we are told was the nature of the enharmonic scale, sim- plicity was by no means the characteristic of their melody ; for this is a nicety of progression, of which modern music is not susceptible. The invention of the barbiton is, by Athenreus, attri- buted to Anacreon. See his fourth book, where it is called to eipgpa tov \voucpeovro~. Neanthcs of Cyzicus, as quoted by Gyraldus, asserts the same. Vide Chabot, in Horat. on the words “ Lesboum barbiton,” in the first ode. 2 And oh, the sadness in his sigh. As o'er his lip the accents die /] Longepierre ha3 quoted here an epigram from the Anthologia : — Kovprj th; ei\rjoe troOearrepa x«Xetm> vypotc. KeicTap erjv to (fitXrjpa. to yap or op. a. veKTapot; eirvet. Kvv pedveo to i\r)pa, iroXvv tov epcora TreTrcoKOjq. Of which the following paraphrase may give some Idea : — The kiss that she left on my lip. Like a dew-drop shall lingering lie ; ’Twas nectar she gave me to sip, ’Twas nectar I drank in her sigh. * Collected by Meibomins. Sings, to the wild harp’s tender ton?, A tale of woes, alas, liis own ; And oh, the sadness in his sigh, As o’er his lip the accents die 1 2 Never sure on earth has been JTalf so bright, so blest a scene. It seems as Love himself had come To make this spot his chosen home ; And Venus, too, with all her wiles, And Bacchus, shedding rosy smiles, All, all are here, to hail with me The Genius of Festivity 1 4 ♦ ODE XLIV.ft Buds 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. Rose, thou art the sweetest flower That ever drank the amber shower ; Rose, thou art the fondest child Of dimpled Spring, the wood-nymph wild. Even the gods, who walk the sky, Are amorous of thy scented sigh. Cupid, too, in Paphian shades, His hair with rosy fillet braids, When with the blushing, sister Graces, The wanton winding dance he traces.6 Then bring me, showers of roses bring, And shed them o’er me while I sing, Or while, great Bacchus, round thy shrine, Wreathing my brow with rose and vine, I lead some bright nymph through the dance,? Commingling soul with every glance. From the moment she printed that kiss, Nor reason, nor rest has been mine; My whole soul has been drunk with the blLs, And feels a delirium divine I 3 It seems as Love himself had come To make this spot his chosen home ; — ] The intro- duction of these deities to the festival is merely allego- rical. Madame Dacicr thinks that the poet describes a masquerade, where these deities were personated by the company in masks. The translation will conform with either idea. 4 All, all are here, to hail with me The Genius of Festivity /] Kcopoe, the deity or genius of mirth. Philostratus, in the third of his pic- tures, gives a very lively description of this god. 5 This spirited poem is an eulogy on the rose; and again, in the fifty-fifth ode, we shall find our author rich in the praises of that flower. In a fragment of Sappho, in the romance of Achilles Tatius, to ■which Barnes refers us, the rose is fancifully styled “ the eye of flowers ; ” and the same poetess, in another frag- ment, calls the favours of the Muse “the roses of Pie- ria.” See the notes on the fifty-fifth ode. “ Compare with this ode (says the German anno- tator) the beautiful ode of Uz, ‘ die Rose.’ ” 0 When with the Hushing, sister Graces, The wanton winding dance he traces .] “ This sweet idea of Love dancing with the Graces, is almost peculiar to Anacreon.” — Degen. 7 I lead some bright nymph through the dance. «5'c ] The epithet /SaOvKoXirot;, which he gives to the nymph, is literally “ full-bosomed.” ODES OF ANACREON. 27 ODE XLV. Within - this goblet, rich and deep, I cradle all ray 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 seal’d in sleep. Then let us never vainly stray, In search of thorns, from pleasure’s way ; i But wisely quaff the rosy wave, Which Bacchus loves, which Bacchus gave ; And in the goblet, rich and deep, Cradle our crying woes to sleep. ♦ ODE XL VI. 2 Behold, the young, the rosy Spring, Gives to the breeze her scented wing ; While virgin Graces, warm with May, Fling roses o’er her dewy way.3 The murmuring billows of the deep Have languish’d into silent sleep ; 4 And mark I 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, 5 Are freshly glittering in 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, 1 Then let us never vainly stray , In search of thorns from pleasure's way ; f>avevTO<; is striking and spirited, and has been imitated rather languidly by Horace : — Vides ut alta stet nive candidum Soracte The imperative tSe is infinitely more impressive ; — as in Shakspeare, But look, the morn, in russet mantle clad, Walks o’er the dew of yon high eastern hill. There is a simple and poetical description of Spring, in Catullus’s beautiful farewell to Bithynia. Carm. 44. Barnes conjectures, in his life of our poet, that this ode was written after he had returned from Athens to settle in his paternal seat at Teos ; where, in a little villa at some distance from the city, commanding a view of the Algcan Sea and the islands, he contemplated the beauties of nature and enjoyed the felicities of re- tirement. Vide Barnes, in Anac. Yita, § xxxy. This Little infant fruits we see, Nursing into luxury. ODE XL VII. ’Tis true, my fading years decline, Yet can I quaff the brimming wine, As deep as any stripling fair, Whose cheeks the flush of morning wear ; And if, amidst the wanton crew, I’m call’d to wind the dance’s clue, Then shalt thou see this vigorous hand, Not faltering on the Bacchant’s wand, But brandishing a rosy flask, 6 The only thyrsus e’er I’ll ask ! 7 Let those, who pant for Glory’s charms, Embrace her in the field of arms ; While my inglorious, placid soul Breathes not a wish beyond this bowl. Then fill it high, my ruddy slave, And bathe me in its brimming wave. For though my fading years decay, Though manhood’s prime hath pass’d away, Like old Silenus, sire divine, With blushes borrow’d from my wine, I’ll wanton ’mid the dancing train, And live my follies o’er again I ODE XL VIII. When my thirsty soul I steep, Every sorrow’s lull’d to sleep. Talk of monarchs ! I am then Richest, happiest, first of men ; Careless o’er my cup I sing, Fancy makes me more than king j Gives me wealthy Croesus’ store, Can I, can I wish for more ? supposition, however unauthenticated, forms a pleasing association, which renders the poem more interesting. Chevreau says, that Gregory Nazianzenus has para- phrased somewhere this description of Spring ; but l cannot meet with it. See Chevreau, (Euvres Melees. “ Compare with this ode (says Degen) the verses of Hagedorn, book fourth, * der Friihling,’ and book fifth, ‘ der Mai.’ ” 3 While virgin Graces , warm with May, Fling roses o'er her deivy way.~\ De Pauw reads, Xjtptra? fioda fipvovaw, “ the roses display tlieir graces.” This is not uningenious ; but we lose by it the beauty of the personification, to the boldness of which Regnier has rather frivolously objected. 4 The murmuring billows of the deep Have languish'd into silent sleep ; #c.) It has been justly remarked, that the liquid flow of the line avaXv- veTcu yaXrjvrj is perfectly expressive of the tranquillity which it describes. 5 And cultured field, and winding stream, tyc."] By fiporcov epya “the works of men” (says Baxter), he means cities, temples, and towns, which are then illu- minated by the beams of the sun. 6 But "brandishing a rosy flash, tfc."] Aoxo<; was a kind of leathern vessel for v ine, very much in use, as it should seem by the proverb aaKoq nat dvXaxoc, which was applied to those who were intemperate in eating and drinking. This proverb is mentioned in some verses quoted by Athenseus, from the Hcsione of Alexis. 7 The only thyrsus e'er I'll ash /] Phornutus assigns as a reason for the consecration of the thyrsus to Bacchus that inebriety often renders the support of a stick very necessary. MOORE’S WORKS. -8 On my velvet conch reclining, Ivy leaves my brow entwining,* While my soul expands with glee, What arc kings and crowns to me ? If before my lcet they lay, I would spurn them all away ! Arm ye, arm ye, men of might, Hasten to the sanguine fight ; 2 Hut let me, my budding vine ! Spill no other blood than thine. Yonder brimming goblet see, That alone shall vanquish me — Who think it better, wiser far To fall in banquet than in war. ODE XLIX.3 When Bacchus, Jove’s immortal boy, The rosy harbinger of joy, Who, with the sunshine of the bowl, Thaws the winter of our soul— 4 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, Calling up round me visions known To lovers of the bowl alone. Sing, sing of love, let music’s sound In melting cadence float around, While, my young Venus, thou and I Responsive to its murmurs sigh. Then, waking from our blissful trance, Again we’ll sport, again we’ll dance. 1 Try leaves my brow entwining, <$e.] “ The ivy was consecrated to Bacchus (says Montfaucon), because he formerly lay hid under that tree, or, as others will have it, because its leaves resemble those of the vine.” Other reasons for its consecration, and the use of it in garlands at banquets, may be found in Longepierre, Barnes, &c. &c. 2 Arm ye, arm ye, men of might. Hasten to the sanguine fight ; ] I have adopted the interpretation of Regnier and others : — Altri segua Marte fero ; Che sol Bacco b ’1 mio conforto. 3 This, the preceding ode, and a few more of the same character, are merely chansons a boire ; — the ef- fusions probably of the moment of conviviality, and afterwards sung, we may imagine, with rapture through- out Greece. But that interesting association, by which they always recalled the convivial emotions that pro- duced them, can now be little felt even by the most enthusiastic reader; and much less by a phlegmatic grammarian, who sees nothing in them but dialects and particles. 4 TFTio, with the sunshine of the hourl. Thaws the icinter of our soul — avot.<; ra irpcoTaXeyovrcu Longepierre, Barnes , <3'C. 3 “ This is doubtless the work of a more modern poet than Anacreon ; for at the period when he lived rhe- toricians were not knoivn.” — Degen. Though this ode is found in the Vatican manuscript, I am much inclined to agree in this argument against its authenticity ; for though the dawnings of the art of rhetoric might already have appeared, the first who gave it any celebrity was Corax of Syracuse, and he flourished in the century after Anacreon. Our poet anticipated the ideas of Epicurus, in his aversion to the labours of learning, as well as his de- votion to voluptuousness. Tlauav -rraiSetav p.aoSov, for w hich the inquisitive reader may consult Gaulminus upon the epithalamium of our poet, where it is intro- duced in the romance of Theodorus. Muretus, in one of his elegies, calls his mistress his rose : — Jam te igitur rursus teneo, formosula, jam te (Quid trepidas ?) teneo ; jam, rosa, te teneo. Elcg. 8. Now I again may clasp thee, dearest, What is there now, on earth, thou fearest ? Again these longing arms infold thee, Again, my rose, again I hold thee. This, like most of the terms of endearment in the modern Latin poets, is taken from Plautus ; they were Oft hath 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 1 ’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. There’s nought in nature bright or gay, Where roses do not shed their ray. When morning paints the orient skies, Her fingers burn with roseate dyes ; 7 Young nymphs betray the rose’s hue, O’er whitest arms it kindles through. In Cytherea’s form it glows, And mingles with the living snows. The rose distils a healing balm, The beating pulse of pain to calm ; vulgar and colloquial in his time, but arc among the elegancies of the modern Latinists. Passeratius alludes to the ode before us, in the be- ginning of his poem ou the Rose : — Carmine digna rosa est: vellem caneretur ut illam Teius arguta cecinit testudine vates. 4 Resplendent rose! to thee we'll sing;'] I have passed over the line aw iron pet. avi-eo poeXiryv, which is corrupt in this original reading, and has been very little improved by the annotators. I should suppose it to be an interpolation, if it were not for a line which occurs afterwards : epe dij vatv Xeycopoev. 5 And Venus, in its fresh-blown leaves, #c.] Belleau. in a note upon an old French poet, quoting the original here apo$tauvv t’ advppa, translates’ it, “ comme Its delicts et mignardises de Venus.” 6 Oft hath the poet's magic tongue The rose's fair luxuriance sung ; The following is a fragment of the Lesbian poetess. It is cited in the romance of Achilles Tatius, who appears to have re- solved the numbers into prose. Et rot? avdeoiv gdeXev 6 Zevg erroQeovao fiaacXea, to fioSov av tow avOeow eftacri- Xeve. yrjg eerrt Koopooq, VTvXXooq Kopa, evKovgroog TreTaXooq rpv(f>a. to neraXov too Ze(f>vpu> yeXa. If Jove would give the leafy bowers A queen for all their world of flowers. The rose would be the choice of Jove, And blush, the queen of every grove. Sweetest child of weeping morning, Gem, the vest of earth adorning, Eye of gardens, light of lawns, N ursling of soft summer dawns ; Love’s own earliest sigh it breathes, Beauty’s brow with lustre wreathes, And, to young Zephyr’s warm caresses, Spreads abroad its verdant tresses, Till, blushing with the wanton’s play, Its cheek wears ev’n a richer ray I 7 When morning paints the orient skies. Her fingers burn with roseate dyes; tyc.] In the original here, he enumerates the many epithets of beauty, borrowed from roses, which were used by the poets, trap a tow aocw. We see that poets were dignified in Greece with the title of sages : even the careless Ana- creon, who lived but for love and voluptuousness, was called by Plato the wise Anacreon — “ fuit hsec sapien- tia quondam.” ODES OF ANACREON. 31 Preserves the cold inurned clay, 1 And mocks the vestige of decay : 2 And when at length, in pale decline, Its florid beauties fade and pine, Sweet as in youth, its balmy breath Diffuses odour even in death ! 3 Oh I whence could such a plant have sprung ? Listen, — for thus the tale is sung. When, humid, from the silvery stream, Effusing beauty’s warmest beam, Yenus appear’d, in flushing hues, Mellow’d by ocean’s briny dews ; When, in the starry courts above, The pregnant brain of mighty Jove Disclos’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, in blushing glories drest, And wanton’d o’er its parent breast. The gods beheld this brilliant birth, And hail’d the Hose, the boon of earth 1 With nectar drops, a ruby tide, The sweetly orient buds they dyed, 3 And bade them bloom, the flowers divine Of him who gave the glorious vine ; And bade them on the spangled thorn Expand their bosoms to the morn. 4. / Preserves the cold inurned clay , fyc.] He here al- ludes to the use of the rose in embalming : and perhaps (as Barnes thinks) to the rosy unguent with which Venus anointed the corpse of Hector. Homer’s Iliad \Jr. It may likewise regard the ancient practice of putting garlands of roses on the dead, as in Statius, Theb. lib. x. 782. hi sertis, hi veris honore soluto Accumulant artus, patriaque in sede reponunt Corpus odoratum. Where “ veris honor,” though it mean every kind of flowers, may seem more particularly to refer to the rose, which our poet in another ode calls iapoq p.e\rjp.a. We read, in the Hieroglyphics of Pierius, lib. lv,, that some of the ancients used to order in their wills, that roses should be annually scattered on their tombs, and Pierius has adduced some sepulchral inscriptions to this pur- pose. 2 And mocks the vestige of decay:"] When he says that this flower prevails over time itself, he still alludes to its efficacy in embalment (ten era poneret ossa rosa. Propert. lib. i. eleg. 17.), or perhaps to the subsequent idea of its fragrance surviving its beauty ; for he can scarcely mean to praise for duration the ‘‘nimium breves flores ” of the rose. Philostratus compares this flower with love, and says, that they both defy the in- fluence of time ; \povov de ovre Epw?, owe fioda otSev. IJnfortunateljrthe similitude lies not in their duration, but their trajlfience. 3 Sweet as in youth , its balmy breath Diffuses odour even in death!] Thus Caspar Bar- laeus, in his Ritus Nuptiarum: Ambrosium late rosa tunc quoque spargit odorem, Cum fluit, aut multo languida sole jacet. Nor then the rose its odour loses, When all its flushing beauties die ; Nor less ambrosial balm diffuses, When wither’d by the solar eye. 4 "With nectar drops , a ruby tide. The sweetly orient buds they dyed, Spc.] The author of the “Pervigilium Veneris” (a poem attributed to Catullus, the style of which appears to me to have all the laboured luxuriance of a much later period) ascribes the tincture of the rose to the blood from the M ound of Adonis — rosae Fusee aprino de eruore — • ODE LYI . 3 He, who instructs the youthful crew To bathe them in the brimmer’s dew, And taste, uncloy’d by rich excesses, All the bliss that wine possesses ; He, who inspires the youth to bound Elastic through the dance’s round,— Bacchus, the god again is here, And leads along the blushing year ; The blushing year with vintage teems, Ready to shed those cordial streams, Which, sparkling in the cup of mirth, Illuminate the sons of earth ! 8 Then, when the ripe and vermil wine, — Blest infant of the pregnant vine, Which now in mellow clusters swells, — Oh! when it bursts its roseate cells, Brightly the joyous stream shall flow, To balsam every mortal woe ! None shall be then cast down or weak, For health and joy shall light each cheek ; No heart will then desponding sigh, For wine shall bid despondence fly. Thus — till another autumn’s glow Shall bid another vintage flow. ODE LYII.7 Whose was the artist hand that spread Upon this disk the ocean’s bed ? 8 according to the emendation of Lipsius. In the folio w- ing epigram this hue is differently accounted for : — Ilia quidem studiosa suum defendere Adonim, Gradivus stricto quern petit ense ferox, Aflixit duris vestigia caeca rosetis, Albaque divino picta eruore rosa est. While the enamour’d queen of joy Flies to protect her lovely boy. On whom the jealous war-god rushes ; She treads upon a thorned rose. And while the wound with crimson flows. The snowy flow’ret feels her blood, and blushes ! 5 “ Compare with this elegant ode the verses of Uz, lib. i., ‘ die Weinlese.* ” — Degen. This appears to be one of the hymns which were sung at the anniversary festival of the vintage ; one of the eTriXrjvtot, v/j.vot. as our poet himself terms them in the fifty-ninth ode. We cannot help feeling a sort of re- verence for these classic relics of the religion of antiquity. Horace may be supposed to have written the nineteenth ode of his second book, and the twenty-fifth of the third, for some bacchanalian celebration of this kind. 6 Which, sparkling in the cup of mirth. Illuminate the sons of earth!] In the original 7 totov aerrovov ko/a.i.^cov. Madame Dacier thinks that the poet here had the nepenthe of Homer in his mind. Odyssey, lib. iv. This nepenthe was a something of exquisite charm, infused by Helen into the M’ine of her guests, M'hich hadthepou’er of dispelling every anxiety. A French writer, De Mere, conjectures that this spell, which made the bowl so beguiling, was the charm of Helen’s conversation. See Bayle, art. Helene. 7 This ode is a very animated description of a pic- ture of Venus on a discus, which represented the god- dess in her first emergence from the M aves. About two centuries after our poet wrote, the pencil of the artist Apelles embellished this subject, in his famous painting of the Venus Anadyomene, the model of which, as Pliny informs us, was the beautiful Campaspe, given to him by Alexander ; though, according to Natalis Comes, lib. vii. cap. 16., it M'as Phryne who sat to Apelles for the face and breast of this Venus. There are a few blemishes in the reading of the ode before us, which have influenced Faber, Heyne, Brunck, &c. to denounce the whole poem as spurious. But “ non ego paucis offendar maculis.” I think it is quite beau- tiful enough to be authentic. 8 Whose was the artist hand that spread Upon this disk the ocean's bed?] The abruptness 32 MOORE’S WORKS. And, in a flight of fancy, high As aught on earthly wing can fly, Depicted thus, in semblance warm, The Queen of Love’s voluptuous form Floating along the 6ilv’ry sea In beauty’s naked majesty 1 Oh 1 he hath given tli’ enamour’d sight A witching banquet of delight, Where, gleaming through the waters clear, Glimpses of undreamt charms appear, And all that mystery loves to screen, Fancy, like Faith, adores unseen. 1 Light ns the leaf, that on the breeze Of summer skims the glassy seas, She floats along the ocean’s breast, Which undulates in sleepy rest ; While stealing on, 6lie gently pillows Her bosom on the heaving billows, Her bosom, like the dew-wash’d rose, 2 Her neck, like April’s sparkling snows, Illume the liquid path she traces, And burn within the stream’s embraces. Thus on she moves, in languid pride, Encircled by the azure tide, As some fair lily o’er a bed Of violets bends its graceful head. Beneath their queen's inspiring glance, The dolphins o’er the green sea dance, Bearing in triumph young Desire, 3 Aud infant Love with smiles of fire ! While, glittering through the silver waves, The tenants of the briny caves Around the pomp their gambols play, And gleam along the watery way. of apa ti c ropevere vovtov is finely expressive of sudden admiration, and is one of those beauties which we cannot but admire in their source, though, by frequent iraita- tion, they are now become familiar and unimpressive. 1 And all that mystery loves to screen , Fancy, like Faith, adores unseen, <^ c.] The picture here has all the delicate character of the semi-reducta Venus, and affords a happy specimen of what the poetry of passion ought to be — glowing but through a veil, and stealing upon the heart from concealment. Few of the ancients have attained this modesty of description, which, like the golden cloud that hung over Jupiter and Juno, is impervious to every beam but that of fancy. 2 Her bosom, like the dew-wash' d rose, <§-c.] “ 'Po- Secov (says an anonymous annotator) is a whimsical epithet for the bosom.” Neither Catullus nor Gray have been of his opinion. The former has the ex- pression, En hie in roseis latet papillis, And the latter, Lo 1 where the rosy-bosom’d hours, &c. Crottus, a modern Latinist, might indeed be censured for too vague a use of the epithet “ rosy,” when he ap- plies it to the eyes: — “ e roseis oculis.” 3 young Desire, «f c.] In the original 1/xepof, who was the same deity with Jocus among the Romans. Aurelias Augurellushas a poem beginning — Invitat olim Bacchus ad coenam suos Comon, Jocum, Cupidinem. Which Parnell has closely imitated : — Gay Bacchus, liking Estcourt’s wine, A noble meal bespoke us ; And for the guests that were to dine. Brought Comus, Love, and Jocus, &c. 4. I have followed Barnes’s arrangement of this ODE LVIII.4 When Gold, as fleet as zephyr’s pinion, Escapes like any faithless minion, 5 And flies me (as he flies me ever), 3 Do I pursue him ? never, never I No, let the false deserter go, For who could court his direst foe ? But, when I feel my lighten’d mind No more by grovelling gold confin’d, Then loose I all such clinging cares, And cast them to the vagrant airs, Then feel I, too, the Muse’s spell, And wake to life the dulcet shell, Which, rous’d once more, to beauty sings, While love dissolves along the strings ! But scarcely has my heart been taught How little Gold deserves a thought, When, lo ! the slave returns once more, And with him wafts delicious store Of racy wine, whose genial art In slumber seals the anxious heart. Again he tries my soul to sever From love and song, perhaps for ever ! Away, deceiver 1 why pursuing Ceaseless thus my heart’s undoing ? Sweet is the song of amorous fire, Sweet the sighs that thrill the lyre ; Oh ! sweeter far than all the gold Thy wings can waft, thy mines can hold. Well do I know thy arts, thy wiles — They wither’d Love’s young wreathed smiles j And o’er his lyre such darkness shed, I thought its soul of song was fled 1 They dash’d the wine-cup, that, by him, Was fill’d with kisses to the brim.? ode, which, though deviating somewhat from the Va- tican MS., appears to me the more natural order. 5 When Gold, as fleet as zephyr's pinion. Escapes like any faithless minion, #c.J In the ori- ginal 'O Span erg <; 6 xpvoot;. There is a kind of pun in these words, as Madame Dacier has already remarked ; for Chrysos, which signifies gold, was also a frequent name for a slave. In one of Lucian’s dialogues, there is, I think, a similar play upon the word, where the followers of Chrysippus are called golden fishes. The puns of the ancients are, in general, even more vapid than our own ; some of the best are those re- corded of Diogenes. 6 And flies me (as he flies me ever), SfC.j Act S', ae t pe evyeL. This grace of iteration has already been taken notice of. Though sometimes merely a playful beauty, it is peculiarly expressive of impassioned sen- timent, and we may easily believe that it was one of the many sources of that energetic sensibility which breathed through the style of Sappho. See Gyrald. Vet. Poet. Dial. 9. It will n«l be said that this is a mechanical ornament by any one who can feel its charm in those lines of Catullus, where he complains of the infidelity of his mistress, Lesbia : — Cceli, Lesbia nostra, Lesbia ilia, 111a Lesbia, quam Catullus unam, Plus quam so atque suos amavit omnes, Nunc, &c. Si sic omnia dixisset ! — but the rest does not bear cita- tion. 7 They dash'd the wine-cup, that, by him , Was fill'd with kisses to the brim .J Original : — it,Xrjp.areov Se KeSvcav, Ilodcov KvneXXa Kipvyi;, Horace has “ Desiderique temperaro poculum,” not figuratively, however, like Anacreon, but importing the love- philtres of the witches. By “cups of kisses” ODES OF ANACREON. 38 Go — fly to haunts of sordid men. But come 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 1 to worldlings hence, Who feel not this diviner sense ; Give gold to those who love that pest, — But leave the poet poor and blest. > ODE LIX.l Ripen’d by the solar beam, Now the ruddy clusters teem, 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 charm’d and echoing air. Mark, how they drink, with all their eyes, The orient tide that sparkling flies, The infant Bacchus, born in mirth, While Love stands by, to hail the birth. When he, whose verging years decline As deep into the vale as mine, When he inhales the vintage-cup, His feet, new-wing’d, from earth spring up, And as he dances, the fresh air Plays whispering through his silvery hair. Meanwhile young groups whom love invites, To joys ev’n rivalling wine’s delights, Seek, arm in arm, the shadowy grove, And there, in words and looks of love, Such as fond lovers look and say, Pass the sweet moonlight hours away .2 our poet may allude to a favourite gallantry among the ancients, of drinking when the lips of their mis- tresses had touched the brim : — " Or leave a kiss within the cup And I’ll not ask for wine.” As in Ben Jonson’s translation from Philostratus ; and Lucian has a conceit upon the same idea, “'I va Kat ni,vr)<; a/xa kgu ‘‘that you may at once both drink and kiss.” 1 The title EmXrjvtoi; v/xvo<;, which Barnes has given to this ode, is by no means appropriate. We have al- ready had one of those hymns (ode 56.), but this is a description of the vintage: and the title etc oevov, which it bears in the Vatican MS., is more correct than any that have been suggested. Degen, in the true spirit of literary scepticism, doubts that tnis ode is genuine, without assigning any reason for such a suspicion ; — “ non amo te, Sabidi, nec possum dicere quare.” But this is far from being satisfactory criticism. 2 Those well acquainted with the original need hardly be reminded that, in these few concluding verses, I have thought right to give only the general meaning of my author, leaving the details untouched. ODE LX. 3 Awake to life, my sleeping shell, To Phoebus let thy numbers 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 voiceless slumbers, And to the soft and Phrygian numbers, Which, tremblingly, my lips repeat, Send echoes from thy chord as sweet. ’Tis thus the swan, with fading notes, Down the Cayster’s current floats, While amorous breezes linger round, And sigh responsive sound for sound. Muse of the Lyre 1 illume my dream, Thy Phoebus is my fancy’s theme ; 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 ethereal son of Light ; And how the tender, timid maid Flew trembling to the kindly shade, 4 Resign’d a form, alas, too 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, And when to clasp the nymph he thought, A lifeless tree was all he caught ; And, stead of sighs that pleasure heaves, Heard but the west- wind in the leaves ! But, pause, my soul, no more, no more — Enthusiast, whither do I soar ? This sweetly-mad’ning dream of soul Hath hurried me beyond the goal. Why should I sing the mighty darts Which fly to wound celestial hearts, When ah, the song, with sweeter tone. Can tell the darts that wound my own ? 3 This hymn to Apollo is supposed not to have been written by Anacreon ; and it is undoubtedly rather a sublimer flight than the Teian wing is accustomed to soar. But, in a poet of whose work so small a proportion has reached us, diversity of style is by no means a safe criterion. If we knew Horace but as a satirist, should we easily believe there could dwell such animation in his lyre ? Suidas says that our poet wrote hymns, and this perhaps is one of them. We can perceive in what an altered and imperfect state his works are at present, when we find a scholiast upon Horace citing an ode from the third book of Anacreon. 4 A nil lioiv the tender , timid maid Flew trembling to the kindly shade , <$c.] Ori- ginal : — To p.ev eK7reevye Kevrpov, tvaecve S' a/xeLyfre fxoprjv. I find the word Kevrpov here has a double force, as it also signifies that “omnium parentem, quam sanctus Numa,” &c. (See Martial.) In order to confirm th s import of the word here, those who are curious in new readings may place the stop after vcrewi t thus • — - To fxev eKireevye Kevrpov ♦i/o-eco?, S’ a/xet^re p. opr]v, D 84 MOORK’S WORKS. Still be Anacreon, still inspire The descant of the Teinn lyre : l Still let the nectar’d numbers float, Distilling love in every note ! And when some youth, whose glowing soul 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 l 2 + . ODE LXI.3 Youth’s endearing charms arc fled ; Hoary locks deform my head ; Bloomy graces, dalliance gay, All the flowers of life decay. 4 * Withering age begins to trace Sad memorials o’er my face Time has shed its sweetest bloom, All the future must be gloom. This it is that sets me sighing ; Dreary is the thought of dying ! 5 Lone and dismal is the road, Down to Pluto’s dark abode ; And, when once the journey’s o’er, Ah ! we can return no more ! 6 1 Still be Anacreon, still inspire The descant of the Teian lyre .'] The original is ~0V AvaKpeovra pu/xov. I have translated it under the supposition that the hymn is by Anacreon ; though I fear, from this very line, that his claim to it can scarcely be supported. Toy A vaKpeovra. pufxov, “Imitate Anacreon.” Such is the lesson given us by the lyrist; and if, in poetry, a simple elegance of sentiment, enriched by the most playful felicities of fancy, be a charm which invites or deserves imitation, where shall we find such a guide as Anacreon ? In morality, too, with some little reserve, we need not blush, I think, to follow in his footsteps. For, if his song be the language of his heart, though luxurious and relaxed, he was artless and benevolent; and who would not forgive a few irregularities, when atoned for by virtues so rare and so endearing ? When we think of the sentiment in those lines : — ; Away I I hate the sland’rous dart, Which steals to wound th’ unwary heart, how many are there in the world, to whom we would wish to say Toy AvaKpeovra pu/xov ! 2 Here ends the last of the odes in the Vatican MS., whose authority helps to confirm the genuine an- tiquity of them all, though a few have stolen among the number, which we may hesitate in attributing to Anacreon. In the little essay prefixed to this transla- tion, I observe that Barnes has quoted this manuscript incorrectly, relying upon an imperfect copy of it, which Isaac Vossius had taken. I shall just mention two or three instances of this inaccuracy — the first which occur to me. In the ode of the Dove, on the words II repo tat avyicaXvjro}, he says, “ Vatican MS. av- oxtafcoy, etiam Prisciano invito but the MS. reads crvvKaXv^u), with avaKiaaco interlined. Degen too, on the same line, is somewhat in error. In the twenty- second ode of this series, line thirteenth, the MS. has revirj with at interlined, and Barnes imputes to it the reading of revSy. In the fifty-seventh, line twelfth, he professes to have preserved the reading of the MS. AAaXyfxevr) S' sir aim), while the latter has aXaXi yxevoc S' €7 r' ana. Almost all the other annotators have transplanted these errors from Barnes. 3 The intrusion of this melancholy ode, among the careless levities of our poet, reminds us of the skeletons which the Egyptians used to hang up in their banquet- rooms, to inculcate a thought of mortality even amidst the dissipations of mirth. If it were not for the beauty of its numbers, the Teian Muse should disown this ode. “Quid habet illius, illius quae spirabat amores? ” To Stobaeus we are indebted for it. 4 Bloomy graces, dalliance gay , All the flowers of life decay.] Horace often, with feeling and elegance, deplores the fugacity of human ODE LX1I.7 Fill me, boy, a3 deep a draught, As e’er was fill’d, as e’er was quaff’d ; But let the water amply flow, To cooi the grape’s intemperate glow ; H Let not the fiery god be single, But with the nymphs in union mingle. For though the bowl’s the grave of sadness, Ne’er let it be the birth of madness. No, banish from our board to-night 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, In concert let our voices breathe, Beguiling every hour along With harmony of soul and song. ♦ ODE LXlil.9 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 ! enjoyments. See book ii. ode 11. ; and thus in the second epistle, book ii. : — Singula de nobis anni prredantur cuntos ; Eripuere jocos, venerem, convivia, ludum. The wing of every passing day Withers some blooming joy away ; And wafts from our enamour’d arms The banquet’s mirth, the virgin’s charms. 5 Dreary is the thought of dying ! #c.] Itegnicr, a libertine French poet, has written some sonnets on the approach of death, full of gloomy and trembling re- pentance. Chaulieu, however, supports more consis- tently the spirit of the Epicurean philosopher. See his poem, addressed to the Marquis de Lafare : — Plus j’approclie du terme et moins je le redoute, &o. 6 And, when once the journey's o'er. Ah! we can return no more!] Scaliger, upon Catullus’s well-known lines, “ Qui nunc it per iter,” &c., remarks that Acheron, with the same idea, is called ave£oSog by Theocritus, and Svo-eicSpo/xoc by Ni- cander. 7 This ode consists of two fragments, which are to be found in Athenseus, book x., and which Barnes, from the similarity of their tendency, has combined into one. I think this a very justifiable liberty, and have adopted it in some other fragments of our poet. Degen refers us here to verses of Uz, lib. iv., “der Trinker.” 8 But let the water amply flow. To cool the grape's intemperate glow ; fyc.] It was Amphictyon who first taught the Greeks to mix water with their wine ; in commemoration of which circum- stance they erected altars to Bacchus and the nymphs. On this mythological allegory the following epigram is founded : — Ardentem ex utero Scmelcs lavere Lyseum Naiades, extincto fulminis*igne sacri ; Cum nymphis igitur tractabilis, at sine nymphis Candenti rursus fulmine corripitur. PlERIUS VALERIANTO Which is, non verbum verbo, — While heavenly fire consumed his Theban dame, A Naiad caught young Bacchus from the flame. And dipp’d him burning in her purest lymph ; Hence, still he loves the Naiad’s crystal urn. And when his native fires too fiercely bum, Seeks the cool waters of the fountain-nymph. 9 “ This fragment is preserved in Clemens Alexan- drinus, Strom, lib. vi., and in Arsenius, Collect. Grsec.’ — Barnes. It appears to have been the opening of a hymn in praise of Love. ODES OF ANACREOBT- 35 ODE LXIV.l Haste thee, nymph, whose well-aim’d spear Wounds the fleeting mountain-deer I Dian, Jove s immortal child, Huntress of the savage wild I Goddess with the sun-bright hair I Listen to a people’s prayer. Turn, to Lethe’s river turn, There thy vanquish’d people mourn ! 2 Come to Lethe’s wavy shore, Tell them they shall mourn no more. Thine their hearts, their altars thine ; Must they, Dian — must they pine ? ODE LXV.3 Like some wanton filly sporting, Maid of Thrace, thou fly’st my courting. Wanton filly 1 tell me why Thou trip’st away, with scornful eye, And seem’st to think my doating heart Is novice in the bridling art ? Believe me, girl, it is not so ; Thou’lt find this skilful hand can throw The reins around that tender form, However wild, however warm. Yes — trust me I can tame thy force, And turn and wind thee in the course. Though, wasting now thy careless hours, Thou sport amid the herbs and flowers, Soon shalt thou feel the rein’s control, And tremble at the wish’d-for goal 1 ODE LX VI. 4 To thee, the Queen of nymphs divine, Fairest of all that fairest shine ; 1 This hymn to Diana is extant in Ilephacstion. There is an anecdote of our poet, which has led some to doubt whether he ever wrote any odes of this kind. It is related by the Scholiast upon Pindar (Isthmionic. od. ii. v. 1. as cited by Barnes) that Anacreon being asked, why he addressed all his hymns to women, and none to the deities ? answered, “ Because women are my deities.” 1 have assumed, it will be seen, in reporting this anecdote, the same liberty which I have thought it right to take in translating some of the odes ; and it were to be wished that these little infidelities were al- ways allowable in interpreting the writings of the an- cients ; thus, when nature is forgotten in the original, in the translation “tamen usque rccurret.” 2 Turn , to Lethe's river turn , There thy vanquish'd people mourn!'] Lethe, a river of Ionia, according to Strabo, falling into the Meander. In its neighbourhood was the city called Magnesia, in favour of whose inhabitants our poet is supposed to have addressed this supplication to Diana. It was written (as Madame Dacier conjectures) on the occasion of some battle, in which the Magnesians had been defeated. 3 This ode, which is addressed to some Thracian girl, exists in Heraclides, and has been imitated very frequently by Horace, as all the annotators have re- marked. Madame Dacier rejects the allegory, which runs so obviously through the poem, and supposes it to have been addressed to a young mare belonging to Polycrates. Picrius, in the fourth book of his Hieroglyphics, cites this ode, and informs us that the horse was the hieroglyphical emblem of pride. 4 This ode is introduced in the Romance of Theo- To thee, who rul’st with darts of lire This world of mortals, young Desire 1 And oh ! thou nuptial Power, to thee Who bear’st of life the guardian key, Breathing my soul in fervent praise, And weaving wild my votive lays, For thee, O Queen ! I wake the lyre, For thee, thou blushing young Desire, And oh I for thee, thou nuptial Power, Come, and illume this genial hour. Look on thy bride, too happy boy, And while thy lambent glance of joy Plays over all her blushing charms, Delay not, snatch her to thine arms, Before the lovely, trembling prey, Like a young birdling, wing away I Turn, Stratocles, too happy youth, Dear to the Queen of amorous truth, And dear to her, whose yielding zone Will soon resign her all thine own. Turn to Myrilla, turn thine eye, Breathe to Myrilla, breathe thy sigh. To those bewitching beauties turn ; For thee they blush, for thee they burn. Not more the rose, the queen of flowers, Outblushes all the bloom of bowers, Than she unrivall’d grace discloses, The sweetest rose, where all are roses. Oh ! may the sun, benignant, shed His blandest influence o’er thy bed ; And foster there an infant tree, To bloom like her, and tower like thee ! 3 ODE LXVII.o Rich in bliss, I proudly scorn The wealth of Amalthea’s horn ; dorus Prodromus, and is that kind of cpithalammm which was sung like a scolium at the nuptial banquet. Among the many works of the impassioned Sappho, of which time and ignorant superstition have deprived us, the loss of her epithalamiums is not one of the least that we deplore. The following lines are cited as a relic of one of those poems : — OX file ya/xfipe, dei.i viro pgrpoq. “ Horned ” here, undoubted^-, seems a strange epi- thet ; Madame Dacicr however observes, that Sophocles, Callimachus, &c. have all applied it in the very samt manner, and she seems to agree in the conjecture of the scholiast upon Pindar, that perhaps horns are not alw-ays peculiar to the males. I think we may with more ease conclude it to be a license of the poet, “jussit habere puellam cornua.” 8 This fragment is preserved by the scholiast upon Aristophanes, and is the eighty-seventh in Barnes. 9 This is to be found in Hephaestion, and is the eighty-ninth of Barnes’s edition. I have omitted, from among these scraps, a vorj’ con- siderable fragment imputed to our poet, S avQr) S’ Evpt,- 7rvXr) peXet, &c., which is preserved in the twelfth book of Athenseus, and is the ninety-first in Barnes. If itM'as really Anacreon who wrote it, ‘‘nil fuit unquam sic impar sibi.” It is in a style of gross satire, and abounds with expressions that never could be gracefully trans- lated. 10 A fragment preserved bj Dion Chrysostom. Orafc i*. de Regno. See Barnes, 9o. ODES OF AN AC RE OX 37 Propitious, oh ! receive my sighs, Which, glowing with entreaty, rise, That thou wilt whisper to the breast Of her I love thy soft behest ; And counsel her to learn from thee, That lesson thou hast taught to me, Ah ! if my heart no flattery tell, Tliou’lt own I’ve learn’d that lesson well ! ODE LXXY.i Spirit of Love, whose locks unroll’d, Stream on the breeze like floating gold ; Come, within a fragrant cloud Blushing with light, thy votary shroud ; And, on those wings that sparkling play, Waft, oh, waft me hence away I Love I my soul is full of thee, Alive to all thy luxury. But she, the nymph for whom I glow, The lovely Lesbian mocks my woe ; Smiles at the chill and hoary hues, That time upon my forehead strews. Alas I I fear she keeps her charms, In store for younger, happier arms 1 -♦ ODE LXXVI.2 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 1 ODE LXXVII.3 Would that I were a tuneful lyre, Of burnish’d ivory fair, Which, in the Dionysian choir, Some blooming boy should bear I 1 This fragment, which is extant in Athenaetis (Barnes, 101.), is supposed, on the authority of Cha- maeleon, to have been addressed to Sappho. We have also a stanza attributed to her, which some romancers have supposed to be her answer to Anacreon. “ Mais par malheur (as Bayle says), Sappho vint au mondc environ cent ou six vingt ansavant Anacreon.” — Nou- velles de la R€p. dcs Lett. tom. ii. de Novembre, 1G84. The following is her fragment, the compliment of which is finely imagined ; she supposes that the Muse has dic- tated the verses of Anacreon: — Keivov , co xpvaoOpove Mova' evirnret; Y fj.vov, ck ti 75 KaWi.yvvai.Koi; cadXa; Tjjioj \copa; 6v aeiSe rcpirvcus Tlpeafivf ayavo c. Oh Muse ! who sit’st on golden throne Full many a hymn of witching tone The Teian sage is taught by thee 1 But, Goddess, from thy throne of gold, The sweetest hymn tliou’st ever told, He lately learn’d and sung for me. - Formed of the 124th and 119th fragments in Barnes, both of which are to be found in Scaligcr’s Poetics. De Pauw thinks that those detached lines and cou- plets, which Scaiiger has adduced as examples iu hi* W ould that I were a golden vase, That some bright nymph might hold My spotless frame, with blushing grace, Ilersclf as pure as gold I ODE LXXVIII.4 When Cupid sees how thickly now The snows of Time fall o’er my brow, Upon his wing of golden light, He passes with an eaglet’s flight, And flitting onward seems to say, “Fare thee well, thou’st had thy day ! ” CuriD, whose lamp has lent the ray That lights our life’s meandering way, That God, within this bosom stealing, Hath waken’d a strange, mingled feeling, Which pleases, though so sadly teasing. And teases, though so sweetly pleasing ! 5 Let me resign this wretched breath, Since now remains to me Xo other balm than kindly death, To soothe my misery 1 6 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. 7 - — ♦ I fear that love disturbs my rest, Yet feel not love’s impassion’d care y I think there’s madness in my breast, Yet cannot find that madness there ! 3 Poetics, are by no means authentic, but of his own fabrication. 3 This is generally inserted among the remains of Alcaeus. Some, however, have attributed it to Ana- creon. See our poet’s twenty- second ode, and the notes. 4 See Barnes, 173d. This fragment, to which I have taken the liberty of adding a turn not to be found in the original, is cited by Lucian in his short essay on the Gallic Hercules. 5 Barnes, 125th. This is in Scaliger’s Poetics. Gail has omitted it in his collection of fragments. 6 This fragment is extant in Arsenius and Heplise- stion. See Barnes (69th), who has arranged the metre of it very skilfully. 7 Barnes, 72d. This fragment, which is found in Atlienaeus, contains an excellent lesson for the votaries of Jupiter Hospitalis. 8 Found in Hepliaestion (see Barnes, 95tli), and re- minds one somewhat of the following : — Odi et amo ; quarc id faciam fortassc requiris ; Ncscio: sed fieri sentio, et excrucior. farm. 53. I love thee and hate thee, but if I can tell The cause of my love and my hate, may I die. I can feel it, alas ! I can feel it too well. That 1 love thee and hate thee, but cannot tell why. 88 MOORE’S WORKS. From dread Lcucudia's frowniug steep, I’ll plunge into the whitening deep : And there lio cold, to death resign’d, Since Love intoxicates my mind 1 1 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 I Shall no more the contest try. Here — upon this holy bowl, X surrender all my soul l - Among the Epigrams of the Anthologia, arc found some panegyrics on Anacreon, which Iliad translated, and originally intended as a sort of Coronis to this work. But I found upon consi- deration, that they wanted variety ; and that a frequent recurrence, in them, of the same thought, would render a collection of such poems uninter- esting. I shall take the liberty, however, of sub- joining a few, selected from the number, that I may not appear to have totally neglected those ancient tributes to the fame of Anacreon. The four epigrams which I give are imputed to Anti- pater Sidonius. They are rendered, perhaps, with too much freedom ; but designing originally a translation of all that are extant on the subject, I endeavoured to enliven their uniformity by sometimes indulging in the liberties of para- phrase. 1 This is also in Hephaestion, and perhaps is a frag- ment of some poem, in -which Anacreon had comme- morated the fate of Sappho. It is the 123d of Barnes. 2 Collected by Barnes, from Demetrius Phalareus and Eustathius, and subjoined in his edition to the epigrams attributed to our poet. And here is the last of those little scattered flowers, which I thought I might venture with any grace to transplant ; happy if it could be said of the garland which they form, To 6' cof’ A vaxpeovTog. 3 Antipater Sidonius, the author of this epigram, lived, according to Vossius, de Poetis Grsecis, in the second year of the lG9th Olympiad. He appears, from what Cicero and Quintillian have said of him, to have been a kind of improvisatore. See Institut. Orat. lib. x. cap. 7. There is nothing more known respecting this poet, except some particulars about his illness and death, which are mentioned as curious by Pliny and others; — and there remain of his works but a few epigrams in the Anthologia, among which are found these inscriptions upon Anacreon. These remains have been sometimes imputed to another poet. * of the same name, of whom Vossius gives us the following account : — “ Antipater Thessalonicensis vixit tempore Augusti Citsaris, ut qui saltantem viderit Pyladcm, sicut constat * Pleraqne tamen Thessalonicensi tribuenda viden- tur . — Brunchf Lectio ms ct EmendaL ANTIIIATPOr 21A12NIOY, EI2 ANAKPEONTA. 0AAAOI t£t gxzogvfzZot, A veezgeov, ot/zQc oi zicrcro; x£got n Xa/juovuy crogQugicov ortTotXot' tr*,yea b ctgyivoivro; ctvotOXiSoivro yxXxzrog, tveoba b’ u.to yy,; r,bv ££o;ro fAiOu, opgot zi r oi o-crobiq rt zoti oernot ng^iv ctgY,Toti, 1 1 bi rig rj\as irypr) v(KTapo( /jLeArjdovr/. Evyevovs, A vdoXoy. ODES OF ANACREON. 30 Cold, cold that heart, which while on earth it dwelt All the sweet frenzy of love’s passion felt. And yet, oh Bard l thou art not mute in death, Still do we catch thy lyre’s luxurious breath ; i And still thy songs of soft Bathylla bloom, Green as the ivy round thy mould’ring tomb. Nor yet has death obscur’d thy fire of love, For still it lights thee through the Elysian grove; Where dreams are thine, that bless th’ elect alone, And Venus calls thee even in death her own ! TOY AYTOY, EI2 TON AYTON. SEINE, tcc.7c S’ ov Xydy pteXtrepKeog aW ert xetvo Eapfitrov ovde Qavoov evvacrev etv atdy. 2 ip.ovi.dov, A vOoXoy. Nor yet are all liis numbers mute. Though dark within the tomb he lies ; But living still, his amorous lute With sleepless animation sighs ! This is the famous Simonides, whom Plato styled “ divine,” though Le Fevre, in his Poetes Grecs, sup- poses that the epigrams under his name are all falsely imputed. The most considerable of his remains is a satirical poem upon women, preserved by Stobaeus, y\royog yvvaucaov. We may judge from the lines I have just quoted, and the import of the epigram before us, that the works of Anacreon were perfect in the times of Simonides and Antipater. Obsopoeus, the commentator here, appears to exult in their destruction, and telling us they Avere burned by the bishops and patriarchs, he adds, “ nec sane id necquicquam fecerunt,” attributing to this out- rage an effect Avhich it could not possibly have produced. 2 The spirit of Anacreon is supposed to utter these verses from the tomb, — somewhat “mutatus ab illo,” at least in simplicity of expression. 3 if Anacreon' s shell Has ever taught thy heart to swell , #c.] We may guess from the words e* /3t/3\wv eptwv, that Anacreon Avas not merely a Avriter of billets-doux, as some French critics have called him. Amongst these Mr. Le Fevre, Avith all his professed admiration, has given our poet a character by no means of an elevated cast : — Aussi e’est pour cela que la posterity L’a toujours justement d’age en age chante Comme un franc goguenard, ami de goinfrerie, Ami de billets-doux et do badinerie. And drop thy goblet’s richest tear 4 In tenderest libation here 1 So shall my sleeping ashes thrill With visions of enjoyment still. Not even in death can I resign The festal joys that once were mine, When Harmony pursu’d my ways, And Bacchus wanton’d to my lays. 5 Oh I 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 1 TOY AYTOY, El 2 TON AYTON. EYAEI2 iv Se ywaKectov peXecov wXe^avra wot coSat, H 6vv Avaxpetovra 3fe, Tea)? etc EAXad' avyyev, 'S.vpwooicov epediopa, yvvauccov ywepowevpa. Teos gave to Greece her treasure, Sage Anacreon, sage in loving ; Fondly weaving lays of pleasure For the maids who blush’d approving. When in nightly banquets sporting. Where’s the guest could ever fly him ? When with love’s seduction courting, "Where’s the nymph could e’er deny him ? 5 A portion of these Poems were published origin- ally as the works of the “late Thomas Little/* with the Preface here given prefixed to them. * Brunck has * povcov', but xpovoi, the common reading, belter suits a detached quotation. * Thus Scaliger, in his dedicatory verses to Ron- ,rd ; — , . Blandus, suaviloquus, dulcis Anacreon. JUVENILE POEMS. have chastened his mind, and tempered the luxuriance of his fancy. Mr. Little gave much of his time to the study of the amatory writers. If ever he expected to find in the ancients that delicacy of sentiment, and variety of fancy, which are so necessary to refine and animate the poetry of love, he was much disappointed. I know not any one of them who can be regarded as a model in that style ; Ovid made love like a rake, and Propertius like a schoolmaster. The mythological allusions of the latter are called erudition by his commenta- tors ; but such ostentatious display, upon a sub- ject so simple as love, would be now esteemed vague and puerile, and was even in his own times pedantic. It is astonishing that so many critics should have preferred him to the gentle and touching Tibullus ; but those defects, I believe, which a common reader condemns, have been regarded rather as beauties by those erudite men, the commentators ; who find a field for their in- genuity and research, in his Grecian learning and quaint obscurities. Tibullus abounds with touches of fine and natural feeling. The idea of his unexpected re- turn to Delia, “Tunc veniam subito,”* &c. is imagined with all the delicate ardour of a lover ; and the sentiment of “ nec te posse carere velim,” however colloquial the expression may have been, is natural, and from the heart. But the poet of Verona, in my opinion, possessed more genuine feeling than any of them. His life was, I believe, unfortunate ; his associates were wild and aban- doned ; and the warmth of his nature took too much advantage of the latitude which the morals of those times so criminally allowed to the pas- sions. All this depraved his imagination, and made it the slave of his senses. But still a native sensibility is often very warmly perceptible ; and when he touches the chord of pathos, he reaches immediately the heart. They who have felt the sweets of return to a home from which they have long been absent will confess the beauty of those simple unaffected lines : — Oquid solutis est beatius curis ! Cum mens onus reponit, ac peregrino Lahore fessi venimus Larem ad nostrum Desideratoque acquieseimus lecto. Carm. xxix. His sorrows on the death of his brother are the very tears of poesy ; and when he complains of the ingratitude of mankind, even the inex- perienced cannot but sympathise with him. I wish I were a poet ; I should then endeavour to catch, by translation, the spirit of those beauties which I have always so warmly admired. t . It seems to have been peculiarly the fate of Catullus, that the better and more valuable part of his poetry lias not reached us ; for there is confessedly nothing in his extant works to autho- rise the epithet “ doctus,” so universally bestowed upon him by the ancients. If time had suffered * Lib. L E?eg. 3. t In the following Poems will be found a translation of one of his finest Carmina ; but l fancy it is only a mere school-boy’s essay, ami deserves to be i>raiacd for little more than the attempt. + Lqcretiuj. 41 his other writings to escape, we perhaps should have found among them some more purely ama- tory ; but of those we possess, can there be a sweeter specimen of warm, yet chastened de- scription, than his loves of Acme and Septimius ? and the few little songs of dalliance to Lesbia are distinguished by such an exquisite playfulness, that they have always been assumed as models by the most elegant modern Latinists. Still, it must be confessed, in the midst of all these beauties, Medio de fonte leporum Surgit amari aliquid, quod in ipsis floribus angat.J It has often been remarked, that the ancients knew nothing of gallantry ; and we are some- times told there was too much sincerity in their love to allow them to trifle thus with the sem- blance of passion. But I cannot perceive that they were any thing more constant than the moderns ; they felt all the same dissipation of the heart, though they knew not those seductive graces by which gallantry almost teaches it to be amiable. Wotton, the learned advocate for the moderns, deserts them in considering this point of comparison, and praises the ancients for their ignorance of such refinements. But he seems to have collected his notions of gallantry from the insipid facleurs of the French romances, which have nothing congenial with the graceful levity, the “grata protervitas,” of a Rochester or a Sedley. As far as I can judge, the early poets of our own language were the models which Mr. Lit- tle selected for imitation. To attain their sim- plicity (“ oevo rarissima nostro simplicitas”) was his fondest ambition. He could not have aimed at a grace more difficult of attainment § ; and his life was of too short a date to allow him to perfect such a taste ; but how far he was likely to have succeeded, the critic may judge from his productions. I have found among his papers a novel, in rather an imperfect state, which, as soon as I have arranged and collected it, shall be submitted to the public eye. Where Mr. Little was born, or what is the ge- nealogy of his parents, are points in which very few readers can be interested. His life was one of those humble streams which have scarcely a name in the map of life, and the traveller may pass it by without inquiring its source or direction. His character was well known to all who were ac- quainted with him ; for lie had too much vanity to hide its virtues, and not enough of art to conceal its defects. The lighter traits of his mind may be traced perhaps in his writings ; but the few for which he was valued live only in the remembrance of his friends. T. M. § It is a curious illustration of the labour which simplicity requires, that the Ramblers of Johnson, ela- borate as they appear, were written with fluency, and seldom required revision : while the simple language of Rousseau, which seems to come flowing from the heart, was the slow production of painful labour, pausing on every word, and balancing every sentence. 42 MOORE’S WORKS. TO JOSEPH ATKINSON, ESQ. My dear Sir, I feel n very Binccre pleasure in dedi- cating to you the Second Edition of our friend I.ittle’s Toons. I uni not unconscious that there are many in the collection which perhaps it would be prudent to have altered or omitted ; and to say the truth, I more than once revised them for that purpose ; but, I know not why, I dis- trusted cither my heart or my judgment ; and the consequence is, you have them in their original form : Non possunt nostros multre, Faustine, liturce Emendarc jocos ; una litura potest. I am convinced, however, that, though not quite a casuiste reldchd, you have charity enough to forgive such inolfensive follies : you know that the pious Beza was not the less revered for those sportive Juvenilia which he published under a fictitious name ; nor did the levity of Bembo’s poems prevent him from making a very good car- dinal. Believe me, my dear Friend, With the truest esteem, Yours, T.M. JUVENILE POEMS. FRAGMENTS OF COLLEGE EXERCISES. Nobilitas sola est atque unica virtus. JUV. Mark those proud boasters of a splendid line, Like gilded ruins, mould’ring 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 I Where is the heart by chymic truth refin’d, Th’ exploring soul, whose eye had read man- kind ? Where are the links that twin’d, 'with heav’nly art, His country’s interest round the patriot’s heart ? ***** Justum bellum quibus necessarium, et pia arma quibus nulla nisi in araiis relinquitur spes. — LlVY. ***** 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 nn angel’s breath To 6lurab’ring babes, or innocence in death ; And urgent ns the tongue of Heav’n within, When the mind’s balance trembles upon sin. Oli I ’tis our country’s voice, whose claim should meet An echo in the soul’s most deep retreat ; Along the heart’s responding chords should run, Nor let a tone there vibrate — but the one 1 VARIETY. Ask what prevailing, pleasing power Allures the sportive, wandering bee To roam, untired, from flower to flower, He’ll tell you, ’tis variety. Look Nature round, her features trace, Her seasons, all her changes see ; And own, upon Creation’s face, The greatest charm’s variety. For me, ye gracious powers above ! Still let me roam, unfix’d and free ; In all things, — but the nymph I love, I’ll change, and taste variety. But, Patty, not a world of charms Could e’er estrange my heart from thee ; — No, let me ever seek those arms, There still I’ll find variety. 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 parents’ hearts approving, And pay them back in sums of bliss The dear, the endless debt of 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 flower of fancy brighter. The little gift we send thee, boy, May sometimes teach thy soul to ponder, If indolence or siren 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 1 JUVENILE POEMS. 43 SON G. If I swear by that eye, you’ll allow, Its look is so shifting and new, That the oath I might take on it now The very next glance would undo. Those babies that nestle so sly Such thousands of arrows have got, That an oath, on the glance of an eye Such as yours, may be off in a shot. Should I swear by the dew on your lip, Though each moment the treasure renews, If my constancy wishes to trip, I may kiss off the oath when I choose. Or a sigh may disperse from that flow’r Both the dew and the oath that are there ; And I’d make a new vow every hour, To lose them so sweetly in air. But clear up the heav’n of your brow Nor fancy my faith is a feather ; On my heart I will pledge you my vow, And they both must be broken together 1 To it k member him thou leay’st behind, Whose heart is warmly bound to thee, Close as the tend’rest links can bind A heart as warm as heart can be. Oli ! I had long in freedom rov’d, Though many seem’d my soul to share ; ’Twas passion when I thought I lov’d, ’Twas fancy when I thought them fair. Ev’n she, my muse’s early theme, Beguil’d me only while she warm’d ; ’Twas young desire that fed the dream, And reason broke what passion form’d. But thou — ah'l better had it been If I had still in freedom rov’d, If I had ne’er thy beauties seen, For then I never should have lov’d. Then all the pain which lovers feel Had never to this heart been known ; But then, the joys that lovers steal, Should tltcy have ever been my own ? Oh ! trust me, when I swear thee this, Dearest I the pain of loving thee, The very pain is sweeter bliss Than passion’s wildest ecstasy. That little cage I would not part, In which my soul is prison’d now, For the most light and winged heart That wantons on the passing vow. Still, my belov’d 1 still keep in mind, However far remov’d from me, That there is one thou leav’st behind, Whose heart respires for only thee ! And though ungenial ties have bound Thy fate unto another’s care, That arm, which clasps thy bosom round, Cannot confine the heart that’s there. No, no 1 that heart is only mine By ties all other ties above, For I have wed it at a shrine Where we have had no priest but Love. ♦ 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, Julia, when thy beauty’s flow’r Shall feel the wintry air, Remembrance 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 That sorrow leaves behind. 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. 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 fail-, Our loving life shall fleet ; Though tears may sometimes mingle there The draught will still be sweet. Then fill the cup — away with gloom ! Our joys shall always last ; For Hope will brighten days to come, And Mem’ry gild the past. 4 - SONG. Have you not seen the timid tear, Steal trembling from mine eye ? 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 ? 41 MOORE’S WORKS. To you my soul’s affections move, Devoutly, warmly true ; My life lias been a task of love, One long, long thought of you. If all your tender faith be o’er, If still my truth you’ll try ; Alas. I know but one proof more — I'll bless your uanic, and die ! REUBEN AND ROSE. A TALE OF ROMANCE. The darkness that hung upon Willumbcrg’s walls Had long been remember’d with awe and dis- may ; 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 that castle illume; And the lightning, which flash’d on the neigh- bouring stream, Flew back, as if fearing to enter the gloom ! « Oh ! when shall this horrible darkness dis- perse ! ” Said Willumbcrg’s lord to the Seer of the Cave ; — “ It can never dispel,” said the wizard of verse, “ Till the bright star of chivalry sinks in the wave ! ” And who was the bright star of chivalry then ? Who could be but Reuben, the flow’r of the age ? For Reuben was first in the combat of men, Though Youth had scarce written his name on her page. For Willumberg’s daughter his young heart had beat, — For Rose, who was blight 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. Must Rose, then, from Reuben so fatally sever ? Sad, sad were the words of the Seer of the Cave, That darkness should cover that castle for ever, Or Reuben be sunk in the merciless wave 1 To the wizard she flew, saying “ Tell me, oh, tell ! Shall my Reuben no more be restor’d to my eyes ? ” “ Yes, yes — when a spirit shall toll the great bell Of the mould’ring abbey, your Reuben shall rise 1 ” Twice, thrice he repeated “ Your Reuben shall rise l ” And Rose felt a moment’s release from her pain ; And wip’d, while she listen’d, the tears from her eyes, And hop’d she might yet see her hero again. That 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 depth of the billows soon found his repose. — IIow strangely the order of destiny falls ! — Not long in the waters the warrior lay, When a sunbeam was 6een 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 daj r s 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 heard but the breathings of night in the air ; Long, long did she gaze on the watery swell, And 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 i — ’twas the bell that came deep in the wind I 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 fore- told?— Dim, dim through the phantom the moon shot a gleam ; ’Twas Reuben, but, ah ! he was deathly and cold, And fleeted away like the spell of a dream 1 Twice, thrice did he rise, and as often she thought From the bank to embrace him, but vain her endeavour ! Then, plunging beneath, at a billow she caught, And sunk to repose on its bosom for ctci i JUVENILE POEMS. 45 DID NOT. ’Twas a new feeling — something more Than we had dared to own before, Which then we hid not ; We saw it in each other’s eye, And 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 I do you doubt I love you now ? ” Sweet soul I I did not. Warmly I felt her bosom thrill, I press’d it closer, closer still, Though gently bid not ; Till — oh l the world hath seldom heard Of lovers, who so nearly err’d, And yet, who did not. TO That wrinkle, when first I espied it At once put my heart out of pain ; Till the eye, that was glowing beside it, Disturb’d my ideas again. Thou art just in the twilight at present, When woman’s declension begins ; When, fading from all that is pleasant, She bids a good night to her sins. Yet thou still art so lovely to me, I would sooner, my exquisite mother ! Repose in the sunset of thee, Than bask in the noon of another. TO MRS ON SOME CALUMNIES AGAINST HER CHARACTER. Is not tliy mind a gentle mind ? Is not that heart a heart refin’d ? Hast thou not every gentle grace, We love in woman’s mind and face ? 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 shun thee ; Though all the world look cold upon thee, 1 This alludes to a curious gem, upon which Claudian has left us some very elaborate epigrams. It was a drop of pure water enclosed within a piece of crystal. See Claudian. Epigram. “ de Crystallo cui aqua incrat.” Addison mentions a curiosity of this kind at Milan; and adds, “It is such a rarity as this that I saw at Yet shall thy pureness keep thee still Unharm’d by that surrounding chill ; Like the famed drop, in crystal found,* Floating, while all was froz’n around,—. Unchill’d, unchanging shalt thou be, Safe in thy own sweet purity. > ANACREONTIC. in lachrymas Yerterat omne merum. TIB. lib. i. eleg. 5. Press the grape, and let it pour Around the board its purple sliow’r ; And, while the drops my goblet steep, I’ll think in woe the clusters weep. Weep on, weep on, my pouting vine ! Heav’n grant no tears, but tears of wine. Weep on ; and, as thy sorrows flow, I’ll taste the luxury of woe. + TO When I lov’d you, I can’t but allow I had many an exquisite minute ; But the scorn that I feel for you now Hath even more luxury in it. Thus, whether -we’re on or we’re off, Some witchery seems to await you ; To love you was pleasant enough, And, oh ! ’tis delicious to hate you I TO JULIA. IN ALLUSION TO SOME ILLIBERAL CRITICISMS. Why, let the stingless critic chide With all that fume of vacant pride Which mantles o’er the pedant fool, Like vapour on a stagnant pool. Oh ! if the song, to feeling true, Can please th’ elect, the sacred few, Whose souls, by Taste and Nature taught, Thrill with the genuine pulse of thought — If some fond feeling maid like thee, The warm-ey’d child of Sympathy, Shall say, while o’er my simple theme She languishes in Passion’s dream, “ He was, indeed, a tender soul — “ No critic law, no chill control, “ Should ever freeze, by timid art, “ The flowings of so fond a heart ! ” Yes, soul of Nature ! soul of Love ! That, hov’ring like a snow-wing’d dove, Venddme in France, which they there pretend is a tear that our Saviour shed over Lazarus, and was gathered up by an angel, who put it into a little crystal vial, and made a present of it to Mary Magdalen.” — Addison' Remarks on se veral Parts of Italy. 4G MOORE'S WORKS. Breath’d o’er my cradle warbllngs wild, Aud hail'd me Passion’s warmest child, — Grant me the tear from Beauty’s eye, Prom Peeling’s breast the votive sigh ; Oh ! let my song, my mem’ry, find A shrine within the tender mind ; And I will smile when critics chide, And I will scorn the fume of pride Which mantles o’er the pedant fool. Like vapour round some stagnant pool 1 4. TO JULIA. Mock me no more with Love’s beguiling dream , A dream, I find, illusory as sweet : One smile of friendship, nay, of cold esteem, Far dearer were 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 I — ’tis pity, pity makes you kind ; You know I love, and you would seem to feel. But shall I still go seek within those arms A joy in which affection takes no part ? No, no, farewell 1 you give me but your charms, When I had fondly thought you gave your heart. ♦— THE SHRINE. TO My fates had destin’d me to rove A long, long pilgrimage of love ; And many an altar on my way Has lur’d my pious steps to stay ; For, if the saint was young and fair, I turn’d and sung my vespers there. This, from a youthful pilgrim’s ‘fire, Is what your pretty saints require : To pass, nor tell a single bead, With them would be profane indeed 1 But, trust me, all this young devotion Was but to keep my zeal iu motion ; And, ev’ry humbler altar past, I now have reach’d tiie shrike at last ! TO A LADY, WITH SOME MAXUSCP.IPT POEMS, OX LEAVIXG THE COUXTRY. Whex, casting many a look behind, I leave the friends I cherish here — Ferchance 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 one 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’s tear, my song behold. For, trust me, they who never melt With pity, never melt with love ; And such will frowm 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 blest : For, 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 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 s7ie too mourn ? — Perhaps she may ; Perhaps she mourns our bliss so fleeting : But why is Julia’s eye so gay, If Julia’s heart like mine is beating ? I oft have lov’d that sunny glow Of gladness in her blue eye gleaming — 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 l then it will be sweet to die, When life has lost its only blessing 1 JUVENILE POEMS. 47 ro Sweet lady, look not thus again : Those bright deluding smiles recall A maid remember’d now with pain, Who was my love, my life, my all ! Oh ! while this heart bewilder’d took Sweet poison from her thrilling eye, Thus would she smile, and lisp, and look, And I would hear, and gaze, and sigh ! Yes, I did love her — wildly love — She was her sex’s best deceiver ! And oft she swore she’d never rove — And I was destin’d to believe her ! Then, lady, do not wear the smile Of one whose smile could thus betray ; Alas ! I think the lovely wile Again could steal my heart away. For, when those spells that charm’d 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 ! # NATURE’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 ; 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 (howsoe’er “ learn’d Thebans ” doubt) The inward woman, from without, Methinks ’twere well if Nature could (And Nature could, if Nature would) Some pithy, short descriptions write, On tablets large, in black and white, Which she might hang about our throttles, Like labels upon physic-bottles ; And where all men might read — but stay — As dialectic sages say, The argument most apt and ample For common use is the example. For instance, then, if Nature’s care Had not portray’d, in lines so fair, The inward soul of Lucy L-nd-n, This is the label she’d have pinn’d on. LABEL FIRST. Within this form 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 j r ou’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 ! * * * * r 4" TO JULIA. ON HER BIRTHDAY. When Time was entwining the garland of years, Which to crown my beloved was given, Though some of the leaves might be sullied with tears, Yet the flow’rs were all gather’d in heaven. And long may this garland be sweet to the eye, May its verdure for ever be new ; Young Love shall enrich it with many a sigh. And Sympathy nurse it with dew. A REFLECTION AT SEA. . See how, beneath the moonbeam’s smile, Yon little billow heaves its breast, And foams and sparkles for awhile,— Then murmuring 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 I CLORIS AND FANNY. Cloris I if I were Persia’s king, I’d make my graceful queen of thee ; While Fanny, wild and artless thing, Should but thy humble handmaid be. There is but one objection in it — That, verily, I’m much afraid I should, in some unlucky minute, Forsake the mistress for the maid. THE SHIELD. Say, did you not hear a voice of death ? And did you not mark the paly form Which rode on the silvery mist of the heath, And sung a ghostly dirge in the storm ? MOORE’S WORKS, 48 Was it the wailing bird of the gloom, That shrieks on the house of woe all night ? Or a shiv’ring fiend that flew to a tomb, To howl and to feed till the glance of light ? 'Twas *iof the death-bird’s cry from the wood, For shiv’ring fiend that hung on the blast ; ’Twas the shade of Ilelderic— 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 murd’rous 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 I TO JULIA, WEEPIXG. On ! if your tears are giv’n to care, If real woe disturbs your peace, Come to my bosom, weeping fair I 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. DREAMS. TO Isr slumber, I prithee how is it That souls are oft taking the air, And paying each other a visit, While bodies are heaven knows where ? Last night, ’tis in vain to deny it, Your Soul took a fancy to roam, For I heard her, on tiptoe so quiet, Come ask, whether mine was at home. And mine let her in with delight, And they talk’d and they laugh’d the time through ; For, when souls come together at night, There is no saying what they mayn’t do I And nour little Soul, heaven bless her I Had much to complain and to say, Of how sadly you wrong and oppress her By keeping her prison’d all day. “ If I happen,” said she, “ but to steal 44 For a peep now and then to her eye, “ Or, to quiet the fever I feel, 44 Just venture abroad on a sigh j 44 In an instant she frightens me In 44 With some phantom of prudence or terror, “ For fear I should stray into sin, 44 Or, what is still worse, into error ! “ So, instead of displaying my graces, 44 By daylight, in language and mien, 44 1 am shut up in corners and places, 44 Where truly I blush to be seen 1 ” Upon hearing this piteous confession, My Soul, looking tenderly at her, Declar’d, as for grace and discretion, lie did not know much of tlie matter ; 44 But, to-morrow, sweet Spirit ! ” he said, 44 Be at home after midnight, and then 44 1 will come when your lady’s in bed, 44 And we’ll talk o’er the subject again.” So she whisper’d a word in his ear, I suppose to her door to direct him, And, just after midnight, my dear, Your polite little Soul may expect him. TO ROSA. WRITTEN 1 DURIXO 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 earthly ties, Love still attends th’ immortal breath, And makes it purer for the skies I Oh Rosa, when, to seek its sphere, My soul shall leave this orb of men, That love which form’d its treasure here, Shall be its best of treasures then I And as, in fabled dreams of old, Some air-born 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, to thee still wed, Shall linger round thy earthly way. Let other spirits range the sky. And play around each starry gem ; I’ll bask beneath that lucid eye, Nor envy worlds of suns to them. JUVENILE POEMS. 4U And 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 I SONG. Tiie 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 dewdrops 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. + THE SALE OF LOVES. I dreamt that, in the Paphian groves, My nets by moonlight laying, I caught a flight of wanton Loves, Among the rose-beds playing. Some just had left their silv’ry shell, While some were full in feather ; So pretty a lot of Loves to sell, Were never yet strung together. Come buy my Lo\es Come buy my Loves, Ye dames and rose-lipp’d misses ! — They’re new and bright, The cost is light, For the coin of this isle is kisses. First Cloris came, with looks sedate, Their coin on her lips was ready ; “ I buy,” quoth she, “ my Love by weight, “ Full grown, if you please, and steady.” “ Let mine be light,” said Fanny, “ pray — “ Such lasting toys undo one ; “ A light little Love that will last to-day, — “ To-morrow I’ll sport a new one.” Come buy my Loves, Come buy my Loves, Ye dames and rose-lipp’d misses I — There’s some will keep, Some light and cheap, At from ten to twenty kisses. The learned Prue took a pert young thing To divert her virgin Muse with, And pluck sometimes a quill from his wing, To indite her billet-doux with. Poor Cloe would give for a well-fledg’d pair Her only eye, if you’d ask it ; And Tabitha begg’d, old toothless fair, For the youngest Love in the basket. Come buy my Loves, &o. &c. But one was left, when Susan came, One worth them all together i At sight of her dear looks of shame. He smil’d, and prun’d his feather. She wish’d the boy — ’twas more thanwlum— . Her looks, her sighs betray’d it : But kisses were not enough for him, i I ask’d a heart, and she paid it ! Good-by, my Loves, Good-by, my Loves, ’Twould make you smile to’ve seen us First trade for this, Sweet child of bliss, And then nurse the boy between us. 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 circling arms to draw me near — ’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 gentle smile that crost Your kindling cheek, you lighted home Some feeling, which my heart had lost, And peace, which far had learn’d to roam. ’Twas then indeed so sweet to live, Hope look’d so new and Love so kind, That, though I mourn, I yet forgive The ruin they have left behind. I could have lov’d you — oh, so well ! — The dream, that wishing boyhood knows. Is but a bright, beguiling spell. That only lives while passion glows : But, when this early flush declines, When the heart’s sunny 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. TO Never mind how the pedagogue proses, You want not antiquity’s stamp ; A lip, that such fragrance discloses, Oh ! never should smell cf the lamp. MOORE’S WORKS. Old Cloe, whose withering kiss Hath long set the Loves at defiance, Now, done with the science of bliss, May take to the blisses of science. But for you to be buried in books — Ah, Fanny, they’re pitiful sages, Who could not in one of your looks Read more than in millions of pages. Astronomy finds in those eyes Better light than she studies above ; And Music would borrow your sighs As the melody fittest for Love. Your Arithmetic only can trip If to count your own charms you endeavour, And 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 pursue. And, oh 1 — 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 1 ON THE DEATH OF A LADY. Sweet spirit ! if thy airy sleep Nor sees my tears nor hears my sighs, Then will I weep, in anguish 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 : Like thee was that young, orient beam, Like death, alas, that sullen storm I Thou wert not form’d for living here, So link’d thy soul was with the sky ; Yet, ah, we held thee all so dear, We thought thou wert not form’d to die. INCONSTANCY. And do I then wonder that J ulia deceives me, When surely there’s nothing in nature more common ? She vows to be true, and while vowing she leaves me — And could I expect any more from a woman ? Oh, woman ! your heart is a pitiful treasure ; And Mahomet’s doctrine was not too severe, When he held that you were but materials of pleasure, And reason and thinking were out of your sphere. By your heart, when the fond sighing lover can win it, lie thinks that an age of anxiety’s paid ; But, oh, while lie’s blest, let him die at the minute — If he live but a day , he’ll be surely betray’d. f THE NATAL GENIUS. A DREAM. TO THE MORNING OF nER BIRTHDAY. In witching slumbers of the night, I dreamt 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 years ; 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 ; And were it thus my fate to be Thy little guardian deity, How blest around thy steps I’d play ! Thy life should glide in peace along. Calm as some lonely shepherd’s song That’s heard at distance in the grove ; No cloud should ever dim thy sky, No thorns along thy pathway lie, But all be beauty, peace, and love. Indulgent Time should never bring To thee on© blight upon his wing. So gently o’er thy brow he’d fly ; And death itself should but be felt Like that of daybeams, when they melt, Bright to the last, in evening’s sky ! ♦ ELEGIAC STANZAS, SUPPOSED TO BE WRITTEN BY JULIA, ON THE DEATH OF HER BROTHER. TrrouGn sorrow long has worn my heart ; Though every day I’ve counted o’er Hath brought a new and quick’ning smart To wounds that rankled fresh before ; JUVENILE POEMS. 51 Though in my earliest life bereft Of tender links 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 I — 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 — Ah, why then was he torn away ? He should have stay’d, have linger’d here To soothe his Julia’s every woe ; He should have chas’d each bitter tear, And not have caus’d those tears to flow. We saw within his soul expand The fruits of genius, nurs’d by taste ; While Science, with a fost’ring hand, Upon his brow her chaplet plac’d. We saw, by bright degrees, his mind Grow rich in all that makes men dear ; — Enlighten’d, social, and refin’d, In friendship firm, in love sincere. Such was the youth we lov’d so well, And such the hopes that fate denied ; — We lov’d, but ah ! could scarcely tell How deep, how dearly, till he died I 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. TO THE LARGE AND BEAUTIFUL MISS IX ALLUSION TO SOME PARTNERSHIP IN A LOTTER V SHARE. IMPROMPTU. — Ego pars Yl RGIL. In wedlock a species of lottery lies, Where in blanks and in prizes we deal ; 13 ut how comes it that you, such a capital prize, Should so long have remain’d in the wheel ? If ever, by Fortune’s indulgent decree, To me such a ticket should roll, A sixteenth, Heav’n knows I were sufficient for me ; For what could I do with the whole ? f A DREAM. I thought this heart enkindled 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 ! 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. Thus let us leave the bower of love, Where we have loiter’d long in bliss; And you may down that pathway rove, While I shall take my way through this. ANACREONTIC. “ She never look’d so kind before — - “ Yet why the wanton’s smile recall ? “ I’ve seen this witchery o’er and o’er, “ ’Tis hollow, vain, and heartless all 1 ” Thus I said and, sighing, drain’d The cup which she so late had tasted ; Upon whose rim still fresh remain’d The breath, so oft 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 ? Those eyes of hers, that floating shine, Like diamonds in some Eastern river ; That kiss, for which, if worlds were mine, A world for every kiss I’d give her. That frame so delicate, yet warm’d With flushes of love’s genial hue : — A mould transparent, as if form’d To let the spirit’s light shine through. Of these I sung, and notes and words Were sweet, as if the very air From Lamia’s lip hung o’er the chords And Lamia’s voice still warbled there ! 62 MOORE’S WORKS. But when, alas, I turn'd the theme, And when of vows and oaths I spoke, Of truth and hope’s seducing dream — The chord beneath my finger broke. False harp ! false woman ! — such, oh, such Are lutes too frail and hearts too willing ; Any hand, whate’er its touch, Can set their chords or pulses thrilling. And when that thrill is most awake, And when you think Heav’n’s joys await you, The nymph will change, the chord will break — Oli Love, oh Music, how I hate you l 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 1 Not so the widow’d ivy shines ; Torn from its dear and only stay, In drooping widowhood it pines, And scatters all its bloom away. Thus, Julia, did our hearts entwine, Till Fate disturb’d their tender ties : Thus gay indifference blooms in thine. While mine, deserted, droops and dies HYMN OF A VIRGIN OF DELPHI, AT TIIE TOMB OF HER MOTHER. On, 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. 1 ’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 ! still hovering round, Thy looks, thy words are still my own — I see thee raising from the ground Some laurel, by the winds o’erthrown. And hear thee say, “ This humble bough “ Was planted for a doom divine ; “ And, though it droop in languor now, “ Shall flourish on the Delphic shrine ! 1 The laurel, for the common uses of the temple, for adorning the altars and sweeping the pavement, was supplied by a tree near the fountain of Castalia ; but upon all important occasions, they sent to Tempe for their laurel. We find, in Pausanias, that this valley supplied the branches, of which the temple was origin- “ 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 6kies 1 ” All that the young should feel and know, By thee was taught so sweetly well, Thy -words fell soft as vernal snow, And all wa3 brightness where they fell 1 Fond soother of my infant tear, Fond sharer of my infant joy, Is not thy shade still ling’ring here ? Am I not still thy soul’s employ ? Oh yes — and, as in former days, When, meeting on the sacred mount, Our nymphs awak’d their choral lays, And danc’d around Cassotis’ fount : As then, ’twas all thy wish and care, That mine should be the simplest mien, My lyre and voice the sweetest there, My foot the lightest o’er the green : So still, each look and step to mould, Thy guardian care is round me spread 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 entirely dear l SYMPATHY. TO JULIA. sine me sit nulla Venus. SULl’lCIA* Our hearts, my love, were form’d to be The genuine twins of Sympathy, They live with one sensation : In joy or grief, but most in love, Like chords in unison they move, And thrill with like vibration. How oft I’ve heard thee fondly 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, So twinn’d are we in loving ! TIIE TEAR. Ox beds of snow the moonbeam slept, And chilly was the midnight gloom, When by the damp grave Ellen wept — Fond maid 1 it was her Lindor’s tomb I ally constructed ; and Plutarch says, in his Dialogue on Music, “ The youth who brings the Tempic laurel to Delphi is always attended by a player on the flute.’ AXXa fji-rjv xat tod KaraKO/juUotm. iraiSt rr/v '[ep.TrtK'/v <5a£- vrjv etj AeX^ovf Trapo/xapret avX^r^j. JUVENILE POEMS. 53 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 t TIIE SNAKE. Mr love and I, the other day, Within a myrtle arbour lay, When near us, from a rosy bed, A little Snake put forth its head. “ See,” said the maid with thoughtful eyes — “ Yonder the fatal emblem lies ! “ Who could expect such hidden harm “ Beneath the rose’s smiling charm ? ” Never did grave remark occur Less Apropos than this from her. I rose to kill the snake, but she, llalf-smiling, pray’d it might not be. “No,” said the maiden — and, alas, Her eyes spoke volumes, while she said it — “ Long as the snake is in the grass, “ One may , perhaps, have cause to dread it : “But, when its wicked eyes appear, “ And when we know for what they wink so, “ One must be very simple, dear, “ To let it wound one — don’t you think so ? ” TO ROSA. Is the song of Rosa mute ? Once such lays inspir’d her lute ! Never doth a sweeter song Steal the breezy lyre along, When the wind, in odours dying, Wooes it with enamour’d sighing. Is my Rosa’s lute unstrung ? Once a tale of peace it sung To her lover’s throbbing breast — Then was he divinely blest ! All 1 but Rosa loves no more, Therefore Rosa’s song is o’er ; And her lute neglected lies ; And her boy forgotten sighs. Silent lute — forgotten lover — Rosa’s love and song are over. ♦ ELEGIAC STANZAS. Sic juvat perire. W hex wearied wretches sink to sleep, How heavenly soft their slumbers lie ! IIow 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 at twilight given ! Oh, let not sighs disturb the gloom, — None but the whisp’ring winds of heaven ! LOVE AND MARRIAGE. Eque brevi verbo ferre perenne malum, SECITXDUS, eleg. vil. Still the question I must parry, Still a wayward truant prove : Where I love, I must not marry ; Where I marry, cannot love. Were she fairest of creation, With the least presuming mind ; Learned without affectation ; Not deceitful, yet refin’d ; Wise enough, but never rigid ; Gay, but not too lightly free ; Chaste as snow, and yet not frigid ; Fond, yet satisfied with me : Where she all this ten times over, All that heav’n to earth allows, I should be too much her lover Ever to become her spouse. Love will never bear enslaving ; Summer garments suit him best ; Bliss itself is not worth having, If we’re by compulsion blest. ANACREONTIC. I fill’d to thee, to thee I drank, I nothing did but drink and fill ; The bowl by turns was bright and blank, ’Twas drinking, filling, drinking still. At length I bid an artist paint Thy image in this ample cup, That I might see the dimpled saint, To whom I quaff’d my nectar up. Behold, how bright that purple lip Now blushes through the wave at me ; Every roseate drop I sip Is just like kissing wine. from thee. And still I drink the more for this ; For, ever when the draught I drain Thy lip invites another kiss, And — in the nectar flows again. f So, here’s to thee, my gentle dear, And may that eyelid never shine Beneath a darker, bitterer tear Than bathes it in this bowl of mine 1 64 MOORE’S WORKS. T1LK SURPRISE. Chloris, I swear, by all I ever swore, That from this hour I shall not love thee more.— ** What 1 love no more ? Oh 1 why this alter'd ▼ow ? ” Because I cannot love thee more — than now l TO MISS OX HER ASKING TIIE AUTHOR WHY SUE HAD SLEErLESS NIGHTS. I’ll ask the sylph who round thee flies, And in thy breath his pinion dips, Who suns him in thy radiant eyes, And faints upon thy 6ighing 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 : Iler bosom is the sweetest nest Where Slumber could repose his wing 1 And I will say — her cheeks that flush, Like vernal roses in the sun, Have ne’er by shame been taught to blush, Except for what her eyes have done 1 Then tell me, why, thou child of air I Does slumber from her eyelids rove ? What is her heart’s impassion’d care ! — Perhaps, oh sylph ! perhaps, ’tis love. THE WONDER. 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 I And if her cheek be smooth and 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 1 LYING. Che con le lor bugie pajon divini. Mauro vr]<; cpidrjXea. o?oj>. Id. V. 30. 5 ‘Petv ra 6Xa -rroTapov Siktjv, as expressed among the dogmas of Heraclitus the Ephesian, and with the same image by Seneca, in whom we find a beautiful diffusion of the thought. “ Nemo est mane, qui fuit pridie. Corpora nostra rapiuntur fluminum more; quidquid vides currit cum tempore. Nihil ex his qua? videmus manet. Ego ipse, dum loquor mutari ipsa, mutatus sum,” &c. 6 Aristippus considered motion as the principle of happiness, in which idea he differed from the Epicu- reans, who looked to a state of repose as the only true voluptuousness, and aVoided even the too lively agita- tions of pleasui'e, as a violent and ungraceful derange- ment of the senses. 7 Maupertuis has been still more explicit than thii philosopher, in ranking the pleasures of senso abovo the sublimcst pursuits of wisdom. Speaking of the infant man, in his production, he calls him, “ une nou- MOORKS WORKS. hr, And, soon as night slio.ll 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. Steal to the night-bower of my love. TO MRS. . ON HER BEAUTIFUL TRANSLATION OF VOITURE’S KISS. Mon irne sur raon l&vre etoit lors toute entifere, Pour savourer le miel qui sur la v6tre etoit ; Mais en me retirant, elle resta derrifere, Tant de ce doux plaisir l’amorce la restoit. VOITURE. How lieav’nly waa the poet’s doom, To breathe his spirit through a kiss ; And lose within so sweet a tomb The trembling messenger of bliss ! And, sure his soul return’d to feel That it again could ravish’d be ; For in the kiss that thou didst steal, llis life and soul have fled to thee. RONDEAU. “ Good night ! good night ! ” — And is it so ? And must I from my Rosa go ? Oh Rosa, say “ Good night ! ” once more, And I’ll repeat it o’er and o’er, Till the first glance of dawning light Shall find us saying, still, “ Good night.” And still “ Good night,” my Rosa, say — But whisper still, “ A minute stay ; ” And I will stay, and every minute Shall have an age of transport in it ; Till Time himself shall stay his flight, To listen to our sweet “ Good night.” “ Good night 1 ” you’ll murmur with a sigh, And tell me it is time to fly : And I will vow, will 6wear to go, While still that sweet voice murmurs “ No ! ” Till slumber seal our w'eary sight — And then, my love, my soul, “ Good night ! ” vellc creature, qui pourra comprendre les choses les plus sublimes, et ce qui est bien au-dcssus, qui pourra pouter les memes plaisirs.” See his Venus Physique. This appears to be one of the efforts at Fontenelle’s gallantry of manner, for which the learned President is so well and justly ridiculed in the Akakia of Vol- taire. Maupertuis may be thought to have borrowed from 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’ hue. All that’s fair, by Love’s decree, lias 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 arc nature’s beauties felt ? Oh ! ’tis thine in her we see ! Why has music power to melt ? Oh ! because it speaks like thee 1 All that’s sweet, by Love’s decree, Has been made resembling thee ! TO ROSA. Like one 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 thee. 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 ! WRITTEN IN A COMMONPLACE BOOK, CALLED “THE BOOK OF FOLLIES;” IN WHICH EVERY ONE TnAT OTENED IT WAS TO 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, O book I the allusion stands ; For these were penn’d by female hands : The rest — alas ! I own the truth — Have all been scribbled so uncouth the ancient Aristippus that indiscriminate theory of pleasures which he has set forth in his Essai de Philo- sophic Morale, and for which he was so very justly con- demned. Aristippus, according to Laertius, held ^ 6iaepeiv re -f) 8ovr)v fjdovrjs, which irrational sentiment has been adopted by Maupertuis : “ Tant qu’on ne con- siddre que l’etat present, tous les plaisirs sont dumenio genre,” &c. &c. 5? JUVENILE POEM?. That Prudence, with a with’ring 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, Upon some fairer leaves have shown, White as the snowings of that heav’n 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 every page with care, Not ev’n a folly brightens there. Will they yet brighten ? — never, never ! Then shut the booh, O God, for ever ! TO ROSA. Say, why should the girl of my soul be in tears At a meeting of rapture like this, When the glooms of the past and the sorrow of years Have been paid by one moment of bliss ? Are they shed for that moment of blissful delight, Which dwells on her memory yet ? Do they flow, like the dews of the love-breathing night, From the warmth of the sun that has set ? Oh ! sweet is the tear on that languishing smile, That smile, which is loveliest then ; And if such are the drops that delight can beguile, Thou shalt weep them again and again. LIGHT SOUNDS THE nARP. 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, that stirring trumpets pour ; — Then, again 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, reclin- ing, Lay lull’d on the white arm of Beauty to rest, 1 Eyx et , ira\iv eLTre, tt a\tv, i raXtv, H XtoScvpas Lnre, avov’ When round his rich armour the myrtle hung twining, And flights of young doves made liis 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. FKOJI THE GREEK OF MELEAGER. 1 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, Live in the breeze, till every tone, And word, and breath, speaks her alone. Give me the wreath that withers there, It was but last delicious night, It circled her luxuriant hair, And caught her eyes’ reflected light. Oh 1 haste, and twine it round my brow : ’Tis all of her that’s left me now. And see — each rosebud drops a tear, To find the nymph no longer here — No longer, where such heavenly charms As hers shoidd be — within these arms. ♦ SONG. Fly from the world, O Bessy ! to me, Thou wilt never find any sincerer ; I’ll give up the world, O Bessy 1 for thee, I can never meet any that’s dearer. Then tell me no more, with a tear and a sigh, That our loves will be censur’d by many ; All, all have their follies, and who will deny That ours is the sweetest of any ? When your lip has met mine, in 'Communion so sweet, nave we felt as if virtue forbid it ? — Have we felt as if heav’n denied them to meet ? — No, rather ’twas heav’n that'did it. So innocent, love, is the joy we then sip, So little of wrong is there in it, That I wish all my errors were lodg’d on your lip, And I’d kiss them away in a minute. A axpvet, tfiiXepaarov tSov ftoSov , ovvetca teeuav AXXoOt k ov KtXirott; fiperepoii; taopa. BKUXCK. Analect. tom. i. p. 28. 5S FIGURE’S WORKS. Then come to your lover, oh I fly to his shed, From a world which I know thou despisest ; And slumber will hover as light o’er our bed As e’er on the couch of the wisest. And when o’er our pillow the tempest is driven, And thou, pretty innocent, fearest, I’ll tell thee, it is not the chiding of heav’n, ’Tis only our lullaby, dearest. And, oh 1 while we lie on our deathbed, my love, Looking back on the scene of our errors, A sigh from my Bessy shall plead then nbove, And Death be disarm’d of his terrors. And each to the other embracing will say, “ Farewell 1 let us hope we’re forgiven.’* Thy last fading glance will illumine the way, And a kiss be our passport to heaven I THE RESEMBLANCE. vo cercand’ io, Donna, quant’ e possibile, in altrui La desiata vostra forma vera. Petkarc. Sonnett. 14. Yes, if ’twere any common love, That led my pliant heart astray, I grant, there’s not a power above, Could wipe the faithless crime away. But, ’twas my doom to err with one In every look so like to thee That, underneath yon blessed sun, So fair there are but thou and she. Both born of beauty, at a birth, She held with thine a kindred sway, And wore the only shape on earth That could have lur’d my soul to stray. Then blame me not, if false I be, ’Twas love that wak’d the fond excess ; My heart had been more true to thee, Had mine eye priz’d thy beauty less. FANNY, DEAREST. Yes 1 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 1 The Love that’s order’d to bathe in wine, Would be sure to take cold in tears. Reflected bright in this heart of mine, Fanny, dearest, thy image lies ; But ah, the mirror would cease to shine, If dimm’d too often with sighs. They lose the liulf of beauty’s 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, dearest**- the hope is vain ; If sunshine cannot dissolve thy snow, I shall never attempt it with rain. THE RING. TO No — Lady I Lady I 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 myst’ry warm’d; Yet heav’n will shed a soothing beam, To bless the bond itself hath form’d. But then, that eye, that burning eye,—* Oh ! it doth ask, with witching power, If heaven can ever bless the tie Where love in wreaths 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 — Ev’n more, alas, than thou dost mine. Yet, stay, — one hope, one effort yet — A moment turn those eyes away, And let me, if I can, forget The light that leads my soul astray. Thou say’st, that we were bom to meet, That our hearts bear one common seal ; — Think, Lady, think, how man’s deceit Can seem to sigh and feign to feel. When, o’er thy face some gleam of thought, Like daybeams through the morning air, nath gradual stole, and I have caught The feeling ere it kindled there ; 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 ! thine is not my earliest vow ; Though few the years I yet have told, Canst thou believe I’ve liv’d till now, With loveless heart or senses cold ? No — other nymphs to joy and pain This wild and wandering heart hath mov’d, With some it sported, wild and vain, While some it dearly, truly, lov’d. JUVENILE POEMS. 59 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 worthless heart, Worthless alike, or fix’d or free; Think of the pure, bright soul thou art, And — love not me, oh love not me. Enough — now, turn thine eyes again ; What, still that look and still that sigh 1 Dost thou not feel my counsel then ? Oh ! no, beloved, — nor do I. TO THE INVISIBLE GIRL. Thev try to persuade me, my dear little sprite, That you’re not a true daughter of ether and light, Nor have any concern with those fanciful forms That dance upon rainbows and ride upon storms; That, in short, you’re a woman ; your lip and your eye As mortal as ever drew gods from the sky. 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 e’er enjoy’d 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? As for you, my sweet-voiced and invisible love, You must surely be 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 ! hint to 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 1 how I should love, In the wearisome ways I am fated to rove, To have you thus ever invisibly nigh, Inhaling for ever your song and your sigh ! 1 I should be sorry to think that my friend had any serious intentions of frightening the nursery by this story : I rather hope — though the manner of it leads me to doubt — that his design was to ridicule that distem- pered taste which prefers those monsters of the fancy to the “speciosa mrracula” of true poetic imagination. ’Mid the crowds of the world and the murmurs of care, I might sometimes converse with my nymph of the air, And turn with distaste from the clamorous crew, To steal in the pauses one whisper from you. Then, 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’s busy thoughts have put slumber to flight, You shall come to my pillow and tell me of love, Such as angel to angel might whisper above. Sweet spirit ! — and then, could you borrow the tone Of that voice, to my ear like some fairy-song known, The voice of the one upon earth, who has twin’d With her being 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 her voice on my ear, I will think, for that moment, that Cara is near ; That she comes with consoling enchantment to speak, And kisses my eyelid and breathes on my cheek, And tells me, the night shall go rapidly by, For the dawn of our hope, of our heaven is nigh. F air spirit I 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. + THE RING.* A TALE. Annulus ille viri — Ovid. Amor. lib. ii. clog. 15 . The happy day at length arriv’d When Rupert was to wed The fairest maid in Saxony, And take her to his bed. As soon as morn was in the sky, The feast and sports began ; The men admir’d 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. 1 find, by a note in the manuscript, that he met with this story in a German author, Fromman upon Fasci- nation, book iii. part vi. ch. 18. On consulting the work, I perceive that Fromman quotes it from Bclua- censis, among many other stories equally diabolical and interesting. E. , CO MOORE’S WORKS. The matrons all in rich attire, Within the castle Malls, Sat listening to the choral strains That echo’d through the halls. 9 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 wore 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 might a Heathen goddess be, Or else, a Heathen queen. Upon its marble finger then He tried the ring to fit ; And, thinking it was safest there, Thereon he fasten’d it. 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 shock’d was he to find The marble finger bent ! The hand was clos’d upon the ring With firm and mighty clasp ; In vain he tried, and tried, and tried, lie could not loose the grasp I Then sore surpris’d was Rupert’s mind — As well his mind might be ; “ I’ll come,” quoth he, “ at night again, “ When none are here to see.” lie went unto the feast, and much He thought upon his ring ; And marvell’d sorely what could mean So very strange a thing 1 The feast was o’er, and to the court He hied 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, And yet the marble hand ungrasp’d, And open as before ! ne search’d the base, and all the court, But nothing could he find ; Then to the castle hied he back 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 love advance : Rupert almost forgets to think Upon the morn’s mischance. Within the bed fair Isabel In blushing sweetness lay, Like flowers, half-open’d by the dawn., And waiting for the day. And Rupert, by her lovely side, In youthful beauty glows, Like Phoebus, when he bends to cast His beams upon a rose. And here my song would leave them both, Nor let the rest be told, If ’twere not for the horrid tale It yet has to unfold. 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 clipp’d him round, With damp and deadly chill ! And when he bent, the earthy 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 Then cried he to his wife, “ Oh ! save me from this horrid fiend “ My Isabel I 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 : (Oh God 1 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 M ed, “ As I am wed to thee I ” 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 daM r n of day was near, The horrid phantom fled, And left th’ affrighted youth to weep By Isabel in bed. JUVENILE POEMS. 6L And all that day a gloomy cloud Was seen on Rupert’s brows ; Fair Isabel was likewise sad, But strove to cheer her spouse. And, as the day advanc’d, he thought Of coming night with fear : Alas, that he should dread to view The bed that should be dear ! 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 love and rest. But oh ! 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 l ” In agony of wild despair, He started from the bed ; And thus to his bewilder’d wife The trembling Rupert said : “ Oh Isabel ! dost thou not see, “ A shape of horrors here, “ That strains me to its deadly kiss, “ And keeps me from my dear ? ” “ No, no, my love ! my Rupert, I “ No shape of horrors see ; “ And much I mourn the phantasy “ That keeps my dear from me.” This night, just like the night before, In terrors pass’d away, Nor did the demon vanish thence Before the dawn of day. Said 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 straightway went ; And told him all, and ask’d him how These horrors to prevent. The Father heard the youth, and then Retir’d awhile to pray ; And, having pray’d for half an hour Thus to the youth 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. “ Thou’lt see a group of figures pass “ In strange disorder’d crowd, “ Travelling by torchlight 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 quick be understood ; “ Thou need’st not fear, but give them straight, “ I’ve scrawl’d them with my blood 1 ” The night-fall came, and Rupert all In pale amazement went To where the cross-roads met, as he W as by the Father sent. And lo ! a group of figures came In strange disorder’d crowd, Travelling by torchlight 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 High seated on 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 deatli ; Whene’er he breath’d, a sulphur’d smoke Came burning in his breath. lie 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 ; “ I thought,” cries he, “ his time was out, “ But he must soon be mine ! ” 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 Rupert 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 : 62 MOORE’S WORKS. “ 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.” 9 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. TO OX SEEING IIER WITH A WHITE VEIL AND A 1UCII GIRDLE. y.apyapirau StjXovv t SaKpvcov fioov. Ap. NlCEPHOK. in Oncirocritico. Put off the vestal veil, nor, oh 1 Let weeping angels view it ; Your cheeks belie its virgin snow, And blush repenting through it. Put off the fatal zone you wear ; The shining pearls around it Are tears, that fell from Virtue there, The hour when Love unbound it. WRITTEN IN TnE BLANK LEAP OF A LADY’S COMMONPLACE BOOK. Here is one leaf reserv’d for me, Prom all thy 6 weet 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 hath been, Oh ! it should be my sweetest care To write my ncyne for ever there ! TO MRS. BL WRITTEN IN HER 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 bright and fair, And 6 aw that no unhallow’d line Or thought profane should enter there } And daily did the 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 woidd 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 snow-white leaf, Which Love had still to smooth again. But, ah ! there came a blooming boy Who often turn’d the pages o’er, And wrote therein such words of joy, That all who read them 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. For, oft a Bacchant cup lie bore, With earth’s sweet nectar sparkling bright; And much she fear’d lest, mantling o’er, Some drops should on the pages light. And so it chane’d, one luckless night, The urchin let that goblet fall O’er the fair book, so pure, 60 white, And sullied lines and marge and all ! In vain now, touch’d with shame, he tried To wash those fatal stains away ; Deep, deep had sunk the sullying tide, The leaves grew darker every day. And Fancy’s sketches lost their hue. And Hope’s sweet lines were all effac’d, And Love himself now scarcely knew What Love himself so lately trac’d. At length the urchin Pleasure fled, (For how, alas I could Pleasure stay ?) And Love, while many a tear he shed, Reluctant flung the book away. The index now alone remains, Of all the pages spoil’d by Pleasure, And though it bears some earthy 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 have 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. TO CARA, AFTER AN INTERVAL OF ABSENCE. 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. JUVENILE POEMS. But storms upon her pathway 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 infant may be chill’d to death 1 Perhaps, ev’n now, in darkness shrouded, His little eyes lie cold and still ; — And yet, perhaps, they are not clouded, Life and love may light them still. Thus, Cara, at our last farewell, When, fearful ev’n thy hand to touch, I mutely ask’d those eyes to tell If parting pain’d thee half so much : I thought, — and, oh ! forgive the thought, For none was e’er by love inspir’d Whom fancy had not also taught To hope the bliss his soul desir’d. Yes, I did think, in Cara’s mind, Though yet to that sweet mind unknown, I left one infant wish behind, One feeling, which I call’d my own. Oh blest ! though but in fancy blest, How did I 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 numb’ring, I ne’er forgot the new-born treasure, I left within thy bosom slumb’ring. Perhaps, indifference has not chill’d it, Haply, it yet a throb may give — Yet, no — perhaps, a doubt has kill’d it ; Say, dearest — does the feeling live ? TO CARA, ON THE DAWNING OF A NEW YEAR’S DAY. 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 a new year’s light to shed, That 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. Thus may we ever, side by side, From happy years to happier glide ; 1 In the “ Histoire Naturelle ties Antilles,” there i3 an account of some curious shells, found at Curaeoa, f>3 And still thus may the passing 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 1801 . To be the theme of every hour The heart devotes to Fancy’s power, When her prompt magic fillsThe mind With friends and joys 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 be All that may yet win smiles from thee 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, — oh I believe A tongue that never can deceive, Though, erring, it too oft betray Ev’n more than Love should dare to say, — 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, I’ll take thy image, as the form Of one whom Love had fail’d to warm, Which, though it yield no answering thrill. Is not less dear, is worshipp’d still — I’ll take it, wheresoe’er I stray, The bright, cold burden Of my way. To keep this semblance fresh in bloom, My heart shall be its lasting tomb, And Memory, with embalming care, Shall keep it fresh and fadeless there. THE , GENIUS OF HARMONY. AN IRREGULAR ODE. Ad harmoniam canere mundum. Cicero de Nat. Deor. lib. iiL 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 6ide the mystic notes Of those entrancing airs, i on the back of which were lines, filled with musical characters so distinct and perfect, that the writer 61 MOORE’S WORKS. TUc 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! 1 And thou shalt own, That, through the circle of Creation’s zone, Where matter slumbers 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, 2 To the faint breath the tuneful osier yields On Afric’s burning fields ; 4 Thou’lt wondering 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, 3 assures us a very charming trio was sung from one of them. “ On le nomme musical, parcequ’il porte sur le dos des lignes noiratres pleines de notes, qui ont une espdee de cle pour les mettre en chant, de sorte que l’on diroit qu’il ne manque que la lettre a cette tabla- ture naturelle. Ce curieux gentilhomme (M. du Mon- tel) rapporte qu’il en a vu qui avoient cinq lignes, une cle, et des notes, qui fermoient un accord parfait. Quelqu’un y avoit ajoute la lettre, que la nature avoit oubliee, et la faisoit chanter en forme de trio, dont l’air etoit fort agreable.” — Chap. XIX. art 11. The author adds, a poet might imagine that these shells were used by the syrens at their concerts. 1 According to Cicero, and his commentator, Macro- bius, the lunar tone is the gravest and faintest on the planetary heptachord. “Quam ob causam summus i lie coeli stellifer cursus, cujus conversio est concitatior, acuto et excitato movetur sono ; gravissimo autem hie lunaris atque infimus.” — Somn. Scip. Because, says Macrobius, “ spiritu ut in extremitate-languescen te jam volvitur, et propter angustias quibus penultimus orbis arctatur impetu leniore convertitur.” — In Somn. Scip. lib. ii. cap. 4. In their musical arrangement of the heavenly bodies, the ancient writers are not very intel- ligible. — See Ptolem. lib. iii. Leone Hebreo, in pursuing the idea of Aristotle, that the heavens areanimal, attributes their harmony to per- fect and reciprocal love. “ Non pero manca fra loro il perfetto et reciproco amore : la causa principale, che ne mostra il loro amore, e la lor amicitia armonica et la concordanza, che perpetuamente si trova in loro.” — Dialog, ii. di Amore, p. 58. This “ reciproco amore ” of Leone is the AiXoi-rje of the ancient Empedocles, who seems, in his Love and Hate of the Elements, to have given a glimpse of the principles of attraction and repulsion. See the fragment to which I allude in Laertius, AXXore pev QLXottjti, awepyopev’, k. t. X., lib. viii. cap. 2. n. 12. 2 Leucippus, the atomist, imagined a kind of vor- tices in the heavens, which he borrowed from Anaxa- goras, and possibly suggested to Descartes. 3 Heraclides, upon the allegories of Homer, conjec- tures that the idea of the harmony of the spheres ori- ginated with this poet, who, in representing the solar beams as arrows, supposes them to emit a peculiar sound in the air. 4 In the account of Africa which D’Ablancourt has translated, there is mention of a tree in that country, w hose branches when shaken by the hand produce very sweet sounds. ‘‘Le memo auteur (Abenzegar) dit, qu’il y a un certain arbre, qui produit des gaulcs Many a tear has Saturn’s urn O’er the cold bosom of the ocean wept, 4 * 6 Since thy aerial spell Hath in the waters slept. Now blest I’ll fly With the bright treasure to my choral sky, Where she, who wait’d its early swell, The Syren of the heavenly choir, Walks o’er the great string of my Orphic Lyre ; 7 * Or guides around the burning pole The winged chariot of some blissful 60 ul ; * While thou — Oh son of earth, what dreams shall rise for thee ! Beneath Ilispania’s sun, Thou’lt see a streamlet run, Which I’ve imbued with breathing melody ; ® And there, when night winds down the current die, Thou’lt hear how like a harp its waters sigh : A liquid chord is every wave that flows, An airy plectrum every breeze that blows. 1 ® There, by that wondrous stream, Go, lay thy languid brow, And I will send thee such a godlike dream, As never bless’d the slumbers even of him, 11 Who, many a night, with his primordial lyre, 12 Sate on the chill Pangaean mount, 12 And, looking to the orient dim, comme d’osier, et qu’en les prenant a la main et les bran- lant, elles font unc espfcce d’harmonie fort agreable,” & c. &c. — JSAfrique de Marmot. 5 Alluding to the extinction, or at least the disap- pearance, of some of those fixed stars, which we are taught to consider as suns, attended each by its system. Descartes thought that our earth might formerly have been a sun, which became obscured by a thick incrust- ation over its surface. This probably suggested the idea of a central fire. 6 Porphyry says, that Pythagoras held the sea to be a tear, T rjv daXarrav pev etcaXet. eivai Saupvov (De Vita) ; and some one else, if I mistake not, has added the planet Saturn as the source of it. Empedocles, with similar affectation, called the sea “the sweat of the earth : ” ISptora tt?c yrjq. See Rittersliusius upon Por- phyry, Num. 41. 7 The system of the harmonized orbs was styled by the ancients the Great Lyre of Orpheus, for which Lu- cian thus accounts: — i) tfe Avprj i-nrapiToq eovaa rrjv tcov Kt.vov peviov aoTpwv app.ovt.av owejSaXXero, tc. r. X. in Astrolog. 8 A LeiXe y/rvyaq itrapidpovc roiq aorpotq, eveepe 6' itca- (jtt)V irpoq i/catrrov, eovr]s re Kao ct)TO<; rrjv app.ovt.av eTTiiftaLVovcTi,. — X>e Musicci. Cassiodorus, whose idea I may be supposed to have borrowed, says, in a letter upon music to Boetius, “ Ut diadema oculis, varia luce gemmarum, sic cythara diversitate soni, blanditur auditui.” This is indeed the only tolerable thought in the letter. — Lib. ii. Variar. 6 See the Story in Apuleius. With respect to this beautiful allegory of Love and Psyche, there is an in- cnious idea suggested by the senator Buonarotti, in is “ Osservazioni sopra alcuni frammenti di vasi anti- chi.” He thinks the fable is taken from some very occult mysteries, which had long been celebrated in honour of Love ; and accounts, upon this supposition, for the silence of the more ancient authors upon the subject, as it was not till towards the decline of pagan superstition, that writers could venture to reveal or discuss such ceremonies. Accordingly, observes this author, we find Lucian and Plutarch treating, without reserve, of the Dea Syria, as well as of Isis and Osiris ; and Apuleius, to whom we are indebted for the beauti- ful story of Cupid and Psyche, has also detailed soma of the mysteries of Isis. See the Giornale di Litterati d’ltalia, tom. xxvii articoL 1. See also the observa* r 66 MOORE’S WORKS Sweet Psyche, many a charmed hour. Through many a wild and magic waste, To the fair fount and blissful bower * Have I, in dreams, thy light foot trac’d I Where’er thy joys are number’d now, Beneath whatever shades of rest, The Genius of the starry brow - Hath bound thee to thy Cupid’s hreast ; Whether above the horizon dim, Along whose verge our spirits stray, — Half sunk beneath the shadowy rim, Half brighten’d by the upper ray, 3 — Thou dwellest in a world, all light, Or, lingering here, dost love to be, To other souls, the guardian bright That Love was, through this gloom, to thee ; Still be the song to Psyche dear, The song, whose gentle voice was given To be, on earth, to mortal ear, An echo of her own, in heaven. FROM THE IIIGII PRIEST OF APOLLO, TO A VIRGIN OF DELPHI. 1 * Cum digno digna SULPICIA. “ Who is the maid, with golden hair, “ With eye of fire, and foot of air, “ Whose harp around my altar swells, “ The sweetest of a thousand shells ? ” ’Twas thus the deity, who treads The arch of heaven, and proudly sheds Day from his eyelids — thus he spoke, As through my cell his glories broke. Aphelia is the Delphic fair, 5 With eyes of fire and golden hair, Aphelia’s are the airy feet, And hers the harp divinely sweet ; For foot so light lias never trod The laurcl’d caverns 8 of the god, Nor harp so 6oft hath ever given A sigh to earth or hymn to heaven. “ Then tell the virgin to unfold, “ In looser pomp, her locks of gold, “ And bid those eyes more fondly shine “ To welcome down a Spouse Divine ; “ Since He, who lights the path of years — “ Even from the fount of morning’s tears “ To where his setting splendours burn “ Upon the western sea-maid’s urn — “ Doth not, in all his course, behold “ Such eyes of fire, such hair of gold. “ Tell her, he comes, in blissful pride, “ His lip yet sparkling with the tide “ That mantles in Otympian bowls,— “ The nectar of eternal souls ! “ For her, for her he quits the skies, “ And to her kiss from nectar flies. “ Oh, he would quit his star-thron’d height, “ And leave the world to pine for light, “ Might he but pass the hours of shade, “ Beside his peerless Delphic maid, “ She, more than earthly woman blest, “ He, more than god on woman’s breast ! ” There is a cave beneath the steep, 7 Where living rills of crystal weep O’er herbage of the loveliest hue That ever spring begemm’d with dew : There oft the greensward’s glossy tint Is brighten’d by the recent print Of many a faun and naiad’s feet, — Scarce touching earth, their step so fleet, — That there, by moonlight’s ray, had trod, In light dance, o’er the verdant sod. “ There, there,” the god, impassion’d, said, “ Soon as the twilight tinge is fled, “ And the dim orb of lunar souls 8 “ Along its shadowy pathway rolls — “ There shall we meet, — and not ev’n He “ The God who reigns immortally, “ Where Babel’s turrets paint their pride “ Upon th’ Euphrates’ shining tide, 8 — tions upon the ancient gems in the Museum Florcnti- num, vol. i. p. 156. I cannot avoid remarking here an error into which the French Encyclopedistes have been led by M. Spon, in their article Psyche. They say “ Petrone fait un recit de la pompe nuptiale de ces deux amans (Amour et Psyche). Deji, dit-il,” &c. &c. The Psyche of Pe- tronius, however, is a servant-maid, and the marriage which he describes is that of the young Pannychis. See Spon’s Reclierches curieuses, &c. Dissertat. 5. 1 Allusions to Mrs. Tighe’s poem. 2 Constancy. 3 By this image the Platonists expressed the middle state of the soul between sensible and intellectual ex- istence. 4 This poem, as well as a few others that occur after- wards, formed part of a work which I had early pro- jected, and even announced to the public, but which, luckily perhaps for myself, had been interrupted by my visit to America in the year 1805. Among those impostures in which the priests of the pagan temples are known to have indulged, one of the most favourite was that of announcing to some fair votary of the shrine, that the God himself had become enamoured of her beauty, and would descend in all his glory, to pay her a visit within the recesses of the fane. An adventure of this description formed an episode in the classic romance which 1 had sketched out; and the short fragment, given above, belongs to an epistle by which the story was to have been introduced. 5 In the ninth Pythic of Pindar, where Apollo, in the same manner, requires of Chiron some information respecting the fair Cyrene, the Centaur, in obeying, very gravely apologizes for telling the God what his om- niscience must know so perfectly already : E l Se ye \pr] k ai Trap troov avTL$epi%ai t E peco. 6 AXX’ etc Sava>$T) yvaka /S^ao/tai rade. EUKIITD., Ion. v. 76. 7 The Corycian Cave, which Pausanias mentions. The inhabitants of Parnassus held it sacred to the Corycian nymphs, who were children of the river Plistus. 8 See a preceding note, p. 21. n. 2. It should seem that lunar spirits were of a purer order than spirits in general, as Pythagoras was said by his followers to have descended from the regions of the moon. The here- siarch Manes, in the same manner, imagined that the sun and moon are the residence of Christ, and that the ascension was nothing more than his flight to those orbs. 9 The temple of Jupiter Belus, at Babylon ; in one of whose towers there was a large chapel set apart for these celestial assignations. “No man is allowed to JUVENILE POEMS, 67 “ Not ev’n when to liis midnight loves “ In mystic majesty he moves, “ Lighted by many an odorous fire, “ And hymn’d by all Chaldsea’s choir, — “ E’er yet, o’er mortal brow, let shine “ Such effluence of Love Divine, “ As shall to-night, blest maid, o’er thine.” Happy the maid, whom heaven allows To break for heaven her virgin vows I Happy the maid I her robe of shame Is whiten’d by a heavenly flame. Whose glory with a ling’ring trace ; Shines through and deifies her race ! i FRAGMENT. Pity 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 every grief away. Ah 1 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, oh, where Is that serene consoling pray’r, Which once has liarbinger’d my rest, When the still soothing voice of Heaven Hath seem’d to whisper in my breast, “ Sleep on, thy errors are forgiven I ” No, though I still in semblance pray, My thoughts are wand’ring far away And ev’n the name of Deity Is murmur’d out in sighs for thee. 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 I ’Tis thus the world’s obtrusive wrongs Obscure with malice keen Some timid heart, which only longs To live and die unseen. « sleep here,” says Herodotus; “but the apartment is appropriated to a female, whom, if we believe the Chal- diean priests, the deity selects from the women of the country, as his favourite.” Lib. i. cap. 181. 1 Fontenelle, in his playful rifacimento of the learned materials of Van-Dale, has related in his own inimitable manner an adventure of this kind which was TIIE KISS. Grow to my lip, thou sacred kiss, On which my soul’s beloved swore That there should come a time of bliss, When she would mock my hopes no more. And fancy shall thy glow renew, In sighs at morn, and dreams at night, And none shall steal thy holy dew Till thou’rt absolv’d by rapture’s rite. Sweet hours that are to make me blest, Fly, swift as breezes, to the goal, And let my love, my more than soul Come blushing to this ardent breast. Then, while in every glance I drink The rich o’erflowings of her mind, Oh 1 let her all enamour’d sink In sweet abandonment resign’d, Blushing for all our struggles past, And murmuring, “ I am thine at last 1 ” SONG. Think on that look whose melting ray For one sweet moment mix’d with mine, And for that moment seem’d to say, “ I dare not, or I would be thine ! ” Think on thy ev’ry smile and glance, On all thou hast to charm and move ; And then forgive my bosom’s trance, Nor tell me it is sin to love. Oh, not to love thee were the sin ; For sure, if Fate’s decrees be done, Thou, thou art destin’d still to win As I am destin’d to be won I THE CATALOGUE. “ Come, tell me,” says Rosa, as kissing and kist, One day she reclin’d on my breast ; “ Come, tell me the number, repeat me the list “ Of the nymphs you have lov’d and carest.”-« Oh Rosa 1 ’twas only my fancy that roved, My heart at the moment was free ; But I’ll tell thee, my girl, how many I’ve loved, And the number shall finish with thee. My tutor was Kitty ; in infancy wild She taught me the way to be blest ; She taught me to love her, I lov’d like a child, But Kitty could fancy the rest. This lesson of dear and enrapturing lore I have never forgot, I allow : I have had it by rote very often before, But ndver by heart until now. Pretty Martha was next, and my soul was all flame, But my head was so full of romance detected and exposed at Alexandria. See L’Histoire des Oracles, dissert. 2. chap. vii. Crebillon too, in one of his most amusing little stories, has made the Genie Mange-Taupes, of the Isle Jonquille, assert this privi- lege of spiritual beings in a manner rather formidable to the husbands of the island. G8 MOORE’S WORKS. That I fancied her into some chivalry dame, And I was her knight of the lance. But Martha was not of this fanciful school, And she laugh’d at her poor little knight ; "While I thought her a goddess, she thought me a fool, And I’ll 6wear she was most in the right. My soul was now calm, till, by Cloris’s looks, Again I was tempted to rove ; But Cloris,I found, was so learned in books That she gave me more logic than love. So I left this young Sappho, and hasten’d to fly To those sweeter logicians in bliss, Who argue the point with a soul-telling eye, And convince us at once with a kiss. Oh ! Susan was then all the world unto me, But Susan was piously given ; And the worst of it was, we could never agree On the road that was shortest to Heaven. “ Oh, Susan ! ” I’ve said in the moments of mirth, “ What’s devotion to thee or to me ? “ I devoutly believe there’s a heaven on earth, “ And believe that that heaven’s in thee l ” IMITATION OF CATULLUS. TO HIMSELF. Miser Catulle, desinas ineptire, &c. Cease the sighing fool to play ; Cease to trifle life way ; Nor vainly think those joys thine own, Which all, alas, have falsely flown. What hours, Catullus, once were thine, How fairly seem’d thy day to shine, When lightly thou didst fly to meet The girl whose smile w'as then so sweet — The girl thou lov’dst with fonder pain Than e’er thy heart can feel again. Ye met — your souls seem’d all in one, Like tapers that commingling shone ; Thy heart was warm enough for both, And hers, in truth, was nothing loath. Such were the hours that once were thine ; But, ah I those hours no longer shine. For now the nymph delights no more In what 6he lov’d 60 much before ; And all Catullus now can do, Is to be proud and frigid too ; Nor follow where the wanton flies, Nor sue the bliss that she denies. False maid 1 he bids farew'ell to thee, To love, and all love’s misery ; The heyday of his heart is o’er, Nor will he court one favour more. Fly, perjur’d girl ! —but whither fly ? Who now will praise thy cheek and eye ? Who now will drink the syren tone, Which tells him thou art all his own ? Oh, none : — and he who lov’d before Can never, never love thee more. “ Neither do I condemn thee ; go, and sin no more ! " St. JOHN, chap. viil. On woman, if through sinful wile Thy soul hath 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 those tears, not long will stay ; 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 sere : But Ileav’n in pity can forgive, And bid thee “ go, and sin no more 1 ” NONSENSE. Good reader ! if you e’er have seen, When Phoebus hastens to his pillow, The mermaids, with their tresses green, Dancing upon the western billow : If you have seen, at twilight dim, When the lone spirit’s vesper hymn Floats wild along the winding shore, If you have seen, through mist of eve, The fairy train their ringlets weave, Glancing along the spangled green : — If you have seen all this, and more, God bless me, what a deal you’ve seen I EPIGRAM, FROM THE FRENCH. “ I never 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. f ON A SQUINTING POETESS. To no one Muse does she her glance confine, But has an eye, at once, to all the Nine ! To Moria pur quando vuol, non 6 bisogna mutar nl faccia ni voce per esscr un Angelo. 1 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 Au angel ready-made for Heaven I 1 The words addressed by Lord Herbert of Cherbui'y to the beautiful nun at Murano. — See his Lift. JUVENILE POEMS. 69 TO ROSA. A far conserva, c cumolo d’araanti. Past. Fid. And are you then a thing of art, Seducing all, and loving none ; And have I strove to gain a heart Which every coxcomb thinks his own ? Tell me at once if this be true, And I will calm my jealous breast ; Will learn to join the dangling crew, And share your simpers with the rest. But if your heart be not so free, — Oh ! if another share that heart, Tell not the hateful tale to me, But mingle mercy with your art. I’d rather think you “ false as hell,” Than find you to be all divine, — Than know that heart could love so well, Yet know that heart would not be mine ! TO PHILLIS. Piiillts, you little rosy rake, That heart of yours I long to rifle : Come, give it me, and do not make So much ado about a trifle ! + TO A LADY, OX HER SINGING. Thy song has taught my heart to feel Those soothing thoughts of lieav’nly love, Which o’er the sainted spirits steal When list’ning to the spheres above I When, tir’d of life and misery, I wish to sigh my latest breath, Oh, Emma 1 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, Which,— ah ! forgive a mind that’s weak, — So oft has stol’n my mind 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 ? SONG. ON THE BIRTHDAY OF MRS. WRITTEN IN IRELAND. 179D. Of all my happiest hours of joy, And even I have had my measure, When hearts were full, and ev’ry eye Hath kindled with the light of pleasure, An hour like this 1 ne’er was given, So full of friendship’s purest blisses ; Young Love himself looks down from heaven, To smile on such a day as this is. Then corne, 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 ; Abandon’d thus to dear delight, We’ll ev’n 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, And ev’ry union else we sigh for. Then come, my friends, Ac. In ev’ry eye around I mark The feelings of the heart o’erflowing ; From ev’ry soul I catch the spark Of sympathy, in friendship glowing. Oh 1 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. Then come, my friends, Ac. 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 come, my friends, Ac. SONG, i Mary, I believ’d 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. F are thee well. Few have ever lov’d like me, — Yes, I have lov’d thee too sincerely I And few have e’er deceiv’d like thee, — Alas ! deceiv’d me too severely. 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 ! 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 1 — Fare thee well 1 1 These words were written to the pathetic Scotch air “Galla Water.” '0 MOORE’S WORKS. MORALITY. A FAMILIAR EPISTLE. ADDRESSED TO J. AT— NS— N, ESQ. M. R. I. A. Thought long at school and college dosing, O’er books of verse and books of prosing, And copying from their moral pages Fine recipes for making 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 Heaven or money’s sake, What steps we are through life to take : Though thus, my friend, so long employ'd, With so much midnight oil destroy’d, I must confess, my searches past, I’ve 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 flow “ Reason 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 Ileav’n the breeze, the breath, supplied, “ Must curl the wave or swell the tide 1 ” 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 from thence some weeds, ’tis true, But all the flow’rs were ravag’d too 1 Now listen to the wily strains, Which, on Cyren^’s sandy plains, When Pleasure, nymph with loosen’d zone. Usurp'd the philosophic throne, — Hear what the courtly sage’s 1 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 I ” Is this morality ? — Oh, no ! Ev’n 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’6 incense to the skies. 1 Aristippus. But thus it is, all sects we see Have watchwords 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 Heaven 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 ? No, pedants, I have left to you Nicely to sep’rate hue from hue. Go, give that moment up to art, When Heaven and nature claim the heart , And, dull to all their best attraction, Go — measure angles of refraction. While I, in feeling’s sweet romance, Look on each daybeam as a glance From the great eye of Him above, Wak’ning Ills world with looks of love 1 THE TELL-TALE LYRE. I’ve heard, there was in ancient days A Lyre 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 murm’ring air Along the chords of languor 6tole, The numbers 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. JUVENILE POEMS. 71 And when young lovers talk’d alone, If, ’mid their bliss that Lyre was near, It made their accents all its own, And sent forth notes that Heaven might hear. There was a nymph, who long had lov’d, But dar’d 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 the first star announc’d the night, — With him who claim’d her inmost soul, To wander by that soothing light. It chanc’d that, in the fairy bower Where blest they woo’d each other’s smile, This Lyre, of strange and magic power, Hung whisp’ring o’er their heads the while. And as, with eyes commingling fire, They listen’d to each other’s vow, The youth full oft would make the Lyre A pillow for the maiden’s brow : And, while the melting words she breath’d Were by its echoes wafted round, Her locks had with the cords so wreath’d, One knew not which gave forth the sound. Alas, their hearts but little thought, While thus they talk’d the hours away, That every sound the Lyre was taught Would linger long, and long betray. So mingled with its tuneful soul Were all their tender murmurs grown, That other sighs unanswer’d stole, Nor words it breath’d but theirs alone. Unhappy nymph ! thy name was sung To every breeze that wander’d by ; The secrets of thy gentle tongue Were breath’d in song to earth and sky. The fatal Lyre, by Envy’s hand Hung high amid the whisp’ring groves, To every gale by which ’twas fann’d, Proclaim’d the myst’ry of your loves. Nor long thus rudely was thy name To earth’s derisive echoes given ; Some pitying spirit downward came, And took the Lyre and thee to heaven. There, freed from earth’s unholy wrong3, Both happy in Love’s home shall be ; Thou, uttering nought but seraph songs, And that sweet Lyre still echoing thee I PEACE AND GLORY. WRITTEN ON TIIE APPROACH OP WAR. 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 our 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. Is their hour of dalliance over ? Must the maiden’s trembling feet Waft her from her warlike lover To the desert’s still retreat ? F are you well ! with sighs we banish Nymph so fair and guests 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 sanguin’d 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 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. 4 LOVE AND REASON. “ Quand l’hommc commence a raisonncr, il ces6e de scntir.” J. J. ROUSSEAU.l ’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 1 l Quoted somewhere in St. Pierre’s Etudes de la Nature. 72 MOORES WORKS. Love told his dream of yesternight, 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 lengthen'd shadow, as she walk'd. No wonder Love, as on they pass’d, Should find that sunny morning chill, For still the shadow Reason cast Fell o’er the boy, and cool’d him still. In vain he tried his wings to warm, Or find a pathway not so dim, For still the maid’s gigantic form Would stalk 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. Rut now the sun, in pomp of noon, Look’d blazing o’er the sultry plains ; Alas ! the boy grew languid soon, And fever thrill’d through all his veins. The dew forsook his baby brow, No more with healthy bloom he smil’d — Oh ! where was tranquil Reason now, To cast her shadow o’er the cMld ? Beneath a green and aged palm, His foot at length for shelter turning, lie 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 The world I — ah, Fanny, Love must shun The paths 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 happy sphere Two loving arms entwine ? For me, there’s not a lock of jet Adown your temples curl’d, Within whose glossy, tangling net, My soul doth not, at once, forget All, all this worthless world. ’Tis in those eyes, so full of 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. ♦ ASP ASIA. ’Twas in the fair Aspasia’s bower, That Love and Learning, many an hour, In dalliance met ; and Learning smil’d With pleasure on the playful child, Who often stole, to find a nest Within the folds of Learning’s vest. There, as the list’ning statesman hung In transport on Aspasia’s tongue, The destinies of Athens took Their colour from Aspasia’s look. Oh happy time, when laws of state, When all that rul’d the country’s fate, Its glory, quiet, or alarms, Was plann’d between two snow-white arms ! Blest times ! they could not always last — And yet, ev’n now, they are not past. Though we have lost the giant mould, In which their men were cast of old, Woman, dear woman, still the same, While beauty breathes through soul or frame, While man possesses heart or eyes, Woman’s bright empire never dies ! No, Fanny, love, they ne’er shall say, That beauty’s charm hath pass’d away ; Give but the universe a soul Attun’d to woman’s soft control, And Fanny hath the charm, the skill, To wield a universe at will. Nay, do not weep, my Fanny dear ; While in these arms you lie, This world hath not a wish, a fear, That ought to cost that eye a tear, That heart, one single sigh. JUVENILE POEMS. 73 THE GRECIAN GIRL’S DREAM OF TIIF. BLESSED ISLANDS 1 TO HER LOVER. — - ■fix 1 Te xaXoc n vSayopr}';, oaaot. re xopov srrqpi^av cpcoro A7 toXXcov irept, UXwtivov. Oracul. Metric, a Joan. Opsop. collccla. Was it the moon, or was it morning’s ray, That call’d thee, dearest, from these arms away ? Scarce liadst thou left me, when a dream of night Came o’er my spirit so distinct and bright, That, while I yet can vividly recall Its witching wonders, thou shalt hear them all. Methought I saw, upon the lunar beam, Two winged boys, such as thy muse might dream, Descending from above, at that still hour, And gliding, with smooth step, into my bower. Fair as the beauteous spirits that, all day, In Amatha’s warm founts imprison’d stay, 1 2 But rise at midnight, from th’ enchanted rill, To cool their plumes upon some midnight hill. At once I knew their mission ; — ’twas to bear My spirit upward, through the paths of air, To that elysian realm, from whence stray beams So oft, in sleep, had visited my dreams. Swift at their touch dissolv’d the ties, that clung All earthly round me, and aloft I sprung ; 1 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, luminous islands, in which the spirits of the blest reside. Accordingly M'e find that the M-ord Q /ceavos was sometimes synonymous with arjp, and death was not unfrequently called Q-neavoio iropoq, or “ the passage of the ocean.” 2 Eunapius, in his Life of Iambliclius, tells us of two beautiful little spirits or loves, which Iamblichus raised by enchantment from the warm springs at Ga- dara ; “ dicens astantibus (says the author of the Dii Fatidici, p. 160.) illos esse loci Genios ; ” which words, however, are not in Eunapius. I find from Cellarius, that Amatha, in the neigh- bourhood of Gadara, was also celebrated for its warm springs, and I have preferred it as a morepoeUcal name than Gadara. Cellarius quotes Hieronymus. “ Est et alia villa in vicinia Gadarse nomine Amatha, ubi ca- lidae aquae erumpunt.” — Geograph. Antiq. lib. iii. cap. 15. 3 This belief of an ocean in the heavens, or “ waters above the firmament,” was one of the many physical errors in which the early fathers bewildered themselves. Le P. Baltus, in his ‘‘Defense des Saints Peres accuses de Platonisme,” taking it for granted that the ancients were more correct in their notions (which by no means appears from what I have already quoted), adduces the obstinacy of the fathers, in this whimsical opinion, as a proof of their repugnance to even truth from the hands of the philosophers. This is a strange tray of defending the lathers, and attributes much more than they deserve to the philosophers. For an abstract of this work of Baltus (the opposer of Fontenelle, Van Dale, &c. in the famous Oracle controversy,) see “ Bi- bliothequc des Auteurs Ecclesiast. du 18ome siecle,” part 1. tom. ii. 1 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 entrepot 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 valley of Hecate, and remained till further orders. Tot; 7 repk aeXrjvpv aept, Xeyetv aura; learoiKeiv, kcu air Karw xtopetv et; irjv neptyecov yeveouv.—Stob. lib. i. F.clog. Physic. 6 The pupil and mistress of Epicurus, who called While, heav’nward guides, the little genii flew Thro’ paths of light, refresh’d by heaven’s own dew, And fann’d by airs still fragrant with the breath Of cloudless climes and worlds that know not death. Thou know’st, that, far beyond our nether sky, And shown but dimly to man’s erring eye, A mighty ocean of blue ether rolls, 3 Gemm’d with bright islands, where the chosen souls, Who’ve pass’d in lore and love their earthly hours, Repose for ever in unfading bowers. That very moon, whose solitary light So often guides thee to my bower at night, Is no chill planet, but an isle of love, Floating in splendour through those seas above, And peopled with bright forms, aerial grown, Nor knowing aught of earth but love alone. 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. 4 * 6 Oh 1 there I met those few congenial maids, Whom love hath warm’d, in philosophic shades There still Leontium, 3 on her sage’s breast, Found lore and love, was tutor’d and carest ; And there the clasp of Pythia’s 6 gentle arms Repaid the zeal which deified her charms. The Attic Master, 7 in Aspasia’s eyes, Forgot the yoke of less endearing ties, While fair Tlieano, 8 innocently fair, Wreath’d playfully her Samian’s flowing hair, 8 her his “dear little Lcontium” (Aeovraptov), as ap- pears by a fragment of one of his letters in Laertius. This Leontium Mas a woman of talent; “she had the impudence (says Cicero) to write against Theophras- tus ; ” and Cicero, at the same time, gives her a name which is neither polite nor translatable. “ Meretri- cula etiam Leontium contra Theophrastum scribere ausa est.” — De Natur. Deor. She left a daughter called Danae, who was just as rigid an Epicurean as her mother ; something like Wieland’s Danae in Aga- tlion. It M r ould sound much better, I think, if the name were Leontia. as it occurs the first time in Laertius ; but M. Menage will not hear of this reading. 6 Pythia M as a M-oman M'hom Aristotle loved, and to Mhom after her death he paid divine honours, so- lemnizing her memory by the same sacrifices Mhich the Athenians offered to the Goddess Ceres. For this impious gallantry the philosopher M as, of course, cen- sured ; but it M ould be well if certain of our modern Stagyrites showed a little of this superstition about the memory of their mistresses. 7 Socrates, who used to console himself in the so- ciety of Aspasia for those “less endearing ties ” Mliich he found at home with Xantippe. For an account of this extraordinary creature, Aspasia, and her school of erudite luxury at Athens, see L’Histoire de l’Acade- mie, &c. tom. xxxi. p. 69. Segur rather fails on the inspiring subject of Aspasia. — “ Les Femmes,” tom. i. p. 122. The author of the “ Voyage du Monde de Descartes” has also placed these philosophers in the moon, and has allotted seigneuries to them, as well as to the astro- nomers (part ii. p. 145.) ; but he ought not to have for- gotten their wives and mistresses ; “ curse non ipsa in morte relinquunt.” 8 There are some sensible letters extant under the name of this fair Pythagorean. They are addressed to her female friends upon the education of children, the treatment of servants, &c. One, in particular, to Ni- costrata, whose husband had given her reasons for jealousy, contains such truly considerate and rational advice, that it ought to be translated for the edification of all married ladies. See Gale’s Opuscul. Myth. Phys. p. 741. 9 Pythagoras M-as remarkable for fine hair, and Doctor Thiers (in his Histoire des Pcrruques) seems to 71 MOORH’S WORKS. Whose soul now fix’d, its transmigrations past, Found in those arms a resting-place, at last ; And smiling own’d, whate’er his dreamy thought In mystic numbers long had vainly sought, The One that’s form’d of Two whom love hath bound, Is the best number gods or men e’er found. But think, my Theon, with what joy I thrill’d, When near a fount, which through the valley rill’d My fancy’s eye beheld a form recline, Of lunar race, but so resembling thine That, oh l ’twas but fidelity in me, To fly, to clasp, and worship it for thee. No aid of words the unbodied 60ul requires, To waft a wish or embassy desires ; But by a power, to spirits only given, A deep, mute impulse, only felt in heaven, Swifter than meteor shaft through summer skies, From soul to soul the glanc’d idea flies. Oh, my beloved, how divinely sweet Is the pure joy, when kindred spirits meet ! Like him, the river-god, 1 whose 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 his current, as an offering meet To lay at Arethusa’s shining feet. Think, when he meets at last his fountain-bride, What perfect love must thrill the blended tide ! Each lost in each, till, mingling into one, Their lot the same for shadow or for sun, A type of true love, to the deep they run. ’Twas thus — But, Theon, ’tis an endless theme, And thou grow’st weary of my half-told dream. Oh would, my love, we were together now, And I would woo sweet patience to thy brow, And make thee smile at all the magic tales Of starlight bowers and planetary vales, Which my fond soul, inspir’d by thee and love, In slumber’s loom hath fancifully wove. But no ; no more — soon as to-morrow’s ray O’er soft Illissus shall have died away, I’ll come, and, while love’s planet in the w r est, Shines o’er our meeting, tell thee all the rest. TO CLOE. IMITATED FROM MARTIAL. I could resign that eye of blue Howe’er its splendour used to thrill me ; And ev’n that cheek of roseate hue, — To lose it, Cloe, scarce would kill me. That snowy neck I ne’er should miss, However much I’ve rav’d about it ; And sweetly as that lip can kiss, I think I could exist without it. take for granted it was all his own ; as he has not men- tioned him among those ancients who were obliged to have recourse to the “ coma apposititia." L’Histoire des Perruques, chapitre L 1 The river Alpheu«, which flowed by Pisa or Olympia, and into which it was customary to throw In short, so well I’ve learn’d to fast, That, sooth my love, I know not whether I might not bring myself at last, To — do without you altogether. THE WREATn 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 form’d of golden threads, Bright as Minerva’s yellow hair, When the last beam of evening sheds Its calm and sober lustre there. The Wreath’s of brightest myrtle wove, With sun-lit drops of bliss among it, And many a rose-leaf, cull’d by Love, To heal his lip when bee3 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 loath, Thou lik’st the form of either tie, And spread’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 l The Wreath would make the Chain so soft I 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 bloom, their glow is faded ! Oh ! better to be always free, Than thus to bind my love to me. The timid girl now hung her head, And, as she turn’d an upward glance, I saw a doubt its twilight spread Across her brow’s divine expanse. Just then, the garland’s brightest rose Gave one of its love-breathing sighs — Oh ! who can ask how F anny chose, That ever look’d in Fanny’s eyes ? “ The Wreath, my life, the Wreath shall be “ The*tie to bind my soul to thee.” offerings of different kinds, during the celebration of the Olympic games. In the pretty romance of Clito- phon and Leucippe, the river is supposed to carry these offerings as bridal gifts to the fountain Arethusa. K at ctti, rrjv Apedovaav ovtco tov A Aetov vvjj.oaro\ei. 6rav ovv ^ twv oXvfjLTTLwv toprrj, k. r. A. Lib i. JUVENILE POEMS. TO And hast thou mark’d the pensive shade, That many a time obscures my brow, Midst all the joys, beloved maid, Which thou canst give, and only thou ? Oh ! ’tis not that I then forget The bright looks that before me shine ; For 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 ; — Yes, — 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. 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 murm’ring tongue Perhaps hath all as sweetly dwelt ; Upon his words thine ear hath hung, With transport all as purely felt. For him — yet why the past recall, To damp and wither present bliss ? Thou’rt now my own, heart, spirit, all, And Heaven could grant no more than this ! Forgive me, dearest, oh 1 forgive ; I would be first, be sole to thee, Thou shouldst 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 brightly trac’d That thou wert, soul and all, my own. TO ’S PICTURE. Go then, if she, whose shade thou art, No more will let thee sooth 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, 1 Love and Psyche are here considered as the active and passive principles of creation, and the universe is supposed to have received its first harmonizing impulse from the nuptial sympathy between these two powers, A marriage is generally the first step in cosmogony. Timaeus held Form to be father, and Matter the mother As bitter is the burning tear, With which I now the gift resign. 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 calm and free ; Could she give back the careless flow, The spirit that my heart then knew — Yet, no, ’tis vain — go, picture, go — Smile at me once, and then — adieu ! FRAGMENT OF A MYTHOLOGICAL HYMN TO LOVE.l Blest infant of eternity 1 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 1 Nestling beneath the wings of ancient Night, Whose horrors seem’d to smile in shadowing thee. 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 ling’ring died. Unfelt the pulse, unknown the power, That latent in his heart was sleeping, — Oh Sympathy 1 that lonely hour Saw Love himself thy absence weeping. But look, what glory through the darkness beams 1 Celestial airs along the water glide : — AVhat Spirit art thou, moving o’er the tide So beautiful ? oh, not of earth, But, in that glowing hour, the birth Of the young Godhead’s own creative dreams. ’Tis she I Psyche, the firstborn spirit of the air. To thee, oh Love, she turns, On thee her eyebeam burns •. Blest hour, before all worlds ordain’d to be ! They meet — The blooming god — the spirit fair Meet in communion sweet. Now, Sympathy, the hour is thine ; All nature feels the thrill divine, The veil of Chaos is withdrawn, And their first kiss is great Creation’s dawn ! + of the World; Elion and Berouth. I think, areSancho- niatho’s first spiritual lovers, and Manco-capac and his wife introduced creation amongst the Peruvians. In short, Harlequin seems to have studied cosmogonies, when he said “ tutto il mondo & fatto corao la nostra famiglia.’’ 76 MOORE’S WORKS, TO niS SERENE HIGHNESS T1IE DUKE OF MONTPENSIER, ox ms rORTRAIT OF THE LADY ADELAIDE FORBES. Donington rarJc 9 1S02. To catch the thought, by painting’s spell, Howe'er remote, howe’er refin’d, And o’er the kindling canvass tell The silent 6tory 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 ; — Yes, these are Painting’s proudest powers ; The gift, by which her art divine Above all others proudly towers, — And these, oh Prince ! are richly thine. And yet, when Friendship sees thee trace, In almost living truth exprest, This bright memorial of a face On which her eye delights to rest ; 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, Our eyes with ling’ring pleasure rove ; Blessing the touch whose various hue Thus brings to mind the form we love ; We feel the magic of thy art, And own it with a zest, a zeal, A pleasure, nearer to the heart Than critic taste can ever feel. ■ -f- I Though I have styled this poem a Dithyrambic Ode, I cannot presume to say that it possesses, in any degree, the characteristics of that species of poetry. The nature of the ancient Dithyrambic is very imperfectly known. According to M. Burette, a licentious irregu- larity of metre, an extravagant research of thought and expression, and a rude embarrassed construction, arc among its most distinguishing features ; and in all these respects, I have but too closely, I fear, followed my models. Burette adds, “ Ces caracteres des dithy- rambes se font sentir a ceux qui lisent attentivement les odes de Pindare.” — Mtmoires de l' Acad. vol. x. p. 306. The same opinion may be collected from Schmidt’s dissertation upon the subject. I think, however, if the Dithyrambics of Pindar were in our possession, we should find that, however wild and fanciful, they were by no means the tasteless jargon they are represented, and that even their irregularity was what Boileau calls “ un beau desordre.” Chiabrera, who has been styled the Pindar of Italy, and from whom all its poetry upon the Greek model was called Chiabreresco (as Crescim- beni informs us, lib. i. cap. 12.), has given, amongst his Vcndemmie, a Dithyrambic, “ all’ uso de’ Greci ; *’ full of those compound epithets, which, we are told, were a chief characteristic of the style ( Ttjv tov iravTOt; ifrvxV v tcepavws epuoye, k. t. /V JUVENILE POEMS. 77 And now she rais’d lier rosy mouth to sip The nectar’d wave Lyaeus gave, And from her eyelids, half-way clos’d, Sent forth a melting gleam, Which fell, like sun-dew, in the bowl : While her bright hair, in mazy flow Of gold descending Adown her cheek’s luxurious glow, Hung o’er the goblet’s side, And was reflected in its crystal tide, Like a bright crocus flower, Whose sunny leaves, at evening hour With roses of Cyrene blending, i Hang o’er the mirror of some silvery stream. The Olympian cup Shone 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 ; 1 2 And still As the resplendent rill Gush’d forth into the cup with mantling heat, Her watchful care Was still to cool its liquid fire With snow-white sprinklings of that feathery air The children of the Pole respire, In those enchanted lands , 3 Where life is all a spring, and north winds never blow. But oh ! Bright Hebe, what a tear, And what a blush were thine, When, as the breath of every Grace Wafted thy feet along the studded sphere, With a bright cup for Jove himself to drink, Some star, that shone beneath thy tread, Raising its amorous head To kiss those matchless feet, Check’d thy career too fleet ; And all heaven’s host of eyes Entranc’d, but fearful all, Saw thee, sweet Hebe, prostrate fall Upon the bright floor of the azure skies ; 4 * 1 We learn from Theophrastus, that the roses of Cyrene were particularly fragrant. — E voa^ara ra 6e ra ev K vpevp pod a. 2 Heraclitus (Pliysicus) held the soul to be a spark of the stellar essence — “ Scintilla stellaris essentiae.” — MACROBIUS, in Somn. Scip. lib. i. cap. 14. 3 The country of the Hyperboreans. These people were supposed to be placed so far north that the north wind could not affect them ; they lived longer than any other mortals ; passed their whole time in music and dancing, &c. &c. But the most extravagant fiction re- lated of them is that to which the two lines preceding allude. It was imagined that, instead of our vulgar atmosphere, the Hyperboreans breathed nothing but feathers 1 According to Herodotus and Pliny, this idea w as suggested by the quantity of snow Mhich M as ob- served to fall in those regions ; thus the former : To tbv rrrepa eixa{ovra c ttjv \tova rove hcvdat; re xai rot/f 7repc- oi.kov c SoKeco Aeyetv. — HERODOT. lib. iv. cap. 51. Ovid tells the fable otherwise: see Metamorph. lib. xv. Mr. O’Halloran, and some other Irish antiquarians, have been at great expense of learning to prove that the strange country, where they took snow for feathers, M-as Ireland, and that the famous Abaris M as an Irish Druid. Mr. Rowland, however, will have it that Abaris M-as a Welshman, and that his name is only a corruption of Ap Rees ! Where, ’mid its stars, thy beauty lay, As blossom, shaken from the spray Of a spring thorn, Lies ’mid the liquid sparkles of the morn. Or, as in temples of the Paphian shade, The worshippers of Beauty’s queen behold An image of their rosy idol, laid Upon a diamond shrine. The wanton wind, Which had pursu’d the flying fair. And sported ’mid the tresses unconfin’d Of her bright hair, Now, as she fell, — oh wanton breeze ! Ruffled the robe, whose graceful flow Hung o’er those limbs of unsunn’d snow, Purely as the Eleusinian veil Hangs o’er the Mysteries ! 3 The brow of Juno flush’d — Love bless’d the breeze I . The Muses blush’d ; And every cheek was hid behind a lyre, While every eye look’d laughing through the strings. But the bright cup ? the nectar’d draught Which J ove himself was to have quaff’d I Alas, alas, upturn’d it lay By the fall’n Hebe’s side ; While, in slow lingering drops, th’ ethereal tide, As conscious of its own rich essence, ebb’d away. Who was the Spirit that remember’d Man, In that blest hour, And, with a wing of love, Brush’d off the goblet’s scatter’d tears, As, trembling, near tho edge of heaven they ran, And sent them floating to our orb below ? 6 Essence of immortality I The shower Fell glowing through the spheres ; While all around new tints of bliss, New odours and new light, Enrich’d its radiant flow. Now, with a liquid kiss, It stole along the thrilling wire Of Heaven’s luminous Lyre , 7 4 It is Servius, I believe, Mho mentions this unlucky trip Mhich Hebe made in her occupation of cup-bearer ; and Hoffman tells it after him : “ Cum Hebe pocula Jovi administrans, perque lubricum minus caut6 iu- cedens, cecidisset,” &c. 5 The arcane symbols of this ceremony were dep>- sited in the cista, M here they lay religiously concealed from the eyes of the profane. They were generally carried in the procession by an ass ; and hence the proverb, which one may so often apply in the world, “ asinus portat mysteria.” Sec the Divine Legation, book ii. sect. 4. 6 In the Geoponica, lib. ii. cap. 17., there is a fable somewhat like this descent of the nectar to earth. Ev ovpavo> tcov Beeav eva >\ovp.evcov, xat tov vexrapoc ttoWov 7 rapa.Ket.fji.evov, avaaKcp-njarac x°P el 9- T0V E poora xai avaae i- aat rev irrepai tov Kparrfpot; ttjv /3aaiv, Kat 7repcTpe^at p.ev avTov" to Se vexrap ett ttjv yrfv etcxyOev, k. t. A. Vid. Autor. de Re Rust. edit. Cantab. 1704. 7 The constellation Lyra. The astrologers attribute great virtues to this sign in ascendenti, which are enu- merated by Pontano, iu his Urania : Eccc novem cum pectine chordas Emodulans, mulcetque novo vaga sidera cantu, Quo capt* uascentum aniraae concordi^ ducuiit Pectora', &c. 78 MOORE’S WORKS. 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 this rosy flame Descending through the waste of night, Thought ’twas some planet, whose empyreal frame Had kindled, as it rapidly revolv’d Around its fervid axle, and dissolv’d Into a flood so bright I The youthful Day, Within his twilight bower, Lay sweetly sleeping On the flush’d bosom of a lotos-flower ; i 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, . O morn of joy I — The tide divine, All glorious 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 I Blest be the sod, and blest the flower On which descended first that shower, All fresh from Jove’s nectareous springs ; — Oh far less sweet the flower, the sod, O’er which the Spirit of the Rainbow flings The magic mantle of her solar God ! 1 2 * 4 RINGS AND SEALS. 0<77 rep apayiSe<; ra ^>t\r)p.aTO. Aciiilles Tatius, lib. ii. “ Go 1 ” said the angry, weeping maid, “ The charm is broken ! — once betray’d, “ Never can this wrong’d heart rely “ On word or look, on oath or sigh. “ Take back the gifts, so fondly given, “ With promis’d faith and vows to heaven ; “ That little ring which, night and morn, With wedded truth my hand hath worn ; “ That seal which oft, in moments blest, “ Thou hast upon my lip imprest, 1 The Egyptians represented the dawn of day by a young boy seated upon a lotus. Eire Aiyvirrovs iwpa- kox; apyrjv avaroXrjj 7ra1.S1.ov veoyvov ypatfrovrat; cttl \wtu> Ka. 6 eSop.evov. — Plutarch, irepi tov p.rj XP° LV ep-p-erp. See also his Treatise de Isid. et Osir. Observing that the lotus showed its head above water at sunrise, and sank again at his setting, they conceived the idea of conse- crating this flower to Osiris, or the sun. This symbol of a youth sitting upon a lotus is very frequent on the Abraxases, or Basilidian stones. See Montfaucon, tom. ii. planche 158., and the “ Supple- ment,” &c. tom. ii. lib. vii. chap. 5. 2 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. Plutarch, “ And sworn its sacred spring should be “ A fountain scal’d s for only thee : “ Take, take them back, the gift and vow, “ All sullied, lost and hateful now l ” I took the ring — the seal I took, While, oh, her every tear and look Were such as angels look and shed, When man is by the world misled. Gently I whisper’d, “ Fanny, dear I “ Not half thy lover’s gifts are here : “ Say, where are all the kisses given, “ From morn to noon, from noon to even, — “ Those signets of true love, worth more “ Than Solomon’s own seal of yore, — “ Where are those gifts, so sweet, so many ? “ Come, dearest, — give back all, if any.” While thus I whisper’d, trembling too, Lest all the nymph had sworn was true, I saw a smile relenting rise ’Mid the moist azure of her eyes, Like daylight o’er a sea of blue, While yet in mid-air hangs the dew. She let her cheek repose on mine, She let my arms around her twine ; One kiss was half allowed, and then — The ring and seal were hers again. * TO MISS SUSAN B— CKF— D. 4 ON IIER SIXGING. I more than once have heard, at night, A song, like those thy lip hath given, And it was sung by shapes of light, Who look’d and breath’d, like thee, of heaven. But this was all a dream of sleep, And I have said, when morning shone, “ Why should the night- witch, 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 path of life has led, When I have heard the sweetest lays From lips of rosiest lustre shed ; Sympos. lib. iv. cap. 2. where (as Vossius remarks) Kaiovo-i, instead of KaXovai., is undoubtedly the genuine reading. See Vossius, for some curious particularities of the rainbow, De Origin, et Progress, ldololat. lib iii. cap. 13. 3 41 There are gardens, supposed to be those of King Solomon, in the neighbourhood of Bethlehem. The friars show a fountain, which, they say, is the 4 sealed fountain ’ to which the holy spouse in the Canticles is compared ; and they pretend a tradition, that Solomon shut up these springs and put his signet upon the door, to keep them for his own drinking .” — MaundrelVa Travels. See also the notes to Mr. Good’s Translation of the Song of Solomon. 4 The present Duchess of Hamilton. JUVENILE POEMS. 79 When I have felt the warbled word From Beauty’s lip, in sweetness vying With music’s own melodious bird, When on the rose’s bosom lying ; Though form and song at once combin’d Their loveliest bloom and softest thrill, My heart hath sigh’d, my ear hath pin’d F or something lovelier, softer still : — Oh, I have found it all, at last, In thee, thou sweetest living lyre, Through which the soul of song e’er pass’d, Or feeling breath’d its sacred fire. All that I e’er, in wildest flight Of fancy’s dreams, could hear or see Of music’s sigh or beauty’s light Is realiz’d, at once, in thee I ♦ IMPROMPTU, OX LEAVING SOME FRIENDS. O dulces comitum valete coetus. CATULLUS. 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. If fond 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 light of memory found Alive within your social glass ; Let that be still the magic round, O’er which Oblivion dares not pass. 1 A WARNING. TO Oa fair as heaven and chaste as light ! Did nature mould thee all so bright, That thou shouldst e’er be brought 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, In lines of light such heavenly lore, That man should read them and adore. Yet have I known a gentle maid Whose mind and form were both array’d In nature’s purest light, like thine ; — Who wore that clear, celestial sign, Which seems to mark the brow that’s fair For destiny’s peculiar care : Whose bosom too, like Dian’s own, Was guarded by a sacred zone, Where the bright gem of virtue shone ; Whose eyes had, in their light, a charm Against all wrong, and guile, and harm, Yet, hapless maid, in one sad hour, These spells have lost their guardian power ; The gem has been beguil’d away ; Her eyes have lost their chast’ning ray ; The modest pride, the guiltless shame, The smiles that from reflection came, All, all have fled, and left her mind A faded monument behind ; The ruins of a once pure shrine, No longer fit for guest divine. Oh 1 ’twas a sight I wept to see — Heaven keep the lost one’s fate from thee ! - — ♦ TO ’Tis time, I feel, to leave thee now, While yet my soul is something free While yet those dangerous eyes allow One minute’s thought to stray from thee. Oh 1 thou becom’st each moment dearer ; Every chance that brings me nigh thee, Brings my ruin nearer, nearer, — I am lost, unless I fly thee. Nay, if thou dost not scorn and liate me, Doom me not thus so soon to fall ; Duties, fame, and hopes await me, — But that eye would blast them all ! For, thou hast heart as false and cold As ever yet allur’d or sway’d, And couldst, without a sigh, behold The ruin which thyself had made. Yet, — could I think that, truly fond, That eye but once would smile on me, Ev’n as thou art, how far beyond Fame, duty, wealth, that smile would be ! Oh ! but to win it, night and day, Inglorious at thy feet reclin’d, I’d sigh my dreams of fame away, The world for thee forgot, resign’d. But no, tis o’er, and — thus we part, Never to meet again, — no, never. False woman, what a mind and heart Thy treach’ry has undone for ever ! WOMAN. Away, away — you’re all the same, A smiling, flutt’ring, jilting throng ; And, wise too late, I burn with shame, To think I’ve been vour slave so long. MOORE’S WORKS. 80 Slow lobe won, and quick to rove. From folly kind, from cunning loath, Too cold for bliss, too weak for love, Yet feiguing all that's best in both ; 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 I blot me from the race of men. Kind pitying Heaven, by death or worse, If e’er I love such things again. TO Noircc ra ^tXrara. ECRIFIUES. Come, take thy harp — ’tis vain to muse Upon the gathering ills we see ; Oh ! take thy 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. 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 smiling then, 1 In Plutarch’s Essay on the Decline of the Oracles, Cleombrotus, one of the interlocutors, describes an ex- traordinary man whom he had met with, after long re- search, upon the banks of the Red Sea. Once in every year this supernatural personage appeared to mortals, and conversed with them : the rest of his time he passed among the Genii and the Nymphs. Uepi ttjv cpvdpav OaXauuav cvpov, avBptoTroti ava ttclv rro? a.7ra| evrvy- \avovra, raXXa Sc uvv rati; wp.auq, vopauL /cat Saipoai, d>? eauice. He spoke in a tone not far removed from singing, and whenever he opened his lips, a fragrance filled the place : 6eyyopcvov Sc tov tottov cvcoSia Karecxe, tov urop.aTOi f)6iarov a-rroirvcovTOS. From him Cleom- brotus learned the doctrine of a plurality of worlds. 2 The celebrated Janus Dousa, a little before his death, imagined that he heard a strain of music in the air. See the poem of Heinsius, “ In harmoniam quam paulo ante obitum audire sibi visus est Dousa.” Page 501. 3 ■ evda p.a\cyc t. PINDAR. Olymp. ii. 4 Cham, the son of Noah, is supposed to have taken with him into the ark 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 antediluvian knowledge to his posterity. See the extracts made by Bayle, in his article Cham. The identity of Cham and Zoroaster depends upon the au- thority of Berosus (or rather the impostor Annius), and Now vanish’d, lost — oh pray thcc, ce.iso, I cannot bear those sounds again. Art thou , too, wretched ? yes, thou art ; I 6ce thy tears flow fast with mine — Come, come to this devoted heart, ’Tis breaking, but it still is thine ! « A VISION OF PHILOSOPHY. ’Twas on the Red Sea coast, at morn, wc met The venerable man l : a healthy bloom Mingled its softness witli the vigorous thought That tower’d upon his brow ; and, when he spoke, ’Twas language sweeten’d into song — such holy sounds As oft, they say, the wise and virtuous hear Prelusive to the harmony of heaven, When death is nigh 2 ; 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, 3 breath’d around. With silent awe we listen’d, while he told Of the dark veil which many an age had hung O’er Nature’s form, till, long explored by man, The mystic shroud grew thin and luminous, And glimpses of that heavenly form shone thro’ : — Of magic wonders, that were known and taught By him (or Cham or Zoroaster nam’d) Who mus’d amid the mighty cataclysm, O’er his rude tablets of primeval lore ; 4 And gath’ring round him, in the sacred ark, The mighty secrets of that former globe, Let not the living star of science 5 sink Beneath the waters, which ingulph’d a world ! — Of visions, by Calliope reveal’d To him, 6 who trac’d upon his typic lyre a few more such respectable testimonies. See Naude’s Apologie pour les Grands Hommes, &c. chap, viii., where he takes more trouble than is necessary in re- futing this gratuitous supposition. 5 Chamum a posteris hujus artis admiratoribus Zoro- astrum, seu vivura astrum, propterea fuisse dictum et pro Deo liabitum. — Bocliart. Geograph. Sacr. lib. iv. cap. 1. « Orpheus. — Paulinus, in his Hebdomades, cap. 2. lib. iii., has endeavoured to show, after the Platonists, that man is a diapason, or octave, made up of a dia- tesseron, which is his soul, and a diapente, which is his body. Those frequent allusions to music, by which the ancient philosophers illustrated their sublime theo- ries, must have tended very much to elevate the cha- racter of the art, and to enrich it with associations of the grandest and most interesting nature. See a pre- ceding note, for their ideas upon the harmony of the spheres. Heraclitus compared the mixture of good and evil in this world to the blended varieties ol! harmony in a musical instrument (Plutarch, de Animae Procreat.); and Euryphamus, the Pythagorean, in a fragment pre- served by Stobaeus, describes human life, in its per- fection, as a sweet and well-tuned lyre. Some of the ancients were so fanciful as to suppose that the opera tions of the memory were regulated by a kind of mu- sical cadence, and that ideas occurred to it “ per arsin et thesin,” while others converted the whole man into a mere harmonized machine, whose motion depended upon a certain tension of the body, analogous to that of the strings in an instrument. Cicero indeed ridicules Aristoxenus for this fancy, and says, “ Let him teach singing, and leave philosophy to Aristotle ; ” but Ari» JUVENILE POEMS. 81 The diapason of man’s mingled frame, And the grand Doric heptachord of heaven. With all of pure, of wondrous and arcane, stotle himself, though decidedly opposed to the harmonic speculations of the Pythagoreans and Platonists, could sometimes condescend to enliven his doctrines by refer- ence to the beauties of musical science ; as, in the treatise Tlept K oapov attributed to him, Kadanep 8e ev \opui, Kopvcuov KciTapZavTOt;, k. t.X. The Abbe Batteux, in his enquiry into the doctrine of the Stoics, attributes to those philosophers the same mode of illustration. “ L’&me etoit cause active 7 roceiv aiTtoi ; ; le corps cause passive f/8e tov -naaxav : — Pune agissant dans l’autre; et y prenant, par son action meme, un caractere, des formes, des modifications, qu’elle n’avoit pas par elle-meme ; a peu pres comme Pair, qui, chasse dans un instrument de musique, fait connoitre, par les differens sons qu’il produit, les differentes modifications qu’il y regoit.” See a fine simile founded upon this notion in Cardinal Polignac’s poem, lib. 5. v. 734. 1 Pythagoras is represented in Iamblichus as de- scending with great solemnity from Mount Carmel, for which reason the Carmelites have claimed him as one of their fraternity. This Moclius or Moschus, with the descendants of whom Pythagoras conversed in Phoenicia, and from whom he derived the doctrines of atomic philosophy, is supposed by some to be the same with Moses. Huett has adopted this idea. Demonstration Evangelique, Prop. iv. chap. 2. § 7. ; and Le Clerc, amongst others, has refuted it. See Biblioth. Choisie, tom. i. p. 75. It is certain, however, that the doctrine of atoms was known and promulgated long before Epicurus. “ With the fountains of Democritus,” says Cicero, “ the gardens of Epicurus were watered ; ” and the learned author of the Intellectual System has shown, that all the early philosophers, till the time of Plato, were atomists. We find Epicurus, how r ever, boasting that his tenets were new and unborrowed, and perhaps few among the ancients had any stronger claim to ori- ginality. In truth, if we examine their schools of philosophy, notwithstanding the peculiarities which 6eem to distinguish them from each other, we may generally observe that the difference is but verbal and trifling; and that, among those various and learned heresies, there is scarcely one to be selected, whose opinions are its own, original and exclusive. The doctrine of the world’s eternity may be traced through all the sects. The continual metempsychosis of Pythagoras, the grand periodic year of the Stoics, (at the conclusion of which the universe is supposed to return to its original order, and commence a new revo- lution,) the successive dissolution and combination of atoms maintained by the Epicureans — all these tenets are but different intimations of the same general belief in the eternity of the world. As explained by St. Austin, the periodic year of the Stoics disagrees only so far with the idea of the Pythagoreans, that instead of an endless transmission of the soul through a variety of bodies, it restores the same body and soul to repeat their former round of existence, so that the “ identical Plato, who lectured in the Academy of Athens, shall again and again, at certain intervals, during the lapse of eternity, appear in the same Academy and resume the same functions : ” sic eadem tempora teraporaliumquc rerum volumina repeti, ut v. g. sicut in isto saeculo Plato philosophus in urbe Atheniensi, in eascliolA quae Academia dicta est, discipulos docuit, ita per innume- rabilia retro ssecula, multum plexis quidem intervaliis, sed ccrtis, et idem Plato, et eadem civitas, eademquc schola, iidemque disci p uli repetiti et per innumerabilia dcinde saecula repetendi sint. — De Civitat. Dei , lib. xii. cap. 13. Vanini, in his dialogues, has given us a similar explication of the periodic revolutions of the world. “ Ea de causa, qui nunc sunt in usu ritus, centies millies fuerunt, totiesque renascentur quotics ceciderunt.” 52. The paradoxical notions of the Stoics upon the beauty, the riches, the dominion of their imaginary sage, are among the most distinguishing characteristics of their school, and, according to their advocate Lipsius, were peculiar to that sect. “ Priora ilia (dccreta) quaj passim in philosophantium scholis fere obtinent, ista quae pcculiaria huic scctae et habent contradictionem : i. c. paradoxa.” — Manuduct. ad Stoic. Philos, lib. iii. dissertat. 2. But it is evident (as the Abbe Gamier has remarked, Memoires de l’Acad. tom. xxxv.) that even these absurdities of the Stoics are borrowed, and that Plato is the source of all their extravagant paradoxes. We find their dogma, ‘‘dives qui sapiens,” (which Clement of Alexandria has transferred from the Philo- sopher to the Christian, Pu:dagog lib iii. cap. 0.) cx- Which the grave sons of Moclius, many a night, Told to the young and bright-hair’d visitant Of Carmel’s sacred mount . 1 — Then, in a flow pressed in the prayer of Socrates at the end of the Phaedrus. Q. 4>c\e Ilav re nac aXXot 6000 irjde Oeot,, Soltjts poi ica\a> yeveodcu TavSodev' raljcodev 8e oa a e\co, toij evroq aval, p .01 t\ia’ nXovacov 8e vopc^ocpt tov aoov. And many other instances might be adduced from the AvrepaoTat,, the UoXiriKog, & c. to prove that these weeds of paradox were all gathered among the bowers of the Academy. Hence it is that Cicero, in the preface to his Paradoxes, calls them Socratica ; and Lipsius, exulting in the patronage of Socrates, says “ Ille totus est noster.” This is indeed a coalition, which evinces as much as can be wished the confused similitude of ancient philosophical opinions : the father of scepticism is here enrolled amongst the founders of the Portico ; he, whose best knowledge was that of his own ignorance, is called in to authorise the pretensions of the most obstinate dogmatists in all antiquity. Rutilius, in his Itinerarium, has ridiculed the sabbath of the Jews, as “ lassati mollis imago Dei ; ” but Epicurus gave an eternal holiday to his gods, and, rather than disturb the slumbers of Olympus, denied at once the interference of a Providence. He does not, however, seem to have been singular in this opinion. Theophilus of Antioch, if he deserve any credit, im- putes a similar belief to Pythagoras : — yat (Jlvdayopaq) Te tcov rravTcov Beovq avdpcoircov prjdev ippovriZeiv. And Plutarch, though so hostile to the followers of Epicurus, has unaccountably adopted the very same theological error. Thus, after quoting the opinions of Anaxa- goras and Plato upon divinity, he adds, Kowcoj ovv dpapravovaev aptftorepoi 6ri tov Oeov eironqaav emoTpe- opevov tcov avdpioTrivcov. — De Placit. Pliilosoph. lib. i. cap. 7. Plato himself has attributed a degree of indif- ference to the gods, which is not far removed from the apathy of Epicurus’s heaven ; as thus, in his Philebus, where Protarchus asks, O vkovv ewco? ye ovre \acpecv deovc, ovre to evavTiov ; and Socrates answers, Haw pev ovv eiKOC, aa\ypov yovv avrcov iicaTepovyiyvopevov earev }— while Aristotle supposes a still more absurd neutrality, and concludes, by no very flattering analogy, that the deity is as incapable of virtue as of vice. Kat yap cbaTrep ovSev Brjpiov eari icaKia, ov8 ’ apert ] , ovtooc ov8e deov. — Ethic. Nicomacli. lib. vii. cap. 1. In truth, Aristotle, upon the subject of Providence, w r as little more correct than Epicurus. He supposed the moon to be the limit of divine interference, excluding of course this sublunary w orld from its influence. The first definition of the world, in his treatise n epi K oapov (if this treatise be really the wmrk of Aristotle), agrees, almost verbum verbo, with that in the letter of Epicurus to Pythocles ; and both omit the mention of a deity. In his Ethics, too, he intimates a doubt whether the gods feel any interest in the concerns of mankind. — Et yap Tiq empeXeia tcov avOpcoTUveov viro decov ycverac. It is true, he adds wotrep Sokci, but even this is very scep- tical. In these erroneous conceptions of Aristotle, we trace the cause of that general neglect which his philosophy experienced among the early Christians. Plato is seldom much more orthodox, but the obscure enthu- siasm of his style allowed them to accommodate all his fancies to their own purpose. Such glowing steel was easily moulded, and Platonism became a sword in the hands of the fathers. The Providence of the Stoics, so vaunted in their school, was a power as contemptibly inefficient as the rest. All was fate in the system of the Portico. The chains of destiny w'erc throw n over Jupiter himself, and their deity was like the Borgia of the epigrammatist, ‘‘et Cajsar et nihil.” Not even the language of Se- neca can reconcile this degradation of divinity. “ Ille ipse omnium conditor ac rector scripsit quidem fata, sedsequitur; semper paret, semcl jussit.” — Lib. de Providentid, cap. 5. With respect to the difference between the Stoics, Peripatetics and Academicians, the following words of Cicero prove that he saw but little to distinguish them from each other : — “ Peripateticos et Academicos, no- minibus differentes, recongruentes ; a quibus Stoici ipsl verbis magis quam sententiis dissenserunt.” — Academic, lib. ii. 5. ; and perhaps what Reid has remarked upon one of their points of controversy might be applied as effectually to the reconcilement of all the rest. “ The dispute between the Stoics and Peripatetics was pro- bably all for want of definition. The one said they were good under the control of reason, the other that they should be eradicated.” — Essays, vol. iii. In short, it appears a no less difficult matter to establish the boundaries of opinion between any two of tbo phi- G MOORE’S YVOKKS. {>2 Of calmer converse, he beguil’d us on Through many a maze of Garden and of Torch, 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 , 1 And bright through every change I — lie spoke of Him, The lone , 2 eternal One, who dwells above, Mid of the soul’s untraccable descent From that high fount of spirit, through the grades Of intellectual being, till it mix With atoms vague, corruptible, and dark ; Nor yet 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 take at once its briny taint, But keeps unchanged awhile the lustrous tinge, Or balmy freshness, of the scenes it left . 2 And here the old man ceas’d — a winged train Of nymphs and genii bore him from our eyes. The fair illusion fled ! and, as I wak’d, Iosophical sects, than it would be to fix the landmarks of those estates in the moon, which Ricciolus so gene- rously allotted to his brother astronomers. Accordingly we observe some of the greatest men of antiquity passing without scruple from school to school, according to the fancy or convenience of the moment. Cicero, the father of Roman philosophy, is sometimes an Acade- mician, sometimes a Stoic ; and, more than once, he acknowledges a conformity with Epicurus ; “ non sine causa igitur Epicurus ausus est dicere semper in plu- ribus bonis esse sapientem, quia semper sit in volupta- tibus.” — Tusculan. Qucest. lib. v. Though often pure in his theology, Cicero sometimes smiles at futurity, as a fiction ; thus, in his Oration for Cluentius, speaking of punishments in the life to come, he says, “ Quae si falsa sunt, id quod omnes intelligunt, quid ei tandem aliud mors eripuit, praetor sensum doloris? ” — though here we should, perhaps, do him but justice by agreeing with his commentator Sylvius, Mho remarks upon this passage, “ Haec autem dixit, ut causae suae subserviret.” The poet Horace roves like a butterfly through the schools, and now Mings along the walls of the Porch, new basks among the flowers of the Garden; while Virgil, Mith a tone of mind strongly philosophical, has yet left us wholly uncertain as to the sect which he espoused. The balance of opinion declares him to have been an Epicurean, but the ancient author of his life asserts that he was an Academician; and we trace through his poetry the tenets of almost all the leading sects. The same kind of eclectic indifference is ob- servable in most of tiic Roman M-riters. Thus Proper- tius, in the fine elegy to Cynthia, on his departure for Athens, Illic vel studiis animum emendare Platonis, Incipiam, aut hortis, docte Epicure, tuis. Lib. iii. Elcg. 21. Though Broeckbusius here reads, “ dux Epicure,” which seems to fix the poet under the banners of Epi- curus. Even the Stoic Seneca, whose doctrines have been considered so orthodox, that St. Jerome has ranked him amongst the ecclesiastical M-riters, while Boccaccio doubts "(in consideration of his supposed correspondence with St. Paul) whether Dante should have placed him in Limbo M ith the rest of the Pagans — even the rigid Seneca has bestOM-ed such commenda- tions on Epicurus, that if only those passages of his works were preserved to us, we could not hesitate, I think, in pronouncing him a confirmed Epicurean. With similar inconsistency, we find Porphyry, in his work upon abstinence, referring to Epicurus as an ex- ample of the most strict Pythagorean temperance ; and Lancelotti (the author of “ Farfalloni degli antici ’Twas clear that my rapt bouI had roam’d the while, To that bright realm of dreams, that spirit-world, Which mortals know by its long track of light O’er midnight’s sky, and call the Galaxy . 1 TO MRS To see tlicc every day that came, And find thee still each day the same ; In pleasure’s smile, or sorrow’s tear To me still ever kind and dear ; — To meet thee early, leave thee late, lias 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 chas’d, Is now a lone and loveless waste. Where are the chords she us’d to touch ? The airs, the songs she loy’d so much ? Those songs are hush’d, those chords are still, And so, perhaps, will every thrill Of feeling soon be lull’d to rest, Which late I wak’d in Anna’s breast. Istorici ”) has been seduced by this grave reputation of Epicurus into the absurd error of associating him with Chrysippus, as a chief of the Stoic school. There is no doubt, indeed, that however the Epicurean sect might have relaxed from its original purity, the morals of its founder were as correct as those of any among the ancient philosophers ; and his doctrines upon pleasure, as explained in the letter to Menceceus, are rational, amiable, and consistent with our nature. A late writer, De Sablons, in his Grands Hommes venges, expresses strong indignation against the Encyclopedistes for their just and animated praises of Epicurus, and discussing the question, “ si ce pliilosophe ctoit vertueux,” denies it upon no other authority than the calumnies col- lected by Plutarch, who himself confesses that, on this particular subject, be consulted only opinion and re- port, Mithout pausing to investigate their truth. — A XXa tt)v 8ot-av, ov ttjv a\r)9eiav a k.ottov yev. To the factious zeal of his illiberal rivals, the Stoics, Epicurus chiefly owed these gross misrepresentations of the life and opinions of himself and his associates, which, not- M ithstanding the learned exertions of Gassendi, have still left an odium on the name of his philosophy ; and M e ought to examine the ancient accounts of this phi- losopher with about the same degree of cautious belief, which, in reading ecclesiastical history, we yield to the invectives of the fathers against the heretics, — trusting as little to Plutarch upon a dogma of Epicurus, as M e M ould to the vehement St. Cyril upon a tenet of Ncsto- rius. (1801.) The preceding remarks, I u-ish the reader to observe, were M-ritten at a time, when I thought the studies to M-hicli they refer much more important as M-ell as more amusing than, 1 freely confess, they appear to me at present. 1 Lactantius asserts that all the truths of Christianity may be found dispersed through the ancient philoso- phical sects, and that any one M ho M ould collect these scattered fragments of orthodoxy might form a code in no respect differing from that of the Christian. ** Si extitisset aliquis, qui veritatem sparsam per singulos per sect^sque diffusam colligeret in unum, ac rcdigerct in corpus, is profecto non dissentiret a nobis.” — Inst. lib. vi. c. 7. 2 To fj.ovov icai cprj/MOV. 3 This bold Platonic image I have taken from a passage in Father Bouchet’s letter upon the Metempsy- chosis, inserted in Picart’s Cerem. Relig. tom. iv. 4 According to Pythagoras, the people of Drcamj are souls collected together in the Galaxy — Ar)p.o<; 8e oveipuv, Kara Uvdayopav, al ilrvxat a? ayvayeadai Qrjaw ct; tov yaKa^av.—Forphyr. ac Antro Nymph . JUVENILE POEMS. 83 Yet, no — the simple notes I play’d From memory’s tablet soon may fade ; The songs, which Anna lov’d to hear, May vanish from her heart and ear ; But friendship’s voice shall ever find An echo in that gentle mind, Nor memory lose nor time impair The sympathies that tremble there. ♦ TO LADY HEATHCOTE, on an OLD KING FOUND AT TUNBRIDGE-WELLS. “ Tunncbridge est a la meme distance de Londres, que Fontainebleau l’est de Paris. Ce qu’il y a de beau ct de galant dans' l’un et dans l’autre sexe s’y rassemble au terns des eaux. La compagnie,” &c. &c. See Memoir es de Grammont, Second Part, chap. iii. Tunbridge "Wells. 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, And Grammont just like Spencer talk’d, And lovely Stewart smil’d like you. 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. Then call’d they up 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 but to set the name and print That give a currency to beauty. “ Why is a rose in nettles hid “ Like a young widow, fresh and fair ? ” Because ’tis sighing to be rid Of weeds , that “ have no business there 1 ” And thus they miss’d and thus they hit, And now they struck and now they parried ; 1 Mamurra, a dogmatic philosopher, who never doubted about anything, except who was his father. — “ Nulla de re unquam prieterquam de patre dubita- vit.” — In Vit. lie was very learned — “La-dedans, ( that is, in his head when it was opened,) le Punique heurtc lc Pcrsan, l’Hebreu clioque l’Arabique, pour ne point parler de la mauvaise intelligence du Latin avec lc Grec,” &c. — Sec L'llistoire de Montmciur, tom. ii. 1 >. 91 . 2 Bombastus was one of the names of that great scholar and quack Paracelsus.— “Philippus Bombastus And some laid in of full grown wit, While others of a pun miscarried. ’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 I and your springs ironical , I swear by Heathcote’s eye of blue To dedicate the 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 Rogers. Let no pedantic fools be there ; For ever be those fops abolish’d, With heads as wooden as thy ware, And, Heaven knows 1 not half so polish’d. But still receive the young, the gay, The few who know the rare delight Of reading Grammont every day, And acting Grammont every night. THE DEVIL AMONG THE SCHOLARS, A FRAGMENT. Ti Kan ov 6 yeXcoc ; CilRYSOST. HotkH inEpist. ad Ilcbncog. * * * But, whither have these gentle ones, These rosy nymphs and black-eyed nuns, With all of Cupid’s wild romancing, Led my truant brains a dancing ? Instead of studying tomes scholaetie, Ecclesiastic, or monastic, Off I fly, careering far In chase of Pollys, prettier far Than any of their namesakes are, — The Polymaths and Polyhistors, Polyglots and all their sisters. So have I known a hopeful youth Sit down in quest of lore and truth, With tomes sufficient to confound him, Like Toliu Bohu, heap’d around him, — Mamurra 1 stuck to Theophrastus, And Galen tumbling o’er Bombastus. 2 When lo I while all that’s learn’d and wise Absorbs the boy, he lifts his eyes, latct sub splentlklo tegmine Aurcoli Theophrasti Para- celsi,” says Stadclius de circumforanoA Literatorura vanitatc — He used to fight the devil every night with a broadsword, to the no small terror of his pupil Opori- nus, who has recorded the circumstance. (Vide Oporin. Vit. apud Christian. Gryph. Vit. Select, quorundam Eruditissimorum, &c.) Paracelsus had but a poor opinion of Galen: — “My very beard (says lie in lus Paragraenum) has more learning in it than eithor Galen or Avicenna.” 84 MOORE’S WORKS. And through the window of his study Beholds some damsel fair and ruddy, With eyes, as brightly turn’d upon him as The angel’s 1 were on Hieronymus. Quick fly the folios, widely scatter’d, Old Homer’s laurel’d brow is batter’d, And Sappho, headlong sent, flics just in The reverend eye of St. Augustin. Raptur’d he quits each dozing sage, Oh woman, for thy lovelier page : Sweet book ! — unlike the books of art,— Whose errors are thy fairest part ; In whom the dear errata column Is the best page in all the volume 1 2 But to begin my subject rhyme — ’Twas just about this devilish time, When scarce there happen’d any frolics That were not done by Diabolics, A cold and loveless son of Lucifer, Who woman scorn’d, nor saw the use of her, A branch of Dagon’s family, (Which Dagon, whether He or She, Is a dispute that vastly better is Referr’d to Scaliger 3 et coster is,) Finding that, in this cage of fools, The wisest sots adorn the schools, Took it at once his head Satanic in, To grow a great scholastic manikin, — A doctor, quite as learn’d and fine as Scotus John or Tom Aquinas, 4 Lully, Hales Irrefragabilis, Or any doctor of the rabble is. 1 The angel, who scolded St. Jerome for reading Cicero, as Gratian tells the story in his “ Concordantia discordantium Canonum,” and says, that for this rea- son bishops were not allowed to read the Classics : “ Episcopus Gcntilium libros non legat.” — Distinct. 57. But Gratian is notorious for lying — besides, angels, as the illustrious pupil of Pantenus assures us, have got no tongues. Oi»x’ d? ijp.iv ra a>ra, ovrivt e/cei- vo If J] yXcoTTa' ovS' av opyava m Scot] fcovrji; ayyeXoi 5. — Clem. Alexand. Stromcit. 2 The idea of the Rabbins, respecting the origin of woman, is not a little singular. They think that man was originally formed with a tail, like a monkey, but that the Deity cut off this appendage, and made woman of it. Upon this extraordinary supposition the follow* ing reflection is founded : — If such is the tic between women and men, The ninny who weds is a pitiful elf, For he takes to his tail like an idiot again, And thus makes a deplorable ape of himself. Yet, if we may judge as the fashions prevail, Every husband remembers th’ original plan, And, knowing his wife is no more than his tail, Why he— leaves her behind him as much as he can. 3 Scaliger. de Emcndat. Tempor. _ Dagon was thought by others to be a certain sea-monster, who came every day out of the Red Sea to teach the Syrians hus- bandry — See Jacques Gaffarel (Curiosites Inouies, chap, i.), who says he thinks this story of the sea- monster “carries little show of probability with it.” 4 I wish it were known with any degree of certainty whether the Commentary on Boethius attributed to Thomas Aquinas be really the work of this Angelic Doctor. There are some bold assertions hazarded in it : for instance, he says that Plato kept school in a town called Academia, and that Alcibiades was a very beau- tiful woman whom some of Aristotle’s pupils fell in love with: — “Alcibiades mulier fuit pulcherrima, quam videntes quidam discipuli Aristotelis,” &c See Freytag Adparat. Lilterar. art. 86. tom. i. 5 The following compliment was paid to Laurentius Valla, upon his accurate knowledge of the Latin lan- guage : — Nunc postquam manes defunctns Valla petivit, Non audet Pluto verba Latina loqui. In languages, 5 the Polyglots, Compar’d to him, were Babel sots ; lie chatter’d more than ever Jew did, Sanhedrim and Priest included ; — Priest and holy Sanhedrim Were one-and-seventy fools to him. But chief the learned demon felt a Zeal so strong for gamma, delta, That, all for Greek and learning’s glory,* He nightly tippled “ Graeco more,” And never paid a bill or balanec Except upon the Grecian Kalends : — From whence your scholars, when they want tick, Say, to be A /tie’s to be on tick, In logics he was quite Ho Pnnu : 7 Knew as much as ever man knew. He fought the combat syllogistic With so much skill and heart eristic, That though you were the learn’d Stagirite, At once upon the hip he had you right. In music, though he had no ears Except for that amongst the spheres, (Which most of all, as he averr’d it, lie dearly loved, ’cause no one heard it,) Yet aptly he, at sight, could read Each tuneful diagram in Bede, And find, by Euclid’s corollaria, The ratios of a jig or aria. But, as for all your warbling Delias, Orpheuses and Saint Cecilias, ne own’d he thought them much surpass’d By that redoubted Ilyaloclast 8 Since Val arriv’d in Pluto’s shade, His nouns and pronouns all so pat in, Pluto himself would be afraid To say his soul’s his own, in Latin ! See for these lines the “ Auctorem Censio ” of Du Verdier (page 29.). 6 It is much to be regretted that Martin Luther, with all his talents for reforming, should yet be vulgar enough to laugh at Camerarius for writing to him in Greek. “ Master Joachim (says he) has sent me some dates and some raisins, and has also written me two letters in Greek. As soon as I am recovered, I shall answer them in Turkish, that he too may have the pleasure of reading what he does not understand.” “ Graeca sunt, legi non possunt,” is the ignorant speech attributed to Accursius ; but very unjustly : — for, far from asserting that Greek could not be read, that worthy jurisconsult upon the Law 6. D. de Bonor. Possess, expressly says, Grsecce liter* possunt intclligi et legi.” (Vide Nov. Libror. Rarior. Collection. Fascic. IV.) — Scipio Carteromachus seems to have been of opinion that there is no salvation out of the pale of Greek Lite - rature : “ Via prima salutis Graia pandetur ab urbe : ” and the zeal of Laurentius lthodomannus cannot be sufficiently admired, when he exhorts his countrymen, “ per gloriam Christi, per salutem patriae, per reipub- lic* decus et emolumentum,” to study the Greek lan- guage. Nor must we forget Phavorinus, the excellent Bishop of Nocera, who, careless of all the usual com- mendations of a Christian, required no further eulo- gium on his tomb than “ Here lieth a Greek Lexico- grapher.” 7 'O 7 raw The introduction of this language into English poetry has a good effect, and ought to be more universally adopted. A word or two of Greek in a stanza would serve as ballast to the most “ light o’ love” verses. Ausonius, among the ancients, may serve as a model : — Ov yap poi 6epi<; eartv in hac regione pevovri A£cov ah nostris emSevea esse k apyvau;. Ronsard, the French poet, has enriched his sonnets and odes with many an exquisite morsel from the Lexicon. His “ chere Entelechie,” in addressing his mistress, can only be equalled by Cowley’s “ Antiperistasis.” 8 Or Glass-Breaker — Morhofius has given an ac- count of this extraordinary man, in a work, published 1682, “ De vitreo scypho fracto,” &c. POEMS RELATING TO AMERICA. 85 Who still contiiv’d by dint of throttle, Where’er he went to crack a bottle. Likewise to show his mighty knowledge, he, On things unknown in physiology, Wrote many a chapter to divert us, (Like that great little man Albertus,) Wherein he show’d the reason why, When children first are heard to crj-, If boy the baby chance to be, lie cries O A I — if girl, O E ! — Which are, quoth he, exceeding fair hints Respecting their first sinful parents ; “ Oh Eve I ” exclaimeth little madam, While little master cries “ Oh Adam ! ” 1 But ’twas in Optics and Dioptrics, Our diemon play’d his first and top tricks, lie held that sunshine passes quicker Through wine than any other liquor ; And though he saw no great objection To steady light and clear reflection, He thought the aberrating rays, Which play about a bumper’s blaze, Were by the doctors look’d, in common, on, As a more rare and rich phenomenon. He wisely said that the sensorium Is for the eyes a great emporium, To which these noted picture-stealers Send all they can and meet with dealers. In many an optical proceeding The brain, he said, show’d great good-breeding. For instance, when we ogle women (A trick which Barbara tutor’d him in), Although the dears are apt to get in a Strange position on the retina, Yet instantly the modest brain Doth set them on their legs again 1 2 Our doctor thus, with “ stuff’d sufficiency ” Of all omnigenous omnisciency, Began (as who would not begin That had, like him, so much within ?) To let it out in books of all sorts. Folios, quartos, large and small sorts : Poems, so very deep and sensible That they were quite incomprehensible 2 3 ; Prose, which had been at learning’s Fair, And bought up all the trumpery there, The tatter’d rags of every vest, In which the Greeks and Romans drest, And o’er her figure swoll’n and antic Scatter’d them all with airs so frantic, That those, who saw what fits she had, Declar’d unhappy Prose was mad I Epics he wrote and scores of rebusses, All as neat as old Turnebus’s ; Eggs and altars, cyclopaedias. Grammars, prayer-books — oh 1 ’twere tedious, Did I but tell the half, to follow me : Not the scribbling bard of Ptolemy, No — nor the hoary Trismegistus, (Whose writings all, thank heaven I have miss’d us,) E’er fill’d with lumber such a wareroom As this great “ porcus literarum I ” * * * * POEMS RELATING TO AMERICA, TO FRANCIS, EARL OF MOIRA, GENERAL IN’ IIIS MAJESTY’S FORCES, MASTER- GENERAL OF TIIE ORDNANCE, CONSTABLE OF THE TOAVER, ETC. My Lord, It is impossible to think of addressing a Dedication to your Lordship without calling to mind the well-known reply of the Spartan to a rhetorician, who proposed to pronounce an eu- logium on Hercules. “ On Hercules I ” said the honest Spartan, “who ever thought of blaming 1 Translated almost literally from a passage in Al- bertus de Secrctis, &c. 2 Alluding to that habitual act of the judgment, by which, notwithstanding the inversion of the image upon the retina, a correct impression of the object is conveyed to the sensorium. 3 Under this description, I believe “the Devil among the Scholars ” may be included. Yet Leibnitz found out the uses of incomprehensibility, when he was ap- pointed secretary to a society of philosophers at Nurem- berg, chiefly for his ingenuity in writing a cabalistical Hercules ? ” In a similar manner the concur- rence of public opinion has left to the panegyrist of your Lordship a very superfluous task. I shall, therefore, be silent on the subject, and merely entreat your indulgence to the very humble tri- bute of gratitude which I have here the honour to present. I am, My Lord, With every feeling of attachment and respect, Your Lordship’s very devoted Servant, THOMAS MOORE. 27. Bury Street, St. James's, April 10, 1806. letter, not one word of which either they or himself could interpret. See tho Eloge Historiquo do M. de Leibnitz, l’Europe Savante. People in all ages have loved to be puzzled. We find Cicero thanking Atticus for having sent him a work of Serapion “ ex quo (says he) quidem ego (quod inter nos liceat dicerc) millcsi- mam partem vix intelligo.” Lib. ii. epist. 4. And we know that Avicenna, the learned Arabian, read Aristotle’s Metaphysics forty times over for the mere pleasure of being able to inform tho world that lie could not comprehend one syllabic throughout them. (Nicolas Massa iu Vit. Ayiccn.) 86 MOORE’S WORKS. PREFACE.' Tun principal poems in the following collection were written during an absence of fourteen months from Europe. Though curiosity was certainly not the motive of my voyage to America, yet it happened that the gratification of curiosity was the only advantage which I derived from it. Finding myself in the country of a new people, whose infancy had promised 60 much, and whose progress to maturity has been an object of such interesting speculation, I determined to employ the short period of time, which my plan of return to Europe afforded me, in travelling through a few of the States, and acquiring some knowledge of the inhabitants. The impression which my mind received from the character and manners of these republicans, suggested the Epistles which are written from the city of Washington and Lake Erie. 1 2 IIow far I was right, in thus assuming the tone of a satirist against a people whom I viewed but ao a stranger and a visitor, is a doubt which my feelings did not allow me time to investigate. All I presume to answer for is the fidelity of the picture which I have given ; and though prudence might have dictated gentler language, truth, I think, would have justified severer. I went to America with prepossessions by no means unfavourable, and indeed rather indulged in many of those illusive ideas, with respect to the purity of the government and the primitive happiness of the people, which I had early im- bibed in my native country, where, unfortunately, jliscontent at home enhances every distant tempt- ation, and the western world has long been looked to as a retreat from real or imaginary oppression ; as, in short, the elysian Atlantis, where persecuted patriots might find their visions realised, and be welcomed by kindred spirits to liberty and repose. In all these flattering expect- ations I found myself completely disappointed, and felt inclined to say to America, as Horace says to his mistress, “intentata nites.” Brissot, in the preface to his travels, observes, that “ free- dom in that country is carried to so high a degree as to border upon a state of nature and there certainly is a close approximation to savage life, not only in the liberty which they enjoy, but in the violence of party spirit and of private ani- mosity which results from it. This illiberal zeal imbitters all social intercourse ; and, though I scarcely could hesitate in selecting the party, whose views appeared to me the more pure and rational, yet I was sorry to observe that, in. as- serting their opinions, they both assume an equal share of intolerance ; the Democrats, consistently with their principles, exhibiting a vulgarity of rancour, which the Federalists too often are so forgetful of their cause as to imitate. The rude familiarity of the lower orders, and indeed the unpolished state of society in general, would neither surprise nor disgust if they seemed to flow from that simplicity of character, that 1 Thig Preface, as well as the Dedication which pre- cedes it, were prefixed originally to the miscellaneous volume entitled “ Odes and Epistles,” of which, hitherto, the poems relating to my American tour have formed a part. honest ignorance of the gloss of refinement which may be looked for in a new and inexperienced people. But, when we find them arrived at ma- turity in most of the vices, and all the pride of civilization, while they are still so far removed from its higher and better characteristics, it is im- possible not to feel that this youthful decay, this crude anticipation of the natural period of corrup- tion, must repress every sanguine hope of the fu- ture energy and greatness of America. I am conscious that, in venturing these few re- marks, I have said just enough to offend, and by no means sufficient to convince ; for the limits of a preface prevent me from entering into a justifi- cation of my opinions, and I am committed on the subject as effectually as if I had written volumes in their defence. My reader, however, is apprised of the very cursory observation upon which these opinions are founded, and can easily decide for himself upon the degree of attention or confidence which they merit. With respect to the poems in general, which occupy the following pages, I know not in what manner to apologise to the public for intruding upon their notice such a massof unconnected trifles, such a world of epicurean atoms as I have here brought in conflict together. 3 To say that I have been tempted by the liberal offers of my bookseller, is an excuse which can hope for but little indul- gence from the critic; yet I own that, without this seasonable inducement, these poems very possibly would never have been submitted to the world. The glare of publication is too strong for such im- perfect productions : they should be shown but to the eye of friendship, in that dim light of privacy which is as favourable to poetical as to female beauty, and serves as a veil for faults, while it en- hances every charm which it displays. Besides, this is not a period for the idle occupations of poetry, and times like the present require talents more active and more useful. Few have now the leisure to read such trifles, and I most sin- cerely regret that I have had the leisure to write them. POEMS RELATING TO AMERICA. TO LORD VISCOUNT STRANGFORD. ABOARD ME niAETOX FRIGATE, OFF THE AZORES, BY MOONLIGHT. Sweet Moon 1 if, like Crotona’s sage, 4 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 6ky, 2 Epistles VI. VII. and VIII. 3 See the note (1) on preceding column. 4 Pythagoras ; who was supposed to have a power of writing upon the Moon by the means of a magic miiror. — See Bayle, art. Pythag. POEMS RELATING TO AMERICA. 87 Should smile, upon thy orb to meet The recollection, kind and sweet, The reveries of fond regret, The promise, never to forget, And all my heart and soul would send To many a dear-lov’d, distant friend. How little, when we parted last, I thought those pleasant 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 gather bliss from 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. Little I 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 youth’s sweet days, To cool that season’s glowing rays, The heart awhile, with wanton wing, May dip and dive in Pleasure’s spring ; But, if it wait for winter’s breeze, The spring will chill, 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 heart could bound along, Or pant to be a wand’rer more ! 1 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 1 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 I The sea is like a silvery lake, And, o’er its calm the vessel glides Gently, as if it fear’d to wake The slumber of the silent tides. The only envious cloud that lowers, Hath hung its shade on Pico’s height, 2 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 I Now, could I range those verdant isles, Invisible at this soft hour, And see the looks, the beaming smiles, That brighten many an orange bower ; 1 Alluding to these animated lines in the 44th Car- men of Catullus : — Jam mers pra>trepidans avet vagari, Jam loeti studio pedes vigescunt ! 2 A very high mountain on one of the Azores from And could I lift each pious veil, And see the blushing cheek it shades,— Oh I I should have full many a tale, To tell of young Azorian maids.3 Yes, Strangford, at this hour, perhaps, Some lover (not too highly blest, Like those, 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 Bapture stole And gave, all glowing warm, to thine.' 1 Oh ! could the lover learn from thee And breathe them with thy graceful tone, Such sweet, beguiling minstrelsy Would make the coldest nymph his own. But, hark I — 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. Qv/io 5 Se 7 ror e/ioq .... ..... fie trpoa^covei t aSe‘ rtvas cnee Tavdpcoireia firj crefieiv ayav. .dEsCHYLL. Fragment. 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 ; And the spirit becalm’d but remember’d their power, As the billow the force of the gale that was fled. I thought of those days, w r hen 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 reflected, how soon in the cup of Desire The pearl of the soul may be melted away ; How quickly, alas, the pure sparkle of fire We inherit from heav’n, may be quench’d in the clay ; And I pray’d of that Spirit who lighted the flame, That Pleasure no more might its purity dim ; So that, sullied but little, or brightly the same, I might give back the boon I had borrow’d from him. which the island derives its name. It is said by some to be as high as the Peak of Teneriffe. 3 I believe it is Guthrie who says, that the inha- bitants of the Azores are much addicted to gallantly. This is an assertion in which even Guthrie may be credited. 4 These islands belong to the Portuguese. 88 MOORE’S WORKS. How blest was the thought I it appear’d as if Heaven Had already an opening to Paradise shown ; As if, passion all chasten’d and error forgiven, My heart then began to be purely its own. I look’d to the west, and the beautiful sk 3 r , Which morning had clouded, was clouded no more : “ Oh 1 thus,” I exclaimed, “ may a heavenly eye “Shed light on the soul that was darken’d before.” TO TIIE FLYING FISII. i Wue.v I have seen thy snow-white wing From the blue wave at evening spring, And show those scales of silvery white, So gaily to the eye of light, As if thy frame were form’d to rise, And live amid the glorious skies ; Oh 1 it has made me proudly feel, How like thy wing’s impatient zeal Is the pure soul, that rests not, pent Within this world's gross element, But takes the wing that God has given, And rises into light and heaven I 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 egain ; Alas ! the flattering pride is o’er ; Like thee, awhile, the soul may soar, 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. I’P.OM NORFOLK, IN VIRGINIA, NOVEMBER, IS03. 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 ; • It is the opinion of St. Austin upon Genesis, and I believe of nearly all the Fathers, that birds, like fish, were originally produced from the waters ; in defence of which idea they have collected every fanciful circum- stance which can tend to prove a kindred similitude be- Whcn, 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, Imply if a week, a day, I linger’d from that home away, llow long the little absence seem’d ! How bright the look of welcome beam’d. As mute you heard, with eager smile, My tales of all that pass’d the while 1 Yet now, my Kate, a gloomy sea Rolls wide between that home and me ; The moon may thrice be born and die, Ere ev’n that seal can reach mine eye, Which used so oft, so quick to come, Still breathing all the breath of home,— As if, still fresh, the cordial air From lips belov’d were lingering there. But now, alas, — far different fate ! It comes o’er ocean, slow and late, When the dear hand that fill’d its fold With words of sweetness may lie cold. 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 dyes. At length I touch the happy sphere To liberty and virtue dear, Where man looks up, and, proud to claim Ilis rank within the social frame, Sees a grand system round him roll, Ilimself 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 hurl’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 freedom won For hearth and shrine, for sire and son, Smiles on the dusky webs that hide Ilis sleeping sword’s remember’d pride. While Peace, with sunny cheeks of toil, Walkfc o’er tlie free, unlorded soil, Effacing with her splendid share The drops that war had sprinkled there. Thrice happy land I 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 ; tween them ; avyyeveia.v Toif iTero/ievou; npn<; tcl vtjkt.i. With this thought in our minds, when we first see the Flying Fish, we could almost fancy, that we are present at the moment of creation, and witness the birth of the first bird from the waves. POEMS RELATING TO AMERICA. 89 And lie, 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 Fancy long, with florid touch, Had painted to my sanguine eye Of man’s new world of liberty. Oh ! ask me not, if Truth have yet Her seal on Fancy’s promise set ; If ev’n a glimpse my eyes behold Of that imagin’d age of gold ; — Alas, not yet one gleaming trace ! 1 Never did youth, who lov’d a face As sketch’d by some fond pencil’s skill, And made by fancy lovelier still, Shrink back with more of sad surprise, When the live model met his eyes, Than I have felt, in sorrow felt, To find a dream on which I’ve dwelt From boyhood’s hour, thus fade and flee At touch of stern reality 1 But, courage, yet, my wavering heart ! Blame not the temple’s meanes« part, 2 Till thou hast 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 spot may stain The vestibule, ’tis wrong, ’tis sin To doubt the godhead reigns within 1 So here I pause — and now, my Kate, To you, and those dear friends, whose fate Touches more near this home-sick 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 strain I send you here, 3 Wild though it be, would charm your ear, Did you but know the trance of thought In which my mind its numbers caught. ’Twas one of those half-waking dreams, That haunt me oft, when music seems To bear my soul in sound along, And turn its feelings all to song. I thought of home, the according lays Came full of dreams of other days ; Freshly in each succeeding note I found some young remembrance float, f Till following, as a clue, that strain, I wander’d back to home again. Oh I love the song, and let it oft Live on your lip, in accents soft. Say that it tells you, simply well, All I have bid its wild notes tell, — Of Memory’s dream, of thoughts that yet Glow with the light of joy that’s set, 1 Such romantic works as “ The American Farmer’s Letters,” and the account of Kentucky by Irhlay, would seduce us into a belief, that innocence, peace, and free- dom had deserted the rest of the world for Martha’s Vineyard and the banks of the Ohio. The French travellers, too, almost all from revolutionary motives, have contributed their share to the diffusion of this flattering misconception. A visit to the country is, however, quite sufficient to correct even the most enthu- siastic prepossession. 2 Norfolk, it must be owned, presents an unfavour- able specimen of America. The characteristics of Vir- ginia in general are not such as can delight either the And all the fond heart keeps in store Of friends and scenes beheld no more. And now, adieu l — this artless air, With 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, 4 You shall have many a cowslip-bell, Where Ariel slept, and many a shell, In which that 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 disap- pearing 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 been lost in some of its dreadful morasses.” — Anon. “La Poesie a sc? monstres comme la nature.” — D’Alembert. They made her a grave, too cold and damp “ For a soul so w r arm and true ; “ And she’s gone to the Lake of the Dismm Swamp, 5 “ 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 — Ilis path was rugged and sore, 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, lie lay, where the deadly vine doth weep Its venomous tear and nightly steep The flesh with blistering dew 1 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, “ On » when shall I see the dusky Lake, “ And the white canoe of my dear ? ” politician or the moralist, and at Norfolk tlioy arc ex- hibited in their least attractive form. At the time when we arrived the yellow fever had not yet disap- peared, and every odour that assailed us in the streets very strongly accounted for its visitation. 3 A trifling attempt at musical composition accom- panied this Epistle. 4 Bermuda. 5 The Great Dismal Swamp is ten or twelve miles distant from Norfolk, and the Lake in the middle of it (about seven miles long) is called Drummond’? Pond. 90 MOORE’S WORKS. lie saw the Lnkc, 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, far he follow’d the meteor spark, The wind was high and the clouds were dark, 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 damp To cross the Lake by a fire-fly lamp, And paddle their white canoe ? TO THE MARCHIONESS DOWAGER OF DONEGALL. FROM BERMUDA, JANUARY, 1804. Ladt ! where’er you roam, whatever land Woos the bright touches of that artist hand ; Whether you sketch the valley’s golden meads, Where mazy Linth his lingering current leads ; 1 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 that holy shrine, 2 Where, many a night, the shade of Tell complains Of Gallia’s triumph and Helvetia’s chains ; Oh ! lay the pencil for a moment by, Turn from the canvass 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 art divine ; Still, radiant eye, upon the canvass dwell ; Still, magic finger, weave your potent spell ; And, while I sing the animated smiles Of fairy nature in these sun-bom 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 ; While wondering Genius, as he lean’d to trace The faint conception kindling into grace, Might love my numbers for the spark they threw, And bless the lay that lent a charm to you. 1 Lady Donegal!, I had reason to suppose, was at this time still in Switzerland, where the well-known powers of her pencil must have been frequently awakened. 2 The chapel of William Tell on the Lake of Lu- cerne. 3 M. Gebelin says, in his Monde Primitif, “ Lorsque Strabon crut que les anciens theologians et poetes pla- coient les champs filysecs dans les isles de l’Ocean At- lantique, il n’entendit rien 4 leur doctrine.” M. Ge- belin’s supposition, I have no doubt, is the more correct ; but that of Strabo is, in the present instance, most to my purpose. 4 Nothing can be more romantic than the little har- bour of St. George’s. The number of beautiful islets, the singular clearness of the water, and the animated play o f the graoeful little boats, gliding for ever between Say, have you ne’er, in nightly vision, stray’d To those pure isles of ever-blooming shade, Which bards of old, with kindly fancy, plac’d For happy spirits in th’ Atlantic waste ? 3 There listening, while, from earth, each breeze that came Brought echoes of their own undying fame, In eloquence of eye, and dreams of song, They charm’d their lapse of nightless hours along : — Nor yet in song, that mortal ear might suit, For every spirit was itself a lute, Where Virtue waken’d, with elysian breeze, Pure tones of thought 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 soothing or sublime, Of bowers ethereal, and the Spirit’s clime. Bright rose the morning, 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 whisp’ring wind. Through plantain shades, that round, like awn • ings, 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 whisp’ring play, Through liquid herbage seem’d to steal its way. Never did weary bark more gladly glide, Or rest its anchor in a lovelier tide ! Along the margin, many a shining dome, White as the palace of a Lapland gnome. Brighten’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, Lending the scene an ever-changing grace, Fancy would love, in glimpses vague, to trace The flowery capital, the shaft, the porch, 5 And dream of temples, till her kindling torch Lighted me back to all the glorious days Of Attic genius ; and I seem’d to gaze On marble, from the rich Pentelic mount, Gracing the umbrage of some Naiad’s fount. Then thought I, too, of thee most sweet of all The spirit race that come at poet’s call, the islands, and seeming to sail from one cedar grove into another, formed altogether as lovely a miniature of nature’s beauties as can well be imagined. 5 This is an allusion which, to the few who are fanci- ful enough to indulge in it, renders the scenery of Ber- muda particularly interesting. In the short but beau- tiful twilight of their spring evenings, the white cottages, scattered over the islands, and but partially seen through the trees that surround them, assume often the appear- ance of little Grecian temples ; and a vivid fancy may embellish the poor fisherman’s hut with columns such as the pencil of a Claude might imitate. I had one favourite object of this kind in my walks, which the hospitality of its owner robbed me of, by asking me to visit him. He was a plain good man, arid received me well and warmly, but I could never turn his house into a Grecian temple again. POEMS RELATING TO AMERICA. 91 Delicate Ariel l 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, 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) Descend a moment 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 cull their choicest tints, their softest light, Weave all these spells into one dream of night, And, while the lovely artist slumbering lies, Shed the warm picture o’er her mental eyes ; Take for the task her own creative spells, And brightly show what song but faintly tells. + TO GEORGE MORGAN, ESQ. OF NORFOLK, VIRGINIA. 1 FROM BERMUDA, JANUARY, 1804. KetvTj S' rjvepoeaaa km. arporro?, ota 0’ aXnrXr)£, A /cat paXXov emSpopoi; rjetrep Imrotg, Uovru> evearr/piKTai. Callimach. Hymn in Del. v. 11. On, what a sea of storm we’ve pass’d ! — High mountain waves and foamy showers, And battling winds whose- savage blast But ill agrees with one whose hours Have pass’d in old Anacreon’s bowers. Yet think not poesy’s bright 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’d, Even then, in that unlovely hour, The Muse still brought her soothing power, And, midst the war of waves and wind, In song’s Elysium lapp’d my mind. Nay, when no numbers of my own Responded to her wakening tone, 1 This gentleman is attached to the British consulate at Norfolk. His talents are worthy of a much higher sphere; but the excellent dispositions of the family with whom lie resides, and the cordial repose he enjoys amongst some of the kindest hearts in the world, should be almost enough to atone to him for the worst caprices of fortune. The consul himself. Colonel Hamilton, is one among the very few instances of a man, ardently loyal to his king, and yet beloved by the Americans. His house is the very temple of hospitality, and I sincerely pity the heart of that stranger who, warm from the welcome of such a board, could sit down to write a libel on his host, in the true spirit of a modern philosophist. See the Travels of the Duke de la Roclie- feucault Liancourt, vol. iL ‘2 We were seven days on our passage from Norfolk to Bermuda, during three of which we were forced to lay-to in a gale of wind. The Driver sloop of war, in which I went, was built at Bermuda of cedar, and is accounted an excellent sea-boat. She was then com- manded by my very much regretted friend Captain Compton, who in July last was killed aboard the Lilly in an action with a French privateer. Poor Compton ! She open’d, with her golden key, The casket where my memory lays Those gems of classic poesy, Which time has sav’d from ancient days. Take one of these, to Lais sung,— I wrote it while my hammock swung, As one might write a dissertation Upon “Suspended Animation 1 ” Sweet 1 * 3 is your kiss, my Lais dear, But, with that kiss I feel a tear Gush from your eyelids, such as start When those who’ve dearly lov’d must part, Sadly you lean your head to mine, And mute those arms around me twine, Your hair adown my bosom spread, All glittering with the tears you shed. In vain I’ve kiss’d those lids of snow, For still, like ceaseless founts they flow, Bathing our cheeks, whene’er they meet. Why is it thus ? do, tell me, sweet I Ah, Lais I are my bodings right ? Am I to lose you ! is to-night Our last go, false to heaven and ma ! Your very tears are treachery. Sucii, while in air I floating hung, Such was the strain, Morgan te mio ! The muse and I together sung, With Boreas to make out the trio. But, bless the little fairy isle ! How sweetly, after all our ills, We saw the sunny morning smile Serenely o’er its fragrant hills ; And felt the pure, delicious flow Of airs, that round this Eden blow Freshly as ev’n the gales that come O’er our own healthy hills at home. Could you but view the scenery fair, That now beneath my window lies, You’d think that nature lavish’d there 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 sunbeam proudly show The coral rocks they love to steep. 4 be fell a victim to the strange impolicy of allowing such a miserable thing as the Lilly to remain in the service ; so small, crank, and unmanageable, that a well-manned merchantman was at any time a match for her. 3 This epigram is by Paul the Silentiary, and may be found in the Analecta of Brunck, vol. iii. p. 72. As the reading there is somewhat different from what I have followed in this translation, I shall give it as I had it in my memory at the time, and as it is in Heinsius, who, I believe, 'first produced the epigram. See his Poemata. *H£t/ p.ev ear i iXrjpa to A atSoi;’ ijSv Se avreov H.TTto6ivr]Tcov Saxpv xeett; fiXeifrapc ov, K at ttoXv KixXifovaa ao/Setj ev/3oaTpv\ov aiyXrjv, 'H p.erepa KeaXrjv Srjpov tpet.a-ap.evr}. Mvpop.ew}v S’ etXr}aa * t a 6‘ c bf Spoaeprjt ano Trrjyrj^, AaKpva piyvvpevcov TTLirre Kara aroparcov' Ewre 6' aveipopevw, tivoj oi/veKa daKpva Xeifieis ; AeiSia p.r) p,e XtTrrjq’ eare yap dpKanarat. 4 The water is so clear around the island, that the rocks are seen beneath to a very great depth ; and, as we entered the harbour, they appeared to us so near the 92 MOORE’S WORKS. The fainting breeze of morning fails ; The drowsy boat moves slowly past, And I can almost touch its sails As loose they flap around the mast. The noontide sun a splendour pours That lights up all these, leafy shores ; While his own heav’n sits clouds and beams, So pictur’d in the waters lie, That each 6mall bark, in passing, seems To float along a burning sky. Oh for the pinnace lent to thee, 1 Blest dreamer, who, in vision bright, Didst sail o'er heaven’s solar sea And touch at all its isles of light. Sweet Venus, what a clime he found Within thy orb’s ambrosial round ! - — There spring the breezes, rich and warm, That sigh around thy vesper car ; And angels dwell, 60 pure of form That each appears a living star. 3 These are the sprites, celestial queen ! Thou sendest nightly to the bed Of her I love, with touch unseen Thy planet’s bright’ning tints to shed ; To lend that eye a light still clearer, To give that chetk one rose-blush more, And bid that blushing lip be dearer, Which had been all too dear before. But whither means the muse to roam ? ’Tis time to call the wand’rer home. Who could have thought the nymph would perch 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. At all your feasts, remember too, When cups are sparkling 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. That sky of clouds is not the sky To light a lover to the pillow Of her he loves — The swell of yonder foaming billow Resembles not the happy sigh That rapture moves. Yet do I feel more tranquil far Amid the gloomy wilds of ocean, In this dark hour, surface that it seemed impossible not to strike on them. Thci-c is no necessity, of course, for heaving the lead ; and the negro pilot, looking down at the rocks from the bow of the ship, takes her through this difficult naviga- tion, with a skill and confidence which seem to astonish some of the oldest sailors. 1 In Kircher’s “Ecstatic Journey to Heaven,” Cos- miel, the genius of the world, gives Theodidactus a boat of asbestos, with which he embarks into the regions of the sun. “ Vides (says Cosmiel) hanc asbestinam na- viculam commoditati tuae prseparatam.”— Itinerar. I. Dial. i. cap. 5. This work of Kircher abounds with strange fancies. Than when in passion’s young emotion I’ve stolen beneath the evening star, To Julia’s bower. Oh ! there’s a holy calm profound In awe like this, that ne’er was given To pleasure’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 slumb’ring witli 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 tliy 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 sorrow’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. ODES TO NEA: WRITTEN AT BERMUDA. NEA rvpavvet. — EURiriD. Medea, v. 9C7. Nay, tempt me not to love again, There was a time when love was sweet ; Dear Nea 1 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 fty, Where rosy cheek or radiant eye 2 When the Genius of the world and his fellow-tra- veller arrive at the planet Venus, they find an island of loveliness, full of odours and intelligences, where angels preside, who shed the cosmetic influence of this planet over the earth ; such being, according to astrologers, the “ vis influxiva ” of Venus. When they are in this part of the heavens, a casuistical question occurs to Theodidactus, and he asks, “ Whether baptism maybe performed with the waters of Venus?” — “An aquis globi Veneris baptismus institui possit ? ” to which the Genius answers, “ Certainly.” 3 This idea is Father Kircher’s. “ Tot animatos soles dixisses.”— Itinerar. I. DiaL i. cap. 5. POEMS RELATING TO AMERICA. 93 Should bring no more tlieir bliss, or pain, Nor fetter me to earth again. Dear absent girl I 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, — What hours and days have I seen glide, While fix’d, enchanted, by thy side, Unmindful of the fleeting day, I’ve let life’s dream dissolve away. O bloom of youth profusely shed I O moments I simply, vainly sped, Yet sweetly too — tor Love perfum’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, say, couldst thou, like her, When warm to feel and quick to err, Of loving fond, of roving fonder This thoughtless soul might wish to wander, — Couldst thou, like her, the wish reclaim, Endearing still, reproaching never, Till ev’n this heart should burn with shame, And be thy own more fix’d than ever ? No no — on earth there’s only one Could bind such faithless folly fast ; And sure on earth but one alone Could make such virtue false at last I Nea. the heart whieh 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 slialt 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. .... Tale iter omne cave. I'KOPEKT. lib. iv. cleg. 8. I pray you, let us roam no more Along that wild and lonely shore, Where late we thoughtless stray’d ; ’Twas not for us, whom heaven intends To be no more than simple friends, Such lonely walks were made. That little Bay, where turning in From ocean’s rude and angry din, As lovers steal to bliss, The billows kiss the shore, and then Flow back into the deep again, As though they did not kiss. Remember, o’er its circling flood In what a dangerous dream we stood — The silent sea before us, Around us, all the gloom of grove, That ever lent its shade to love, No eye but heaven’s o’er us I I saw you blush, you felt me tremble, In vain would formal art dissemble All we then look’d and thought ’Twas more than tongue could dare reveal, ’Twas ev’ry thing that young hearts feel, By Love and Nature taught. I stoop’d to cull, with faltering hand, A shell that, on the golden sand, Before us faintly gleam’d ; I trembling rais’d it, and when you Had kist the shell, I kist it too — IIow sweet, how wrong it seem’d ! Oli, trust me ’twas a place, an hour, The worst that e’er the tempter’s power Could tangle me or you in 1 Sweet Nea, let us roam no more Along that wild and lonely shore, Such walks may be our ruin. You read it in these spell-bound eyes, And there alone should love be read : You hear me say it all in sighs, And thus alone should love be said. Then dro^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. Heard you the wish I dar’d to name, To murmur on that luckless night, When passion broke the bonds of shame, And love grew madness in your sight 7 Divinely through the graceful dance, You seem’d to float in silent song, Bending to earth that sunny glance, As if to light your steps along. Oh I 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 Love and me ! With smiling eyes, that little thought How fatal were the beams they threw, My trembling hands you lightly caught, And round me, like a spirit, flew. Heedless of all, but you alone, — And you , at least, should not condemn, If, when such eyes before me shone, My soul forgot all eyes but them, — I dar’d to whisper passion’s vow, — For love had ev’n of thought bereft me, — Nay, half-way bent to kiss that brow, But, with a bound, you blushing left me. Forget, forget that night’s offence, Forgive it, if, alas 1 you can ; ’Twas love, ’twas passion — soul and sense — ’Twas all that’s best and worst in man. That moment, did th’ assembled eyes, Of heaven and earth my madness view, I should have seen, through earth and skiea, But you alone — but only you. MOORE’S WORKS. 94 Did not a frown from you reprove, Myriads of eyes to me were none ; Enough for me to win your love. And die upon the spot when won. ♦ A DREAM OF ANTIQUITY. I just had turn’d the classic page, And trac’d that happy period over, When blest alike were youth and age, And love inspir’d the wisest sage, And wisdom grac’d the tendercst lover. Before I laid me down to sleep, Awhile I from the lattice gaz’d Upon that still and moonlight deep, With isles like floating gardens rais’d For Ariel there his sports to keep ; While, gliding ’twixt their leafy shores, The lone night-fisher plied his oars. I felt, — so strongly fancy’s power Came o’er me in that witching hour, — As if the whole bright scenery there Were lighted by a Grecian sky, And I then breath’d the blissful air That late had thrill’d to Sappho’s sigh. Thus, waking, dreamt I, — and when Sleep Came o’er my sense, the dream went on ; Nor, through her curtain dim and deep, Hath ever lovelier vision shone. I thought that, all enrapt, I stray’d Through that serene, luxurious shade , 1 Where Epicurus taught the Loves To polish virtue’s native brightness, — As pearls, we’re told, that fondling doves Have play’d with, wear a smoother whiteness . 2 3 ’Twas one of those delicious 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 by thy side I fondly rov’d Through many a temple’s reverend gloom, And many a bower’s seductive bloom, Where Beauty leam’d what Wisdom taught, And sages sigh’d and lovers thought ; Where schoolmen conn’d no maxims stern, But all was form’d to soothe or move, To make the dullest love to learn, To make the coldest learn to love. 1 Gassendi thinks that the gardens, which Pausanias mentions, in his first book, were those of Epicurus ; and Stuart says, in his Antiquities of Athens, “ Near this convent (the convent of Hagios Asomatos) is the place called at present Kepoi, or the Gardens; and Ampelos Kepos, or the Vineyard Garden : these were probably the gardens which Pausanias visited.” Vol. i. chap. 2. 2 This method of polishing pearls, by leaving them awhile to be played with by doves, is mentioned by the fanciful Cardanus, de Rerum Varietat. lib. vii. cap. 54. 3 In Hercynio Germanise saltuinusitata genera aiitum accepimus, quarum plumae, ignium modo, colluceant uoctibus — Plin. lib. x. cap. 47. 4 The Milesiacs, or Milesian fables, had their origin in Miletus, a luxurious town of Ionia. Aristides was the most celebrated author of these licentious fictions. See riutarch (in Crasso), who calls them ae t; Kai ai xpvacu tt eSai Qacdot; nac Apccrrayopat; kcu AacSoi; app.aKa . — Philostrat. Epist xi. Lucian, too, tells us of the /Spaytoccrt Spaicovret;. See his Amores, where he describes the dressing-room of a Grecian lady, and we find the “ silver vase,” the rouge, the tooth-powder, and all the “mystic order” of a modern toilet 8 'Tapa.VTCvidt.ov, 6caaveq evSvpa, covop.aap.evov ano tt)<; T apavTCVoov xpV a ^ cor : Kal Tpvr}t;, — Pollux. 9 Alpiana, mentioned by Pliny, lib. xiv., and “ now called the Muscatell (a muscarum tells ),” says Panci- rollus, book i. sect. 1. chap. 17. POEMS RELATING TO AMERICA. Well — peace to thy heart, though another’s it be, And health to that 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 the light of those eyes, I may yet Their allurements forgive and their splendour forget. Farewell to Bermuda, 2 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 3 1ms stray’d. And thou — when, at dawn, thou shalt happen to roam Through the lime-covered 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 — Oli ! think of the past — give a sigh to those times, And a blessing for me to that alley of limes. 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 would not yield a breath of thee To scent the most imploring air. Oh ! bend not o’er the water’s brink, Give not the wave that odorous sigh, Nor let its burning mirror drink The soft reflection of thine eye. That glossy hair that glowing check, So pictur’d in the waters seem, That I could gladly plunge to seek Thy image in the glassy stream. Blest fate ! at once my chilly grave And nuptial bed that stream might be ; 1 T had, at this time, some idea of paying a visit to the West Indies. 2 The inhabitants pronounce the name as if it were written Bermooda. See the commentators on the words “ still vex’d Bermoothes,” in the Tempest I wonder it did not occur to some of those all-reading gentlemen that, possibly, the discoverer of this “ island of hogs and devils ” might have been no less a personage than the reat John Bermudez, who, about the same period (the eginning of the sixteenth century), was sent Patriarch of the Latin Church to Ethiopia, and has left us most I’ll wed thee in its mimic wave, And die upon the shade or thee. 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. Nor find I in creation aught Of bright, or beautiful, or rare, Sweet to the sense, or pure to thought, But thou art found reflected there. ♦ 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 blush of your bowers is light to the eye, And their melody balm to the ear ; But the fiery planet of day is too nigh, And the Snow Spirit never comes here. The down from his wing is as white as the pearl That shines through thy lips when they part, And it falls on the green earth as melting, my girl, As a murmur of thine on the heart. 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, lie flings, like the priest of Diana, a veil O’er tire 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 Sncw 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 daybeam like him. Oh ! lovely the print of those delicate feet O’er his luminous path will appear — Fly, fly, my beloved ! this island is sweet, But the Snow Spirit cannot come here. wonderful stories of the Amazons and the Griffins which lie encountered. — Travels of the Jesuits , vol. i. I am afraid, however, it would take the Patriarch rather too much out of his way. 3 Johnson docs not think that Waller was ever at Bermuda; but the “ Account of the European Settle- ments in America ” affirms it confidently. (Vol. ii.) I mention this work, however, less for its authority than for the pleasure I feel in quoting an unacknowledged production of the great Edmund Burke. MOORE’S WORKS. Ecrat^ii St Jj,aiv. Kill eiKaaev, 6ri> airoWvfxevov evtfipaivet. ARISTOT. Rhetor, lib. iii. cap. 4. There’s not a loolc, a word of thine, My soul hath e’er forgot ; Thou ne’er hast bid a ringlet shine, Nor giv’n thy locks one graceful twine Which I remember not. There never yet a murmur fell From that beguiling tongue, Which did not, with a ling’ring spell, Upon my charmed senses dwell, Like songs from Eden sung. All ! that I could, at once, forget All, all that haunts me so — And yet, thou witching girl, — 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, rememb’ring thee, And, like the burnt aroma, be Consum’d in sweets away. TO JOSEPH ATKINSON, ESQ. FROM BERMUDA. 1 “ Tiie daylight is gone — but, before we depart, “ One cup shall go round to the friend of my heart, “ The kindest, the dearest — oh ! judge by the tear “ I now shed while I name him, how kind and how dear.” ’Twas thus in the shade of the Calabash- Tree, With a few, who could feel and remember like me, The charm that, to sweeten my goblet, I threw Was a sigh to the past and a blessing on you. 1 Pinkerton has said that “a good history and de- scription of the Bermudas might afford a pleasing addi- tion to the geographical library ; ” but there certainly are not materials for such a work. The island, since the time of its discovery, has experienced so very few vicissitudes, the people have been so indolent, and their trade so limited, that there is but little which the his- torian could amplify into importance ; and, with respect to the natural productions of the country, the few which the inhabitants can be induced to cultivate are so common in the West Indies, that they have been described by every naturalist who has written any account of those islands. It is often asserted by the trans- Atlantic politicians that this little colony deserves more attention from the mother-country than it receives, and it certainly pos- sesses advantages of situation, to which we should not be long insensible, if it were once in the hands of an enemy. I was told by a celebrated friend of Washington, at New York, that they had formed a plan for its capture towards the conclusion of the American War ; “ with the intention (as he expressed himself) of making it a nest of hornets for the annoyance of British trade in that part of the world.” And there is no doubt it lies so conveniently in the track to the West Indies, that an enemy might with case convert it into a very harass- ing impediment. The plan of Bishop Berkeley for a college at Bermuda, where American savages might be converted and edu- cated, though concurred in by the government of the day, was a wild and useless speculation. Mr. Hamilton, Oil! say, is it thus, in the mirth-bringing hour, When friends are assembled, when wit, in full flower, Shoots forth 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 ! Last night, when we came from the Calabash- Tree, When my limbs were at rest, and my spirit was free, The glow of the grape and the dreams of the day Set the magical springs of my fancy in play, And oh, — such a vision as haunted me then I would 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 tire call of my fancy, surrounded me here ; And soon, — oh, at once, did the light of their . smiles To a paradise brighten this region of isles ; More lucid the wave, as they look’d on it, flow’d, And brighter-the rose, as they gather’d it, glow’d. Not the valleys Herman (though water’d by rills Of the pearliest flow, from those pastoral hills , 1 2 Where the Song of the Shepherd, primeval and wild Was taught to the nymphs by their mystical child,) Could boast such a lustre o’er land and o’er wave As the magic of love to this paradise gave. Oh magic of love ! unembellished by you, Hath the garden a blush or the landscape a hue? Or shines there a vista in nature or art, Like that which Love opes thro’ the eye to the heart ? who was governor of the island some years since, pro- posed, if 1 mistake not, the establishment of a marine academy for the instruction of those children of West Indians, who might be intended for any nautical em- ployment. Tins was a more rational’ idea, and for something of this nature the island is admirably cal- culated. But the plan should be much more extensive, and embrace a general system of education ; which would relieve the colonists from the alternative to which they are now reduced, of either sending their sons to England for instruction, or intrusting them to colleges in the states of America, where ideas, by no means favour- able to Great Britain, are very sedulously inculcated. The women of Bermuda, though not generally hand- some, have an aftectionale languor in their look and manner, which is always interesting. What the French imply by their epithet aimcinte seems very much the character of the young Bermudian girls — that predis- position to loving”, which, without being awakened by any particular object, diffuses itself through the general manner in a tone of tenderness that never fails to fasci- nate. The men of the island, I confess, are not very civilised ; and the old philosopher, who imagined that, after this life, men would be changed into mules, and women into turtle-doves, would find the metamorphosis in some degree anticipated at Bermuda. 2 Mountains of Sicily, upon which Paplinis, the first inventor of bucolic poetry, was nursed by the nymphs. See the lively description of these mountains in Diodorus Siculus, lib. iv. 'Upaia yap oprj KaraTtjv hneXiav cotu ., d a .wrjKTai Se avrt tovtcov, v' cbv awoXeoXe kou vsi’oarjKev i) EXXaj. T avTf 5’ eart Tt ; et tic ei.XT)e ti" yeXtoi; av 6/j.oXoyp’ avyyvw^rj rot, g eXeyxop.evoi<;' fjuaoq, av tovtoh Ttj ewi.Ti.jji.qi’ raXXa wavra , Saa e/e row ScopoSoKeiv rjpTTjrac. DEMOSTH. Philipp, iii. Boast on, my friend — though striptof all beside, Thy struggling nation still retains her pride : 1 That pride, which once in genuine glory woke When Marlborough fought, and brilliant St. John spoke ; That pride which still, by time and shame un- stung, Outlives even Wh-tel-cke’s sword and Il-wk s- b’ry’s tongue I 1 Angli 8U08 ac Bua omnia impensc mirantur ; errteras nationcs despectui babent . — Barclay (as quoted iu one of Dry den’s prefaces). 110 MOORE’S WORKS. 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 Hut by the shadow o’er our fortunes thrown j Where, doom’d ourselves to nought but wrongs and slights, 2 We hear you boast of Britain’s glorious rights, As wretched slaves, that under hatches lie, Hear those on deck extol the 6un and 6ky 1 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 hears no news but W — rd’s gazetted lies, And loves no politics in rhyme but Pye’s, — If aught can please thee but the good old saws Of “Church and State,” and “ William’s match- less laws,” 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, 3 — Turn, while I tell how England’s freedom found, Where most she look’d for life, her deadliest wound ; 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, Uow weakly fell, when Whigs and gold assail’d. 4 While kings were poor, and all those schemes unknown Wliich drain the people, to enrich the throne ; 1 England began very early to feel the effects of cruelty towards her dependencies. “ The severity of her government (says Macplierson) contributed more to deprive her of the continental dominions of the family of Plantagenet than the arms of France.” — See his History, vol. i. 2 “ 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 first races of the English, was completely accomplished. The new English inte- rest was settled with as solid a stability as any thing in human affairs can look for. All the penal laws of that unparalleled code of oppression, which were made after the last event, were manifestly the effects of national hatred and scorn towards a conquered people, whom the victors delighted to trample upon, and were not at all afraid to provoke.” Yet this is the era to which the wise Common Council of Dublin refer us for “ in- valuable blessings,” &c. 3 It never seems to occur to those orators and addressers who round off so many sentences and para- graphs with the Bill of Rights, the Act of Settlement, &c., that most of the provisions which these Acts con- tained for the preservation of parliamentary indepen- dence have been long laid aside as romantic and trou- blesome. I never meet, I confess, with a politician who quotes seriously the Declaration of Rights, &c., to prove the actual existence of English liberty, that I do not think of that marquis, whom Montesquieu mentions *, who set about looking for mines in the Pyrenees, on the strength of authorities which he had read in some ancient authors. The poor marquis toiled and searched in vain. He quoted his authorities to the last, but found no mines after all. 4 The chief, perhaps the only advantage which has * Liv. xxi. chap. 2. Ere yet a yielding Commons liad supplied Those chains of gold by wliich themselves are tied i Then proud Prerogative, untaught to creep With bribery’s 6ilent foot on Freedom’s sleep, Frankly avow’d hjs bold enslaving plan, And claim’d a right from God to trample man 1 But Luther’s schism had too much rous’d man- kind For Hampden’s truths to linger long behind ; Nor then, when king-like popes had fallen so low, Could pope-like kings 3 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 6hone and scourg’d once more. ’Twas then, my friend, thy kneeling nation quaff’d Long, long and deep, the churchman’s opiate draught Of passive, prone obedience — then took flight All sense of man’s true dignity and right ; And Britons slept so sluggish in their chain That Freedom’s watch-voice call’d almost in vain. Oil England ! England 1 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 I How nobly high, in that propitious hour, Might patriot hands have rais’d the triple tower c Of British freedom, on a rock divine Which neither force could storm nor treachery mine 1 resulted from the system of influence, is that tranquil course of uninterrupted action which it has given to the administration of government. If kings must be aramount in the state (and their ministers for the time cing always think so), the country is indebted to the Revolution for enabling them to become so quietly, and for removing skilfully the danger of those shocks and collisions which the alarming efforts of prerogative never failed to produce. Instead of vain and disturbing efforts to establish that speculative balance of the constitution, which, perhaps, lias never existed but in the pages of Montesquieu and De Lolme, a preponderance is now silently yielded to one of the three estates, which carries the other two almost insensibly, but still effectually, along with it ; and even though the path may lead eventually to de- struction, yet its specious and gilded smoothness almost atones for the danger ; and, like Milton’s bridge over Chaos, it may be said to lead, “ Smooth, easy, inoffensive, down to 5 The drivelling correspondence between James I. and his “dog Stecnie” (the Duke of Buckingham), which we find among the Hardwicke Papers, sufficiently shows, if we wanted any such illustration, into what doting, idiotic brains the plan of arbitrary power may enter. 6 Tacitus has expressed his opinion, in a passage very frequently quoted, that such a distribution of power as the theory of the British constitution exhibits is merely a subject of bright speculation, “a system more easily praised than practised, and which, even could it happen to exist, would certainly not prove permanent ; ” and, in truth, a review of England’s annals would dispose tia to agree with the great historian’s remark. For we find that at no period whatever has this balance of the three estates existed ; that the nobles predominated till tha CORRUPTION, A POETIC EPISTLE. Ill 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 nearer heaven. While Tories marr’d.what Whigs had scarce begun, While Whigs undid what Whigs themselves had done, 1 The hour was lost, and William, with a smile, Saw Freedom weeping o’er the unfinish’d pile !* Hence all the ills you suffer, — hence remain Sucli galling fragments of that feudal chain 2 policy of Henry VII. and his successor reduced their weight by breaking up the feudal system of property ; tli at the power of the Crown became then supreme and absolute, till the bold encroachments of the Commons subverted the fabric altogether ; that the alternate ascendency of prerogative and privilege distracted the period which followed the Restoration ; and that, lastly, the Acts of 1688, by laying the foundation of an un- bounded court-influence, have secured a preponderance to the Throne, which every succeeding year increases. So that the vaunted British constitution has never per- haps existed but in mere theory. 1 The monarchs of Great Britain can never be suffi- ciently grateful for that accommodating spirit which led the Revolutionary Whigs to give away the crown without imposing any of those restraints or stipulations which other men might have taken advantage of so favourable a moment to enforce, and in the framing of which they had so good a model to follow as the limit- ations proposed by the Lords Essex and Halifax, in the debate upon the Exclusion Bill. They not only con- descended, however, to accept of places, but took care that these dignities should be no impediment to their “ voice potential ” in affairs of legislation ; and although an Act was afrer many years suffered to pass, which by one of its articles disqualified placemen from serving as members of the House of Commons, it was yet not allowed to interfere with the influence of the reigning monarch, nor with that of his successor Anne. The purifying clause, indeed, was not to take effect till after the decease of the latter sovereign, and she very considerately re- pealed it altogether. So that, as representation has continued ever since, if the king were simple enough to send to foreign courts ambassadors who were most of them in the pay of those courts, he would be just as honestly and faithfully represented as are his people. It would be endless to enumerate all the favours which were conferred upon William by those “apostate Whigs.” They complimented him with the first sus- ension of the Habeas Corpus Act which had been azarded since the confirmation of that privilege ; and this example of our Deliverer’s reign has not been lost upon any of his successors. They promoted the esta- blishment of a standing army, and circulated in its defence the celebrated “ Balancing Letter,” in which it is insinuated that England, even then, in her boasted hour of regeneration, was arrived at such a pitch of faction and corruption, that nothing could keep her in order but a Whig ministry and a standing army. They refused, as long as they could, to shorten the duration of parliaments ; and though, in the Declaration of Rights, the necessity of such a reform was acknow- ledged, they were able, by arts not unknown to modern ministers, to brand those as traitors and republicans who urged it. * But the grand and distinguishing trait of their measures was the power they bestowed on the Crown of almost annihilating the freedom of elections, — of turning from its course, and for ever defiling that great stream of Representation, which had, even in the most agitated periods, reflected some features of the people, but which, from thenceforth, became the Pac- tolus, the “aurifer amnis,” of the court, and served as a mirror of the national will and popular feeling no longer. We need but consult the writings of that time, to understand the astonishment then excited by mea- sures, which the practice of a century has rendered not * See a pamphlet published in 1693, upon the King’s refusing to sign the Triennial Bill, called “A Discourse between a Yeoman of Kent and a Knight of a Shire.” — “ Hereupon (says the Yeoman) the gentle- man grew angry, and said that I talked like abase commons- wealth man.” 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, 3 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 Drips smooth o’er all the Constitution’s wheels, only familiar but necessary. Sec a pamphlet called “ The Danger of mercenary Parliaments,” 1698 ; State Tracts, Will. III. vol. ii. ; see also “ Some Paradoxes presented as a NewYear’s Gift.” ( State Poems, vol. iii.) 2 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 , and which Black.stone compares, for its salutary influence upon property, to the boasted provisions of Magna Charta itself. Yet even in this Act we see the effects of that counteracting spirit which has contrived to weaken every effort of the English nation towards liberty. The exclusion of copyholders from their share of elective rights was permitted to remain as a brand of feudal servitude, and as an obstacle to the rise of that strong counterbalance which an equal representation of pro- perty would oppose to the weight of the Crown. If the managers of the Revolution had been sincere in their wishes for reform, they would not only have taken this fetter off the rights of election, but would have renewed the mode adopted in Cromwell’s time of increasing the number of knights of the shire, to the exclusion of those rotten insignificant borgughs, which have tainted the whole mass of the constitution. Lord Clarendon calls this measure of Cromwell’s “ an alteration fit to be more warrantable made, and in a better time.” It formed part of Mr. Pitt’s plan in 1783 ; but Pitt’s plan of reform was a kind of announced dramatic piece, about as likely to be ever acted as Mr. Sheridan’s Foresters.” 3 .... fore enim tutum iter et patens Converso in pretium Deo. Aurum per medios ire satellites, &c. HORAT. It would he a task not uninstructive to trace the his- tory of Prerogative from the date of its strength under the Tudor princes, when Henry VII. and his successors “ taught the people (as Nathaniel Bacon says)* to dance to the tune of Allegiance,” to the period of the Revolu- tion, when the Throne, in its attacks upon liberty, began to exchange the noisy explosions of Prerogative for the silent and effectual air-gun of Influence. In follow- ing its course, too, since that memorable era, we shall find that, while the royal power has been abridged in branches where it might be made conducive to the inte- rests of the people, it has been left in full and unshackled vigour against almost every point where the integrity of the constitution is vulnerable. For instance, the power of chartering boroughs, to whose capricious abuse in the hands of the Stuarts we are indebted for most of the pre- sent anomalies of representation, might, if suffered to remain, have in some degree atoned for its mischief, by restoring the old unchartered boroughs to their rights, and widening more equally the basis of the legislature. But, by the Act of Union with Scotland, this part of the prerogative was removed, lest Freedom should have a chance of being healed, even by the rust of the spear which had formerly wounded her. The dangerous power, however, of creating peers, which has been so often exercised for the government against the con- stitution, is still left in free and unqualified activity ; notwithstanding the example of that celebrated Bill for the limitation of this ever-budding branch of prero- gative, which was proposed in the reign of George I. under the peculiar sanction and recommendation of the Crown, but which the Whigs thought right to reject with all that characteristic delicacy, which, in general, prevents them, when enjoying the sweets of office them- selves, from taking any uncourtly advantage of the Throne. It Will be recollected, however, that the crea- * Historic, and Politic. Discourse , &c., part ii. p. 114, 112 MOORE’S WORKS. Giving the ohl machine such pliant piny, > That Court anil Commons jog one joltlcss 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 1 But soft ! methinks 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 II— wks— b— y quotes and savoury B — rch admires, ‘ Be slander’d thus ? Shall honest St — lc agree “ With virtuous R — 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 ?” 3 tion of the twelve peers by the Tories in Anne’s reign (a measure which Swift, like a true par*y man, defends) pave these upright Whigs all possible alarm for their liberties. With regard to the generous fit about his preroga- tive which seized so unroyally the good king George I., historians have hinted that the parox 3 *sm originated far more in hatred to his son than in love to the con- stitution.* This, of course, however, is a calumny : no loyal person, acquainted with the annals of the three Georges, could possibly suspect any one of those gracious monarchs either of ill-will to his heir, or in- difference for the constitution. 1 “ They drove so fast (says Welwood of the minis- ters of Charles I.), that it was no wonder that the wheels and chariot broke.” ( Memoirs , p. 55.) — But this fatal accident, if we may judge from experience, is to be imputed far less to tlic folly and impetuosity of the drivers, than to the want of that suppling oil from the Treasury which has been found so necessary to make a government like that of England run smoothly. Had Charles been as well provided with this article as his successors have been since the happy ■Revolution, his Commons would never have merited from him the harsh appellation of “ seditious vipers,” but- would have been (as they now are, and I trust always will be) “ dutiful Commons,” “ loyal Commons,” &c. &c., and would have given him ship-money, or any other sort of money he might have fancied. 2 Among those auxiliaries which the Revolution of 1G68 marshalled on the side of the Throne, the bug- bear of Popery has not been the least convenient and serviceable. Those unskilful tyrants, Charles and James, instead of profiting by that useful subserviency which has always distinguished the ministers of our religious establishment, were so infatuated as to plan the ruin of this best bulwark of their power, and, more- over, connected their designs upon the Church so un- disguisedly with their attacks upon the Constitution, that they identified in the minds of the people the inte- rests of their religion and their liberties. During those times, therefore, “No Popery” was the watchword of freedom, and served to keep the public spirit awake against the invasions of bigotry and prerogative. The Revolution, however, by removing this object of jea- lojisy, has produced a reliance on the orthodoxy of the Throne, of which the Throne has not failed to take advantage; and the cry of “ No Popery” having thus lost its power of alarming the people against the inroads of the Crown, has served ever since the very different purpose of strengthening the Crown against the preten- sions and struggles of the people. The danger of the Church from Papists and Pretenders was the chief * Coxe says that this Bill was projected by Sunder- land. The people 1 — ah, that Freedom ’6 form 6houhl stay Where Freedom’s spirit long hath pass’d away ! That a false smile should play around the dead. And flush the features when the soul hath fled ! < When Rome hail lost her virtue with her rights, When her foul tyrant sat on Caprcac’s heights 5 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 proud sons, diffus’d from zone to zone, Gave kings to every nation but their own,) Even then the senate and the tribunes stood, Insulting marks, to show how high the flood Of Freedom flow’d, in glory’s by-gone day, And how it ebb’d, — for ever ebb’d away ! 6 Look but around — though yet a tyrant’s swonl Nor haunts our sleep nor glitters o’er our 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 claims, the rights of man, As doth that fetter’d mob, that free divan. pretext for the repeal of the Triennial Bill, for the adoption of a standing army, for the numerous suspen- sions of the Habeas Corpus Act, and, in short, for all those spirited infractions of the constitution by which the reigns of the last century were so eminently dis- tinguished. We have seen very lately, too, how the Throne has been enabled, by the same scarecrow sort of alarm, to select its ministers from among men, whose servility is their only claim to elevation, and who are pledged (if such an alternative could arise) to take part with the scruples of the King against the salvation of the empire. 3 Somebody has said, “ Quand tousles poetesseraient noyes, ce ne serait pas grand dommage ; ” but I am aware that this is not fit language to be held at a time when our birth-day odes and state-papers are written by such pretty poets as Mr. P — e and Mr. C — nn — ng. All I wish is, that the latter gentleman would chango laces with his brother P — e, by which means we should ave somewhat less prose in our odes, and certainly less poetry in our politics. 4 “ It is a scandal (said Sir Charles Sedley in Wil- liam’s reign) that a government so sick at heart as ours is should look so well in the face : ” and Edmund Burke has said, in the present reign, “ When the people con- ceive that laws and tribunals, and even popular assem- blies, are perverted from the ends of their institution, they find in these names of degenerated establishments only new motives to discontent. Those bodies which, when full of life and beauty, lay in their arms and. were their joy and comfort, when dead and putrid become more loathsome from remembrance of former endearments.” — Thoughts on the present Discontents, 1770. 5 ... Tutor haberi Principis, Augusta. Caprearum in rupe sedentis Cum grege Chaldaco. JUVENAL. Sat. x. v. 92. The senate still continued, during the reign of Tiberius, to manage all the business of the public: the money was then and long after coined by their authority, and every other public affair received their sanction. We are told by Tacitus of a certain race of men who made themselves particularly useful to the Roman emperors, and were therefore called “ instruments regni,” or “ court tools.” From this it appears, that my Lords M , C , &c. & c. are by uo means things of modern invention. 6 There is something very touching-in what Tacitus tells us of the hopes that revived in a few patriot bo- soms, when the death of Augustus was near approaching, and the fond expectation with which they already be- gan “ bona libertatis incassum disserere.” According to Ferguson, Ca:sar’s interference with the rights of election “ made the subversion af the republic more felt than any of the formcr acts of Lis powir.” — Roman Republic , book y. chap. i. CORRUPTION, A POETIC EPISTLE. 113 Of noble tools and honourable knaves, Of pension’d patriots and privileg’d slaves ; — That party-colour’d mass, which nought can warm But rank corruption’s heat — whose quicken’d 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 ! Thou start’st, my friend, at picture drawn so dark — “ Is there no light ? ” thou ask’st — “ no ling’ring spark “ Of ancient fire to warm us ? Lives there none, “ To act a Marvell’s part ? ” 1 — alas ! not one. To place and power all public spirit tends, In place and power all public spirit ends ; 2 Like hardy plants, that love the air and sky, 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 prize 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. ] 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 inode, took wages from his constituents. The Commons have, since then, much changed their paymasters. — See the State Poems for some rude but spirited effusions of Andrew Marvell. 2 The following artless speech of Sir Francis Win- nington,in the reign of Charles the Second, will amuse those who are fully aware of the perfection we have since 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 side, 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 good of them who sent them here.” — He alludes to that parliament which was called, par excel- lence , the Pensionary Parliament. 3 According to Xenophon, the chief circumstance which recommended these creatures to the service of Fastcrn princes was the ignominious station they held in society, and the probability of their being, upon this account, more devoted to the will and caprice of a master, from whose notice alone they derived consider- ation, and in whose favour they might seek refuge from the general contempt of mankind. — A6o£ot ovreq oi evvovyoi 7 rapet roiq aWoiq avdpconoiq Kat dia tovto Se- ottotov eTTLKOvpov . TrpoaSeovTou. — But I doubt w hether even an Eastern prince would have chosen an entire ad- ministration upon this principle. 4 “ And in the cup an Union shall be thrown.” Hamlet. 5 Among the many measures, which, since the Re- volution, have contributed to increase the influence of the throne, and to feed up this “ Aaron’s serpent” of the constitution to its present health and respectable And, though most base is he who, ’neath the shade Of Freedom’s ensign plies corruption’s trade, And makes the sacred flag he dares to show Ilis 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 traitors 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 chant old “ Habeas Corpus ” by its side, And ask, in purchas’d ditties, why it died ? See 3*011 smooth lord, whom nature’s plastic pains Would seem to’ve fashion’d for those Eastern reigns When eunuchs flourish’d, and such nerveless things As men rejected were the chosen of Kings ; 3 — Even he, forsooth, (oh fraud, of all the worst ! ) 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 with’ring insult — for the Union thrown Into thy bitter cup, 4 when that alone Of slavery’s draught was wanting 5 — if for this Revenge be sweet, thou hast that daemon's bliss ; For, sure, ’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, magnitude, there have been few* more nutritive than the Scotch and Irish Unions. Sir John Packer said, in a debate upon the former question, that “he would sub- mit it to the House, whether men who had basely be- trayed their trust, by giving up their independent constitution, were fit to be admitted into the English House of Commons.” But Sir John would have known, if he had not been out of place at the time, that the pliancy of such materials was not among the least of their recommendations. Indeed, the promoters of the Scotch Union were by no means disappointed in the leading object of their measure, for the triumphant ma- jorities of the court-party in parliament may be dated from the admission of the 45 and the 16. Once or twice, upon the alteration of their law of treason and the im- position of the malt-tax (measures which were in direct violation of the Act of Union), these worthy North Britons arrayed themselves in opposition to the Court; but finding this effort for their country^ unavailing, they prudently determined to think thenceforward of them- selves, and few men have ever kept to a laudable reso- lution more firmly. The effect of Irish representation on the liberties of England will be no less perceptible and permanent. .... Ovd’ dye T avpov A eurerat avreWovroq. * The infusion of such cheap and useful ingredients as my Lord L., Mr. D. B., &c. & c. into the legislature, cannot but act as a powerful alterative on the constitu- tion, and clear it by degrees of all troublesome humours of honesty. * From Aratus (v. 715.), a poet who wrote upon astronomy, though, as Cicero assures us, he knew no- thing whatever about the subject: just as the great Harvey wrote “De Generatione,” though he had r.s little to do with the matter as my Lord Viscount C. Ill MOORE'S WORKS. When proud Napoleon, like th’ enchanted shield i 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 Drove Ireland first to turn, with harlot glance, Tow’rds other shores, and woo th’ embrace of France ; — Those hack’d and tainted tools, so foully fit For the grand artizan 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, Oil England ! sinking England ! 2 boast no more. 1 The magician’s shield in Ariosto : — E tolto per vertu dello splendore La libertate a loro. Cant. 2. We are told that Cfesar’s code of morality was contained in the following lines of Euripides, which that great man frequently repeated : — Znrep yap aSueeiv XPV rvpavvtdog irepi KoXXiotov aSuceLv ’ rdXXa S' evcrefietv \peeov. This is also, as it appears, the moral code of Napo. Icon. 2 The following prophetic remarks occur in a letter written by Sir Robert Talbot, who attended the Duke of Bedford to Paris in 1762. Talking of States which h ave grown powerful in commerce, he says, “ According to the nature and common course of things, there is a confederacy against them, and consequently in the same proportion as they increase in riches, they approach to destruction. The address of our King William, in making all Europe take the alarm at France, has brought that country before us near that inevitable pe- riod. We must necessarily have our turn, and Great Britain will attain it as soon as France shall have a de- claimer with organs as proper for that political purpose *u were those of our William the Third Without doubt, my Lord, Great Britain must lower her flight. Europe will remind us of the balance of com- merce, as she has reminded France of the balance of l>ower. The address of our statesmen will immortalize them by contriving for us a descent which shall not be a fall, by making us rather resemble Holland than Carthage and Venice.” — Letters on the French Nation. 3 The king-deposing doctrine, notwithstanding its many mischievous absurdities, was of no little service to the cause of political liberty by inculcating the right of resistance to tyrants, and asserting the will of the people to be the only true fountain of power. Bellar- mine, the most violent of the advocates for papal autho- rity, was one of the first to maintain {Re Pontiff, lib. i. cap. 7.) “ that kings have not their authority or office immediately from God nor his law, but only from the law of nations ; ” and in King James’s “ Defence of the Rights of Kings against Cardinal Perron,” we find his Majesty expressing strong indignation against the Car- dinal for having asserted “ that to the deposing of a sing the consent of the people must be obtained” — “for by these words (says James) the people are ex- alted above the king, and made judges of the king’s deposing,” p. 424 — Even in Mariana’s celebrated book, INTOLERANCE, gi Satire. This clamour, which pretends to be raised for tho safety of religion, has almost worn out the very appear ancc of it, and has rendered us not only the most di- vided but the most immoral people upon the face of the earth. Addisojt, Freeholder , No. 37. Start not, my friend, nor think the muse will 6tain Ilcr classic fingers with the dust profane Of Bulls, Decrees, and all those thund’ring scrolls, Which took such freedom once with royal souls, 3 When heaven was yet the pope’s exclusive trade, Aud kings were damn'd as fast as now they’re made. No, no — let D— gen— n search the papal chair 4 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 ex- hale. Enough for me, whose heart has learn’d to scorn Bigots alike in Rome or England born, where the nonsense of bigotry does not interfere, there may be found many liberal and enlightened views of the principles of government, of the restraints which should be imposed upon royal power, of the subordina- tion of the Throne to the interests of the people, &c. &c. {Re l lege et Regis Institutione. See particularly lib. i. cap. 6. 8. and 9.) —It is rather remarkable, too, that England should be indebted to another Jesuit for the earliest defence of that principle upon which the Revo- lution was founded, namely, the right of the people to change the succession. (See Doleinan’s “Conferences,” written in support of the title of the Infanta of Spain against that of James I.) — When Englishmen, there- fore, say that Popery is the religion of slavery, they should not only recollect that their own boasted consti- tution is the work and bequest of popish ancestors; they should not only remember the laws of Edward III., “ under whom (says Bolingbroke) the constitution o? our parliaments, and the whole form of our govern- ment, became reduced into better form;” but they should know that even the errors charged on Popery have leaned to the cause of liberty, and that Papists were the first promulgators of the doctrines which led to the Revolution. In general, however, the political rinciples of the Roman Catholics have been described as appened to suit the temporary convenience of their op- pressors, and have been represented alternately as slavish or refractory, according as a pretext for tormenting them was wanting. The same inconsistency has marked every other imputation against them. They are charged with laxity in the observance of oaths, though an oath has been found sufficient to shut them out from all worldly advantages. If they reject certain decisions of their church, they are said to be sceptics and bad Christians ; if they admit those very decisions, they are branded as bigots and bad subjects. We are told that confidence and kindness will make them enemies to the government, though we know that exclusion and inju- ries have hardly prevented them from being its friends. In short, nothing can better illustrate the misery of those shifts and evasions by which a long course of cowardly injustice must be supported, than the whole history of Great Britain’s conduct towards the Catholic part of her empire. 4 The “ Sella Stercorana ” of the popes. — The Right Honourable and learned Doctor will find an engraving of this chair in Spanlieim’s “Disquisitio Historica do Pap4 Fcemina” (p. 118.) ; and I recommend it as a model for the fashion of that seat which the Doctor it about to take in the Privy-council of Ireland. INTOLERANCE, A SATIRE. 115 Who loathe the venoir., whenceso’er it springs, From popes or lawyers, 1 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 I And thou, my friend, if, in these headlong days, When bigot Zeal her drunken antics plays So near a precipice, that men the while Look breathless on and shudder while they smile — If, in such fearful days, thoul’t 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 1 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. 1 When Innocent X. was entreated to decide the con- troversy between the Jesuits and the Jansenists, he an- swered, that “he had been bred a lawyer, and had therefore nothing to do with divinity.”— It Mere to be M ished that some of our English pettifoggers knew their own fit element as well as Pope Innocent X. 2 Not the C — md — n who speaks thus of Ireland : — “ To wind up all, whether we regard the fruitfulness of the soil, the advantage of the sea, with so many com- modious havens, or the natives themselves, Mho are warlike, ingenious, handsome, and M'ell-complexioned, soft-skinned and very nimble, by reason of the pliant- ness of their muscles, this Island is in many respects so happy, that Giraldus might very well say, * Nature had regarded with more favourable eyes than ordinary this Kingdom of Zephyr.’ ” 3 The example of toleration, which Bonaparte has held forth, will, I fear, produce no other effect than that of determining the British government to persist, Irom the very (spirit of opposition, in their own old system of intolerance and injustice; just as the Siamese blacken their teeth, “because,” as they say, “the devil has M'hite ones.” * 4 One of the unhappy results of the controversy be- tM-een Protestants and Catholics, is the mutual exposure which their criminations and recriminations have pro- duced. In vain do the Protestants charge the Papists m ith closing the door of salvation upon others, while many of their oM-n M'ritings and articles breathe the samo uncharitable spirit. No canon of Constance or Lateran ever damned heretics more effectually than the eighth of the Thirty-nine Articles consigns to per- dition every single member of the Greek church ; and I doubt whether a more sweeping clause of damnation was ever proposed in the most bigoted council, than that which the Calvir.istic theory of predestination in the seventeenth of these Articles exhibits. It is true that no liberal Protestant avoM'3 such exclusive opi- nions; that every honest clergyman must feel a pang while he subscribes to them ; that some even assert the Athanasian Creed to be the forgery of one Virgilius Tapsensis, in the beginning of the sixth century, and that eminent divines, like Jortin, have not hesitated tc say, “ There are propositions contained in our Liturgy and Articles, which no man of common sense amongst us believes.” + But while all this is freely conceded°to Protestants ; while nobody doubts their sincerity when * See l’Histoirc Naturclle ct Polit. du Royaume de Siam, &c. t Strictures on the Articles, Subscriptions, &c. When C— stl— r— gli, 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. Yes, my dear friend, wert thou but near me now, To see how Spring lights up on Erin’s brow Smiles that shine out, unconquerably fair, Even through the blood-marks left by C— md— n2 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 seem3 by all but watchful France forgot 3 — 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 prayers-books and with whips, 4 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 I they declare that their articles are not essentials of faith, but a collection of opinions which have been promulgated by fallible men, and from many of Mhich they feel themselves justified in dissenting, — M'hile so much liberty of retractation is allou-ed to Protestants upon their own declared and subscribed articles of re- ligion, is it not strange that a similar indulgence should be so obstinately refused to the Catholics, upon tenets Mhich their Church has uniformly resisted and con- demned, in everj' country where it has independently flourished ? When the Catholics say, “ The Decree of the Council of Lateran, which you object to us, has no claim whatever upon either our faith or our reason ; it did not even profess to contain any doctrinal decision, but was merely a judicial proceeding of that assembly, and it M ould be as fair for us to impute a wife-killing doctrine to the Protestants, because their first pope, Henry VIII., Mas sanctioned in an indulgence of that propensity, as for you to conclude that M r e have inhe- rited a king-deposing taste from the acts of the Council of Lateran, or the secular pretensions of our popes. With respect, too, to the Decree of the Council of Con- stance, upon the strength of M-hich you accuse us of breaking faith with heretics, we do not hesitate to pro- nounce that Decree a calumnious forgery, a forgery, too, so obvious and ill-fabricated, that none but our ene- mies have ever ventured to give it the slightest credit for authenticity.” — When the Catholics make these declar- ations (and they are almost M-cary with making them), when they show, too, by their conduct, that these de- clarations are sincere, and that their faith and morals are no more regulated by the absurd decrees of old councils and popes, than their science is influenced by the papal anathema against that Irishman * M'ho first found out the Antipodes, — is it not strange that so many still Milfully distrust what every good man is so much interested in believing ? That so many should prefer the dark-lantern of the loth century to the sun- shine of intellect which has since overspread theM-orld ; and that every dabbler in theology, from Mr. Le Mesu- rier down to the Chancellor of the Exchequer, should dare to oppose the rubbish of Constance and Lateran to the bright and triumphant progress of justice, genero- sity, and truth ? * Virgilius, surnamed Solivagus, a native of Ireland, Mho maintained, in the 8th century, the doctrine of the Antipodes, and was anathematised accordingly by the Pope. John Scotus Erigena, another Irishman, was tho first that over wrote against transubstantiation 1 1 (3 MOORE’S WORKS. Your R— desd— lcs, P — r — cr — Is, — great, glo- rious Heaven, If I’m presumptuous, be my tongue forgiven, When here I swear, l>y my soul’s hope of rest, IM rather have been born, ere mnn was blest With the pure dawn of Revelation’s light, Yes, — rather plunge me baek 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 ; Winch grasping human hearts with double hold,— I.ikc Daniie’s lover mixing god and gold, 2 — Corrupts both state and church, and makes an oath The knave and atheist’s passport into both ; * In a singular work, written by one Franciscus Collius, “upon the Souls of the Pagans,” the author discusses, with much coolness and erudition, all the probable chances of salvation upon which a heathen philosopher might calculate. Consigning to perdition, without much difficulty, Plato, Socrates, &c., the only sage at whose fate he seems to hesitate is Pythagoras, in consideration of his golden thigh, and the many mira- cles which he performed. But, having balanced a little his claims, and finding reason to father all these mira- cles on the devil, he at length, in the twenty-fifth chapter, decides upon damning him also. {De Anima- bus Paganorum, lib. iv. cap. 20. and 25.) — The poet Dante compromises the matter with the Pagans, and gives them a neutral territory or limbo of their own, where their employment, it must be owned, is not very enviable — “ Senza speme vivemo in desio.” — Cant. iv. — Among the numerous errors imputed to Origen, he is accused of having denied the eternity of future pun- ishment ; and, if he never advanced a more irrational doctrine, we may venture, I think, to forgive him. He went so far, however, as to include the devil himself in the general hell-delivery which he supposed would one day or other take place, and in this St. Augustin thinks him rather too merciful : — “ Miserecordior profecto fuit Origenes, qui et ipsum diabolum,” &c. {De Ci- ritat. Dei, lib. xxi. cap 17.) — Accordingto St. Jerome, it was Origen’s opinion, that “ the devil himself, after a certain time, will be as well off as the angel Gabriel” — “ Id ipsum fore Gabrielem quod diabolum.” (See his Epistle to Pammachius.) But Ilalloix, in his Defence of Origen, denies strongly that his learned father had any such misplaced tenderness for the devil. 2 Mr. Fox, in his Speech on the Repeal of the Test Act (1790), thus condemns the intermixture of religion with the political constitution of a state : — “ What pur- pose (he asks) can it serve, except the baleful purpose of communicating and receiving contamination ? Un- der 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 things most remote and opposite, who mixes these two societies, which are in their original, end, business, and in every thing, perfectly distinct and infinitely dif- ferent from each other.” — First Letter on Toleration. The corruptions introduced into Christianity may be dated from the period of its establishment under Constantine, nor could all the splendour which it then acquired atone for the peace and purity which it lost. 3 There has been, after all, quite as much intolerance among Protestants as among Papists. According to the hackneyed quotation — Iliacos intra muros peccatur ct extra. Even the great champion of the Reformation, Me- lancthon, whom Jortin calls “a divine of much mild- ness and good-nature ,” thus expresses his approbation of the burning of Servetus : “ Legi (he says to Bullinger) quae de Serveti blasphemiis respondistis, et pietatem ac judicia vestra probo. Judico ctiam senatum Gene- vensem recti 1 ! fecisse, quod hominem pertinacem et non omissurum blasphemias sustulit ; ac miratus sum esse qui severitatem illam improbent” — I have great plea- sure in contrasting with these “mild and good-natured sentiments” the following words of the Papist Baluze, in addressing his friend Conringius : “ Interim amemus, mi Conringi, et tametsi diversas opiniones tuemur in 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 ! 3 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 abus’d Religion twine Round Tyranny’s coarse brow her wreath divine j And lie, 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 ; causa religionis, moribus tamen diversi non simus, qui eadem literarum studiasectamur.” — Herman. Conring. Epistol. par. sccund. p. 56. Hume tells us that the Commons, in the beginning of Charles the First’s reign, “attacked Montague, one of the King’s chaplains, on account of a moderat e book which he had lately composed, and which, to their great disgust, saved virtuous Catholics, as well as other Christians, from eternal torments.” — In the same manner a complaint was lodged before the Lords of the Council against that excellent writer Hooker, for haviug, in a Sermon against Popery, attempted to save many of his Popish ancestors for ignorance. — To these ex- amples of Protestant toleration I shall beg leave to oppose the following extract from a letter of old Roger Ascham (the tutor of Queen Elizabeth), which is pre- served among the Harrington Papers, and was written in 1566, to the Earl of Leicester, complaining of the Arch- bishop Young, who had taken away his prebend in the church of York: “ Master Bourne * did never grieve me half so moche in offering me wrong, as Mr. Dudley and the Byshoppof York doe, in taking away my right. No bj'shopp in Q. Mary’s time would have so dealt with me : not Mr. Bourne hymself, when Winchester lived, durst have so dealt with me. For suche good estimation in those dayes even the learnedst and wysest men, as Gardener, and Cardinal Poole, made of my poore service, that although they knewe perfectly that in religion, both by open wrytinge and pryvie talke, I was contrarye unto them ; yea, when Sir Francis En- glefield by name did note me speciallye at the councill- board, Gardener would not suffer me to be called thither nor touched ellswheare, saiing suche words of me in a lettre, as, though lettres cannot, I blushc to write them to your lordshipp. Winchester’s good-will stoode not in speaking faire and wishing well, but he did in deede that for met whereby my wife and children shall live the better when I am gone.” (See Nugce Antiques , vol. i. pp. 98, 99.) — If men who acted thus were bigots, what shall we call Mr. P — rc — v — 1 ? In Sutcliffe’s “ Survey of Popery ” there occurs the following assertion : — “ Papists, that positively hold the heretical and false doctrines of the modern church of Rome, cannot possibly be saved.” — As a contrast to this and other specimens of Protestant liberality, which it would be much more easy than pleasant to collect, I refer my reader to the Declaration of Le Pere Courayer ; — doubting not that, while he reads the sentiments of this pious man upon toleration, he will feel inclined to exclaim with Belsham, “ Blush, ye Protestant bigots ! and he confounded at the comparison of your own wretched and malignant prejudices with the generous and enlarged ideas, the noble and animated language of this Popish priest.” — Essays, xxvii. p. 86. 4 “ La tolerance est la chose du monde la plus pro- pre a ramener le sidcle d’or. ct a faire un concert et une harmonie de plusieurs voix et instruments de dif- ferents tons et notes, aussi agreable pour le moins quo l’uniformite d’une seule voix.” Bayle, Commentaire Philosophique, &c., part ii. chap, vi Both Bayle and Locke would have treated the subject of Toleration in a manner much more worthy of themselves and of the cause, if they had written in an age less distracted by religious prejudices. * Sir John Bourne, Principal Secretary of State to Queen Mary. + By Gardener’s favour Aschan*. long held his fellow ship, though not resident. INTOLERANCE, A SATIRE. 117 While free and spacious as that ambient 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 man- kind. Last of the great, farewell ! — yet not the last — Though Britain’s sunshine hour with thee be past, Ierne still one ray of glory gives, And feels but half thy loss while Grattan lives. APPENDIX. To the foregoing Poem, as first published, were subjoined, in the shape of a Note, or Appendix, the following remarks on the History and Music of Ireland. This fragment was originally intended to form part of a Preface to the Irish Melodies ; but afterwards, for some reason which I do not now recollect, was thrown aside. ****** Our history, for many centuries past, is credit- able 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 character ; and our feuds and rebellions, though frequent and ferocious, 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 lias 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 consecrate resistance, their cause w T as branded with the disheartening name of treason, and their oppressed country was such a blank among na- tions, that, like the adventures of those woods which 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 luoghi i fatti ancor son foschi, Che non sc n’ ha notizia le piu volte. 1 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 no growth to her in this hapless island but cypress and weeds. In truth, the poet who would embel- lish his song with allusions to Irish names and events, must be contented to seek them in those early periods when our character was yet unal- loyed and original, before the impolitic craft of our conquerors had divided, weakened, and disgraced us. The sole traits of heroism, indeed, which he 1 Ariosto, canto iv. 2 See Warner’s History of Ireland, vol. i. book ix. 3 Statius, Thebaid. lib. xii. 4 A sort of civil excommunication (says Gibbon), which separated them from their fellow-citizens by a peculiar brand of infamy ; and tli is declaration of the supreme magistrate tended to justify, or at least to ex- can venture at this day to commemorate, either with safety to himself, or honour to his country, are to be looked for in those ancient times when the native monarchs of Ireland displayed and fostered virtues worthy of a better age ; when our Mala- eliies wore around their necks collars of gold which they had won in single combat from the invader, 2 and our Briens deserved and won the warm af- fections of a people by exhibiting 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 knighthood, and the polish of her schools, are little more than the inventions 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 genera], best suited to our Music, and with themes of this nature the poet may be amply supplied. There is scarcely a page of our annals that will not furnish him a subject, and while the national Muse of other countries adorns her temple proudly with trophies of the past, in Ireland her melancholy altar, like the shrine of Pity at Athens, is to be known only by the tears that are shed upon it ; “ lacrymis altaria sudant .” 3 There is a well-known story, related of the Antiochians under the reign of Theodosius, which is not only honourable to the powers of music in general, but which applies so peculiarly to the mournful melodies of Ireland, that I cannot resist the temptation of introducing it here The piety of Theodosius would have been admirable, had it not been stained with intolerance ; but under his reign was, I believe, first set the example of a disqualifying penal code enacted by Christians against Christians. 1 2 3 4 Whether his interference with the religion of the Antiochians had any share in the alienation of their loyalty is not ex- pressly ascertained by historians ; 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 sus- ceptible 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, wdiose devoted inhabitants, totally resigned to despond- ence, w r andered through the streets and public assemblies, giving utterance to their grief in dirges cuse, the insults of a fanatic populace. The sectaries Mere gradually disqualified for the possession of honourable or lucrative employments, and Theodosius M as satisfied with his own justice when he decreed, that, as the Eunomians'distinguished the nature of the Son from that of the Father, they should be incapable of making their M ills, or of receiving any advantage from testamentary donations.” 118 MOORE'S WORKS. of the most touching lamentation. l At length, Fl&vianus, their bishop, whom they had sent to intercede with Theodosius, finding all his en- treaties coldly rejected, 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. THE SCEPTIC, A PHILOSOPHICAL SATIRE. No/aoi> iravrcov /SaaiXea. PINDAR, ap. Ilerodot. lib. iii. PREFACE. The Sceptical Philosophy of the Ancients has been no less misrepresented than the Epicurean. Pyrrho may perhaps have carried it to rather an irrational excess ; — but we must not believe, with Beattie, all the absurdities imputed to this philo- sopher ; and it appears to me that the doctrines of the school, as explained by Sextus Empiricus, 2 are far more suited to the wants and infirmities of human reason, as well as more conducive to the mild virtues of humility and patience, than any of those systems of philosophy which pre- ceded the introduction of Christianity. The Sceptics may be said to have held a middle path between the Dogmatists and Academicians ; the former of whom boasted that they had attained the truth, while the latter denied that any at- tainable truth existed. The Sceptics, however, without either asserting or denying its existence, professed to be modestly and anxiously in search of it ; or, as St. Augustine expresses it, in his liberal tract against the Manichaeans, “nemo nostrum dicat jam se invenisse veritatem ; sic earn quaeramus quasi ab utrisque nesciatur.” 3 From this habit of impartial investigation, and the necessity which it imposed upon them, of studying not only every system of philosophy, but every art and science, which professed to lay its basis in truth, they necessarily took a wider range of erudition, and were far more travelled in the regions of philosophy than those whom con- viction or bigotry had domesticated in any parti- cular system. It required all the learning of dogmatism to overthrow the dogmatism of learn- 1 Me\r) Tiva o\o$vpfiov TrXrjpr] Kan. <717*7 ra 6 a,a<; trvvde- p-evoi., rau ; p.c\a>6uiii enpSov. — Nice]>hor. lib. xii. cap. 43. This story is told also in Sozomen, lib. vii. cap. 25. ; but unfortunately Chrysostom says nothing what- ever about it, and he not only had the best opportunities of information, but was too fond of music, as appears by his praises of psalmody (Exposit. in Psalm xli.), to omit 6uch a flattering illustration of its powers. He imputes their reconciliation to the interference of the Antiochian solitaries, while Zozimus attributes it to the remonstrances of the sophist Libanius. — Gibbon, I think, does not even allude to this story of the musi- cians. 2 Pyrrli. Ilypoth. — The reader may find a tolerably ing ; and the Sceptics may be said to resemble in this respect, that ancient incendiary, who stole from the altar the fire with which he destroyed the temple. This advantage over all the other sects is allowed to them even by Lipsius, whose treatise on the miracles of the Virgo Ilallensis will suf- ficiently save him from all suspicion of scepticism. “ Lahore, ingenio, memoria,” he says, “ supra omnes pene philosophos fuisse Quid nonne omnia aliorum secta tenere debuerunt et in- quirere si poterunt, refellere ? res dicit. Nonne orationes varias, raras, subtiles inveniri ad tarn receptas, claras, certas (ut videbatur) sententias evertendas ?” &c. &c. 4 — Manuduct. adPhilosoph. Stoic. Dissert. 4. Between the scepticism of the ancients and the moderns the great difference is, that the former doubted for the purpose of investigating, as may be exemplified by the third book of Aristotle’s Metaphysics, 5 while the latter investigate for the purpose of doubting, as maybe seen through most of the philosophical works of Hume. 6 Indeed, the Pyrrhonism of latter days is not only more subtle than that of antiquity, but, it must be con- fessed, more dangerous in its tendency. The happiness of a Christian depends so essentially upon his belief, that it is but natural he should feel alarm at the progress of doubt, lest it should steal by degrees into that region from which he is most interested in excluding it, and poison at last the very spring of his consolation and hope. Still, however, the abuses of doubting ought not to deter a philosophical mind from indulging mildly and rationally in its use ; and there is nothing, surely, more consistent with the meek spirit of Christi- clear abstract of this work of Sextus Empiricus In La Verite des Sciences, by Mersenne, liv. i. chap. ii. &c. 3 Lib. contra Epist. Manichaei quam vocant Funda- menti. Op. Paris, tom. vi. t See Martin. Schoockius de Scepticismo, who en- deavours — weakly, I think — to refute this opinion of Lipsius. 5 E Then, only think, the libertines ! They wash their toes — they comb their chins, 7 With many more such deadly sins ; And what’s the worst (though last I rank it), Believe the Chapter of the Blanket I Yet, spite of tenets so flagitious, (Which must, at bottom, be seditious Since 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’rallv expect, Belong to us, the Establish’d sect, 1 “ C’est un lxonnetc liomme,” said a Turkish go* veruor of De Ruyter; “e’est grand dommage qu’il suit Chretien.” 2 Sunnites and Shiites arc the two leading sects into which the Mahometan 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 Ascendency, re- probates in this Letter. 3 “ Les Sunnites, qui etoient comme les Catholiques de Musulmanisme.” — D'Herbelot. 4 “ In contradistinction to the Sounis, who in their prayers cross their hands on the lower part of their 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. &c. — Forster's Voyage. Who disbelieve (the Lord be thanked 1 ) Tlx’ 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) Fare just as well, with all their fuss, As rascal Sunnites do with us. The tender Gazcl I enclose Is for my love, my Syrian Rose — Take it when night begins to fall, And throw it o’er her mother’s wall. GAZEL. Rkmkmberest thou the hour we past,— . That hour the happiest and the last ? Olx ! 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. llow can we live, so far apart ? Oh 1 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 ! 8 LETTER VII. FROM MESSRS. L — CK— GT — X AXD CO. TO , ESQ. 9 Per Post, Sir, we send vour M^. — look’d it thro’ — Very sorry — but can’t undertake — ’twouldn’t do. Clever work, Sir! — would get vp prodigiously well — Its only defect is — it never would sell. And though Statesmen may glory in being im- ho ught. In an Author ’tis not so desirable thought. Hard times, Sir, — most books are too dear to be read — Though the gold ot Good-sense and Wit’s small- change are fled, Yet the paper we Publishers pass, in their stead, 5 “ Les Turcs nc detestent pas All reciproquement ; au contrairc, ils 1c reconnoisscnt,” &c. &c. — Chardin. 6 “ The Shiites wear green slippers, which the Sun- nites consider as a great abomination.” — Mariti. 7 For these points of difference, as well as for the Chapter of the Blanket, I must refer the reader (not having the book by me) to Picart’s Account of the Mahometan Sects. 8 This Mill appear strange to an English reader, but it is literally translated from Abdallah’s Persian, and the curious bird to Mhich he alludes is the Juftak, of which I find the following account in Richardson : — “ A sort of bird, that is said to have but one M ing ; on the opposite side to which the male has a hook and the female a ring, so that, M hen they fly, they arc fastened together.” 9 From motives of delicacy, and, indeed, of fellow- feeling, I suppress the name of the Author, whose rejected manuscript was inclosed in this letter. — See the Appendix. INTERCEPTED LETTERS. 129 Rises higher each (lay, and (’tis frightful to think it) Not even such names as F— tzg— r— d’s can sink itl However, Sir, — if you’re for trying again, And at somewhat that’s vendible — we are your men. Since the Chevalier C — rr 1 took to marrying lately, The Trade is in want of a Traveller greatly — No job, Sir, more easy — your Country once plann’d, A month aboard ship and a fortnight on land Puts your Quarto of Travels, Sir, clean out of hand. An East-India pamphlet’s a thing that would tell — And 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, You’ll get to the Blue-stocking Routs of Al- binia ! - (Mind — not to her dinners — a second-hand Muse Mustn’t think of aspiring to mess with the Blues.) Or — in case nothing else in this world you can do — The deuce is in’t, Sir, if you cannot review ! Should you feel any touch of poetical glow, A'e’ve a Scheme to suggest — Mr. Sc — tt, you must know, (Who, we’re sorry to say it, now works for the Bow?) Having quitted the Borders, to seek new renown, Is coming, by long Quarto stages, to Town ; And beginning with Rokcby (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 hack- neys 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 curst 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 l and we’ll put you in training next week. At present, no more — in reply to this Letter, a Line will oblige very much Yours, et cetera. Temple of the Muses. 1 Sir John Carr, the author of “ Tours in Ireland, Holland, Sweden,” &c. &c- 2 This alludes, 1 believe, to a curious correspondence, which is said to have passed lately between Alb— n_a, Countess of B-ck— gh — ms — c, and a certain inge- nious Parodist. 3 Paternoster Row. 4 This Letter enclosed a Card for the Grand Fete on the 5th of February. 5 An amateur actor of much risible renown. 6 Quem tu, Melpomene, semel Nascentem plaeido lumine, videris, &c, HORAT. LETTER VIII. FROM COLONEL Til— M— S TO . SIC — FF — NOT — X, ESQ. Come to our Fete, 1 2 3 4 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 — l’s self inquir’d “ who made it?” — When Cits came wond’ring, from the East, And thought thee Poet Pye at least! 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 even 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 A1 — x — nd — r, Too precious to be wash’d,) — thy rings, Thy seals — in short, thy prettiest things 1 Put all thy wardrobe’s glories on, And yield in frogs and fringe, to none But the great R — g — t’s self alone ; Who — by particular desire — For that night only , means to hire A dress from Romeo C — tes, Esquire. 5 6 Hail, first of Actors 1 6 best of R— g— ts 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 1 7 Thou know’st the time, thou man of lore I It takes to chalk a ball-room floor — Thou know’st the time, too, well-a-day 1 It takes to dance that chalk away. 5 The Ball-room opens — far and nigh Comets and suns beneath us lie ; O’er snow-white moons and stars we walk, And the floor seems one sky of chalk I But soon shall fade that 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 : — With every step a star hath fled, And suns grow dim beneath their tread ! So passeth life — (thus Sc — tt would write, And spinsters read him with delight,) The Man, upon whom thou hast deign’d to look funny Oh Tragedy’s Muse ! at the hour of his birth — Let them say what they will, that’s the Man for inu money, Give others thy tears, but let me have thy mirth I 7 The crest of Mr. C— tes, the very amusing amateur tragedian here alluded to, was a cock ; and most pro- fusely were his liveries, harness, &c. covered with this ornament. 8 To those, who neither go to balls nor read the Morning Post, it may be necessary to mention, that tho floors ot Ball-rooms, in general, are chalked, for safety and for ornament, with various fanciful devices. K 130 MOORE’S WORKS. Hours are not feet, yet hours trip on, Time is not chalk, yet time’s soon gone ! * But, hang this long digressive flight ! — I meant to sny, thou'lt see, that night, What falsehood rankles in their hearts, Who say the Pr e neglects the arts — Neglects the arts ? — no, Str— hi— g,2 no ; Thu Cupids answer “ ’tis not so ; ” And every floor, that night, shall tell llow quick thou daubest, and how well. Shine as thou may’st in French vermilion, Thou’rt best beneath a French Cotillion ; And still com’st off, whate’er thy faults, Withjfyinp colours in a Waltz. Nor need’st thou mourn the transient date To thy best works assign’d by fate. While some chcf-d’ccuvres 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 1 ” 2 3 4 * 1 But, bless my soul ! I’ve scarce a leaf Of paper left — so, must be brief. This festive FOte, in fact, will be The former Tele's facsimile ; 4 The 6ame long Masquerade of Rooms, All trick’d up in such odd costumes, (These, P— rt— r,5 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 fauteuils and girondoles — The same gold Asses, 6 pre-tty souls ! That, in this rich and classic dome, Appear so perfectly at home. The same bright river ’mong the dishes, But not — ah I not the same dear fishes — Late hours and claret kill’d the old one’s — 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 Y — ns— tt — t told The R — g— t) are as good as Gold l So, prithee, come — our Fete will be But half a Fete if wanting thee. 1 Hearts are not flint, yet flints are rent, Hearts are not steel, yet steel is bent. After all, however, Mr. Sc— tt may well say to the Colonel, (and, indeed, to much better wags than the Colonel), fiaov fjMipLetudat rj fx-tficiadat. 2 A foreign artist much patronized by the Prince Regent. 3 The name of a popular country-dance. 4 “ C— rlt — n H e will exhibit a complete fac- simile in respect to interior ornament, to what it did at APPENDIX. EETTER IV. FA OK 126. Among the papers, enclosed in Dr. D — g— n — n’s Letter, was found an Heroic Epistle in Latir. verse, from Pope Joan to her Lover, of which, ns it is rather a curious document, I shall venture to give some account. This female Pontiff was a native of England, (or, according to others, of Germany,) who, at an early age disguised her- self in male attire, and followed her lover, a young ecclesiastic, to Athens, where she studied with such effect, that upon her arrival at Rome, she was thought worthy of being raised to the Pontificate. This Epistle is addressed to her Lover (whom she had elevated to the dignity of Cardinal), soon after the fatal accouchement , by which her Fallibility was betrayed. She begins by reminding him tenderly of the time, when they were together at Athens — when, as she says, • . . . “ by Ilissus’ stream “ We whisp’ring walk’d along, and learn’d to speak “ The tenderest feelings in the purest Greek ; — “ Ah, then how little did we think or hope, “ Dearest of men, that I should e’er be Pope ! 7 “ That I, the humble Joan, whose house-wife art “ Seem’d just enough to keep thy house and heart, “ (And those, alas, at sixes and at sevens,) “Should soon keep all the keys of all the heavens I ” Still less (she continues to say) could they have foreseen, that such a catastrophe as had happened in Council would befall them — that she “ Should thus surprise the Conclave’s grave de- corum “ And let a little Pope pop out before ’em — “ Pope Innocent ! alas, the only one “ That name could e’er be justly fix’d upon.” She then very pathetically laments the downfall of her greatness, and enumerates the various trea- sures to which she is doomed to bid farewell for ever : — “ But oh, more dear, more precious ten times over— “ Farewell my Lord, my Cardinal, my Lover ! “ I made thee Cardinal — thou mad’st me — ah ! “ Thou mad’st the Papa of the world Mamma ! ” I have not time at present to translate anymore of this Epistle ; but I presume the argument the last F6te. The same splendid draperies,” &c. &c. — Morning Post. 5 Mr. Walsh Porter, to whose taste was left the fur- nishing of the rooms of Carlton House. 6 The salt-cellars on the Pr e’s own table were in the form of an Ass with panniers. 7 Spanheim attributes the unanimity, with which Joan was elected, to that innate and irresistible charm, by which her sex, though latent, operated upon th« instinct of the Cardinals — “ Non vi aliqui, sed con. corditer, omnium in se converso desiderio, quae sunt blandientis sexus artes, latentes in h&c quanquam ! ” INTERCEPTED LETTERS. 131 which the Jtight Hon. Doctor and his friends mean to deduce from it, is (in their usual con- vincing strain) that Romanists must be unworthy of Emancipation now , because they had a Petticoat Pope in the Ninth Century. Nothing can be more logically clear, and I find that Horace had exactly the same views upon the subject. Jtomanus (eheu posteri negabitis I) Emancipatus FCEMIN/E Fert vallum l ♦ LETTER VII. PAGE 128. The Manuscript, found enclosed in the Book- seller’s Letter, turns out to be a Melo-Drama, in two Acts, entitled “ The Book,” l of which the Theatres, of course, had had the refusal, before it was presented to Messrs. L— clc — ngt — n and Co. This rejected Drama, however, possesses con- siderable merit, and I shall take the liberty of laying a sketch of it before my Readers. The first Act opens in a very awful manner — Time, three o’clock in the morning — Scene , the Bourbon Chamber 2 in C— rlt— n 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 devilisli Book, I meet thee — trace thee, wheresoe’er I look. I see thy damned ink in Eld — n’s brows — I see thy foolscap on my H— rtf— d’s Spouse — V— ns — tt — t’s head recalls thy leathern case, And all thy Hack leaves stare from R— d— r’s face 1 While turning here (layinghis 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 I oh potent Curagoa I Oh Mareschino 1 Mareschino oh Delicious drams 1 why have you not the art To kill this gnawing Book-worm in my heart ? He is here interrupted in his Soliloquy by perceiv- ing on the ground some scribbled fragments of paper, which he instantly collects, and “ by the light of two magnificent candelabras ” discovers the following unconnected words, “ Wife neg- lected" — “ the Book ” — “ Wrong Measures ” — “ the Queen " — “ Mr. Lambert " — “ the B — g — f.” Ha ! treason in my house 1 — Curst words, that wither My princely soul, ( shaking the papers violently ) what demon brought you hither ? 1 There was, in like manner, a mysterious Book, In the 16th century, which employed all the anxious curiosity of the Learned of that time. Every one spoke of it; “many wrote against it; though it does not appear than any body had ever seen it ; and Grotius is of opinion that no such Book ever existed. It M as en- titled “ Liber de tribus impostoribus.” (See Morhof, Cap. de Libris damnatis.) — Our more modern mystery of “the Book” resembles this in many particulars; and, if the number of Lawyers employed in drawing it up be stated correctly, a slight alteration of the title “My Wife;” — “the Book” too!— stay— a nearer look — {holding the fragments closer to the Candelabras ) Alas ! too plain, B, double O, K, Book — Death and destruction I 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 dif- ferent directions for the L — rd Ch— nc— 11— r, the D — e of C — b — 1 — d, &c. &c. The inter- mediate time is filled up by another soliloquy, at the conclusion of which the aforesaid Personages rush on alarmed ; the D— ke 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.” 3 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, 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, Which curl’d in conscious majesty I {pulls out his handkerchief) — while cries Of “ Whiskers, whiskers I ” shook the echoing skies. — J ust in that glorious hour, methought, there came, With looks of injur’d pride, a Princely Dame, And a young maiden, clinging by her side, As if she fear’d some tyrant would divide Two 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— {ivipcs 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.) Heav’ns, how it blaz’d ! — I’d ask no livelier fire {With animation) To roast a Papist by, my gra- cious Sire ! — But, ah I the Evidence — {weeps again) I mourn’d to see — Cast, as it bum’d, a deadly light on thee : And Tales and Hints their random sparkle flung, And hiss’d and crackled, like an old maid’s tongue ; into “ d tribus impostoribus ” would produce a coinci- dence altogether very remarkable. 2 The same Chamber, doubtless, that was prepared for the reception of the Bourbons at the first Grand FSte, and Mhich was ornamented (all “ for the Deliver- ance of Europe ”) with fleurs-de-lys. 3 “ To enable the individual, who holds the office of Chancellor, to maintain it in becoming splendour.” {A loud laugh.) — LORD CASTLEREAGU’S Speech upon the Vice-Chancellor's Bill. 132 MOORE’S WORKS. While l*ost nml Courier , faithful to their fume, Made up in stink for what they lack’d in flame, When lo, ye Gods 1 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 “ Post One,” and — I awoke. Here his Lordship weeps more profusely than ever, and the R — g — t (who lias been very much agitated during the recital of the Dream) by a movement os 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 ex- amined, and it appears that a Tailor, who had come to measure 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, accordingly, determined to seize the Tailor, and the Council breaks up with a unani- mous resolution to be vigorous. The commencement of the Second Act turns chiefly upon the Trial and Imprisonment of two Brothers 1 — but as this forms the under plot of the Drama, I shall content myself with ex- tracting from it the following speech, which is addressed to the two Brothers, as they “ exeunt severally ” to Prison : — 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 a3 if aw'd, To tell how gay the young world laughs abroad l 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, And spread, 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 I The Scene next changes to a Tailor’s Work- shop, and a fancifully-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 come forward, while one of them 6ings the following Stanzas to the tune of “ Derry Down.” Mr. Leigh Hunt and his brother My brave brother Tailors, come, straighten yuur knees, For a moment, like gentlemen, stand up at case, While I sing of our P c (and a fig for his rollers) The Shop-board’s delight l the Maecenas of Tailors 1 Derry down, down, down derry down. Some monarchs take round about ways into note, While His short cut to fame is — the cut of his coat ; Philip’s Son thought the World was too small for his Soul, But our R — g — t’s finds room in a lac’d button- hole. Derry down, &c. Look through all Europe’s Kings — those, at least, who go loose — Not a King of them all’s such a friend to the Goose, So, God keep him increasing in size and renown, Still the fattest and best fitted P e about town I Derry down, &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 inter- rupted 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 ma- nagement of the Tailor’s examination is highly skilful, and the alarm, which he is made to betray, 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-excul- patory note, which lie had intended to send to Colonel M‘M n upon subjects purely pro- fessional, and the corresponding bits (which still lie luckily in his pocket) being produced, and skilfully laid beside 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 1 they wouldn’t go half round the R — g— t — So, hope you’ll excuse yours till death, most obedient. This fully explains the whole mystery — the R — g— t resumes his -wonted smiles, and the Drama terminates as usual, to the satisfaction of all parties. SATIRICAL AND HUMOROUS POEMS. 153 SATIRICAL AND HUMOROUS POEMS. 2XOAAZONTOS A2KOAIA. THE INSURRECTION OF THE PAPERS. S«am. “ It would be impossible for His Royal Highness to disengage his person from the accumulating pile of papers that encompassed it.” — LORD CASTLEREAGH’S Speech upon Colonel M' Mahon's Appointment , April 14 , 1812 . Last night I toss’d and turn’d in bed. But could not sleep — at length I said, 14 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 be. And then I dreamt — so dread a dream ! Fuseli has no such theme ; Lewis never wrote or borrow’d Any horror, half so horrid ! Metliought the Pr 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 toast, Death-warrants and the Morning Post. Whenlo I the Papers, one and all, As if at some magician’s call, Began to flutter of themselves From desk and table, floor and shelves, 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 bev}\ Then Common-IIall Addresses came In swaggering sheets, and took their aim Right at the R — g — t’s well-dress’d head, As if determin'd 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 41 predilections ” — Ilis own dear Letter, void of grace, Now flew up in its parent’s face ! Shock’d with his breach of filial duty, He just could murmur 44 et Tu Brute ? ” Then sunk, subdued upon the floor At Fox’s bust, to rise no more 1 I wak’d — and pray’d, with lifted hand, 44 Oh ! never may this Dream prove true ; 44 Though paper overwhelms the land, 44 Let it not crush the Sovereign too 1 ” PARODY OF A CELEBRATED LETTER. At length, dearest Freddy, the moment is nigh. When, with P— rc— v— l’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 3 'ou this Letter, But Y— rm — th and I thought perhaps ’twould be better I To wait till the Irish affairs were decided — (That is, till both Houses had prosed and divided, With all due appearance of thought and di- gestion) — For, though II— rtf— rd House had long settled the question, I thought it but decent, between me and you. That the two other Houses should settle it too. I need not remind you how cursedly bad Our affairs were all looking, when Father went mad ;2 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 ’i think it hardly necessary to call your recol- lection to the recent circumstances under which T assumed the authority delegated to me by Parliament ” — Prince's Letter. 184 MOORE’S WORKS. 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, l So I sent word to 6ay, I would keep the whole batch in. The same chest of tools, without cleansing or patching t For tools of this kind, like Martinus’s sconce, 2 Would lose all their beauty, if purified once ; And think — only think — if our Father should find, Upon graciously coming again to his mind, 8 That improvement had spoil’d any favourite adviser — That R — se was grown honest, or W — stm — re- 1 — nd wiser — That R— d — r was, ev’n by one twinkle, the brighter — Or L — v — rp — Ts speeches but half a pound lighter — What a shock to his old royal heart it would be ! Iso ! — far were such dreams of improvement from me : And it pleas’d me to find, at the House, where, you know, 1 2 3 4 There’s such good mutton cutlets, and strong cura^oa, 5 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 withheld 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 I did not. And my wish is, in truth, that the best of old fellows 6hould not, on recovering, have cause to be jealous, But find that, while lie lias 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.6 A new era’s arriv’d, 7 — though you’d hardly believe it — And all things, of course, must be new to receive it. 1 “ My sense of duty to our Royal father solely de- cided that choice.” — Prince's Letter. 2 The antique shield of Martinus Scriblerus, which, upon scouring, turned out to be only an old sconce. 3 “ I waved any personal gratification, in order that his Majesty might resume, on his restoration to health, every power and prerogative,” &c. — Prince's Letter. 4 “ And I have the satisfaction of knowing that such New villas, new fStes (which ev’n Waithman attends) — New saddles, new helmets, and — why not neu> friends t * * * * * * * * I repeat it, “ New Friends ” — for I cannot describe The delight I am in with this P — rc — v — 1 tribe. Such capering I — Such vapouring ! — Such rigour 1 — Such vigour 1 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, ’Tis enough quite to turn my illustrious brains. It is true we are bankrupts in commerce and riches, But think how wc find our allies in new 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 1 and how squabbles his brother 1 For Papists the one, and with Papists the other ; One crushing Napoleon by taking a City, While t’other lays waste a whole Cath’lic Com- mittee. 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 8 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 feel I resentments, nor wish there should come ill To mortal — except (now I think on’t) Beau Br — mm — 1, 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 was the opinion of persons for whose judgment,” &c. &c. — Prince's Letter 5 The letter-writer’s favourite luncheon. 6 “ I certainly am the last person in the kingdom to whom it can be permitted to despair of our royal father’s recovery.” — Prince's Letter. 7 ” A new era is now arrived, and I cannot but re- flect with satisfaction,” &c. — Ibid. 8 ” I have no predilections to indulge — no resent- ment s to gratify.” — Ibid. SATIRICAL AND HUMOROUS POEMS. 135 f 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 appro- bation “ 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 hum- bug’d so long l With the notion (good men I) 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 shan’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 It— 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 1 So, in short, if they wish to have Places, they may, And I’ll thank you to tell all these matters to Grey ,2 Who, I doubt not, will write (as there’s no time to lose'i By the twopenny post to tell Grenville the news ; And now, dearest Fred (though I’ve no predilec- tion), Believe me yours always with truest affection. P. S. A copy of this is to P — rc — 1 going 3 — Good Lord, how St. Stephen’s will ring with his crowing I ANACREONTIC TO A PLUMASSIEH. Fine and feathery artisan, Best of Plumists (if you can With your art so far presume) Make for me a Pr— ce’s Plume — 1 “ I cannot conclude without expressing the gra- tification I should feel if somo of those persons witli whom the early habits of my public life were formed would strengthen my hands, and constitute a part of my government.” — Prince's Letter. 2 “ You are authorized to communicate these senti- ments to Lord Grey, who, I have no doubt, will make them known to Lord Grenville.” — Ibid. Feathers soft and feathers rare, Such as suits a Pr — ce 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 sidennight stand. If there were no cocks at hand. Seek her feathers soft as down, Fit to shine on Pr— ce’s crown ; If thou canst not find them, stupid ! Ask the way of Prior’s Cupid. 1 2 * 4 Ranging these in order due, Pluck me next an old Cuckoo ; Emblem of the happy fates Of easy, kind, cornuted mates. Pluck him well— be sure you do — Who wouldn’t be an old Cuckoo, Thus to have his plumage blest, Beaming on a R— y— 1 crest ? Bravo, Plumist I — now what bir Shall we find for Plume the third ? You must get a learned Owl, Bleakest of black-letter fowl, — Bigot bird, that hates the lights Foe to all that’s fair and bright. Seize his quills, (so form’d to pen Books, 6 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 1 Only lit 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 M— nch— st— r Square took a canter just now — Met the old yellow chariot , 7 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 ! IIow unlucky 1 — incog, he was traveling about, And I, like a noodle, must go find him out. 3 “ I shall send a copy of this letter immediately to Mr. Perceval.” — Prince's Letter. '4 See Prior’s poem, entitled ‘‘The Dove.” 5 P — rc— v — 1. 6 In allusion to “ the Book ” which created such a sensation at that period. 7 The incog, vehicle of the Pr— ce. 136 MOORE’S WORKS. Mem . — "when r.ext by the old yellow chariot T 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 ? The P — ce was as cheerful, as if, all his life, lie had never been troubled with Friends or a Wife — « Fine weather,” says he — to which I, who must prate, Answer’d, ‘‘Yes, Sir, but changeable rather, of late.” lie 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 off, And then, Lord, how Geramb 1 * 3 would triumph- antly scoff I Mem. — to buy for son Dicky some unguent or lotion To nourish his whiskers — sure road to promo- tion l t 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.” 3 Iii choosing songs, the R— g— t nam’d “ Had I a heart for falsehood fram'd. ’ ’ While gentle II— rtf— d begg’d and pray’d For “ Young I am, and sore afraid EPIGRAM. What news to-day ? — Oli ! worse and worse — “ Mac * is the Pr — ce’s Privy Purse ! ” — The Pr — ce’s Purse! no, no, you fool, You mean the Pr— ce’s Pidicule. KING CRACK® AND IIIS IDOLS. WRITTEN AFTER THE LATE NEGOTIATION FOR A NEW M— N— STRY. Kino 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 liet’rodox things, And, at last, took to worshipping Images sadly. Some broken-down Idols, that long had been plac’d In his father’s old Cabinet, pleas’d him so much, 1 Baron Geramb, the rival of his Royal Highness in whiskers. 3 England is not the only country where merit of this kind is noticed and rewarded. “I remember,” says Tavernier, ‘‘ to have seen one of the King of Per- sia’s porters, whose moustaches were so long that he could tie them behind liis neck, for which reason he had a double pension.” 3 A rhetorical figure used by Lord C— stl— r-gh, in •nc of his sj>ceches. That lie knelt down and worshipp’d, though — such was his taste 1 — They were monstrous to look at, and rotten to touch. And these were the beautiful Gods of King Crack ! — But his people, disdaining to worship 6uch things, Cried aloud, one and all, “ Come, your Godships must pack — “ Y ou’ll not do for us, though you may do for Kings." Then, trampling these images under their feet, They sent Crack a petition, beginning “ Great Caesar 1 “ We’re willing to worship ; but only entreat “ That you’ll find us some decenter Godheads than these are.” “I’ll try,” says King Crack — so they furnish’d him models Of better shap’d Gods, but he sent them all back ; Some were cliisell’d too fine, some had heads ’stead of noddles, In short, 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 man, Set the monsters up grinning once more in their places. WHAT’S MY THOUGHT LIKE ? Quest. Why is a Pump like Y— sc— nt C— stl — r — gh ? A nsw. 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 1 + EPIGRAM. DIALOGUE BETWEEN A CATHOLIC DELEGATE AND IIIS R— Y— L H— GHN— SS THE D— E OF C— B— L— D. Said his Highness to Ned, 6 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 l ” 4 Colonel M — cm — h — n. 5 One of those antediluvian Princes, with whom Manetho and Whiston seem so intimately acquainted. If wc had the Memoirs of Thoth, from which Manetho compiled his History, we should find, I dare say, that Crack was only a Regent, and that he, perhaps, suc- ceeded Typhon, who (as "Whiston says) was the last king of the Antediluvian Dynasty. o Edward Byrne, the head of the Delegates of the Irish Catholics, SATIRICAL AND HUMOROUS POEMS. 137 WREATHS FOR 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 wreaths for those, who rule us, Those, who rule and (some say) fool us — Flora, sure, will love to please England’s Household Deities 1 > 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 dozy, Garland gaudy, dull and cool, To crown 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 1) 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 II — df— t brought away From Pall-Mall last Patrick’s day 2)_ 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, Crimp the leaves, thou first of Syrens, Crimp them with thy curling-irons. That’s enough — away — away — Had I leisure, I could say IIow the oldest rose that grows Must be pluck’d to deck Old Rose — How the Doctor’s 3 brow should smile Crown’d with wreaths of camomile. But time presses — to thy taste I leave the rest, so, prithee, haste 1 EPIGRAM. DIALOGUE BETWEEN A DOWACER AND HER MAID ON THE NIGHT OF LORD Y— RM — TH’S FeTE. “ I want the Court Guide,” said my lady, « to look “If the House, Seymour Place, bo 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 1 ” HORACE, ODE XI. LIB. II. FREELY TRANSLATED BY THE PR— CE R — G — T.4 s Come, Y — rm — th, my boy, never trouble your brains, About what your old crony, The Emperor Boney, Is doing or brewing on Muscovy’s plains ; 6 Nor tremble, my lad, at the state of our gra- naries : 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 ; 7 For the gay bloom of fifty soon passes away, And then people get fat, And infirm, and — all that, 8 And a wig (I confess it) so clumsily sits, That it frightens the little Loves out of their wits ; 9 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 whis- kers I) to Grey. to Then why, my Lord Warden, oh I why should you fidget Your mind about matters you don’t under- stand ? 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, 1 The ancients, in like manner, crowned their Lares, or Household Gods. See Juvenal, Sat. 9. iv. 158.— Plutarch, too, tells us that Household Gods were then, as they are now, “much given to "War and penal Statutes.” — cpivvveodeic xat irotvi/xovc 6ai/j.ova f. 2 Certain tinsel imitations of the Shamrock which are distributed by the Servants of C n House every Patrick’s Day. 3 The sobriquet given to Lord Sidmouth. 4 This and the following arc extracted from a Work, which may, some time or other, meet the eye of the Public — entitled “ Odes of Horace, done into English by several Persons of Fashion.” 5 Quid bellicosus Cantaber, ct Scythes, Hirpine Qulncti, cogitet, Hadria Divisus objecto, remittas Qiucrere. 6 Nec trepides in usum Poscentis revi pauca. 7 Fugit retro Levis juventas et decor. 0 rellente lascivos amorcs Canitic. • Neque uno Luna rtibtns nitet Vultu. 19 Quid aeternis minorem Consiliis animuin fatigas r 138 MOORE’S WORKS. (Which both you and I Should avoid by the bye,) > IIow much pleasanter *tis to sit under the bust Of old Charley ,2 my friend here, and drink like a new one ; While Charley looks sulky and frowns at me, just As the Ghost in the Pantomime frowns at Don Juan. 8 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 gold fishes, Romantic doth flow I — 5 Or who will repair Unto M ch r Sq e, And see if the gentle Marchesa be there ? Go — bid her haste hither, 6 And let her bring with her The newest No-Popery Sermon that’s going — Oh I let her come, with her dark tresses flowing, All gentle and juvenile, curly and gay, In the manner of — Ackermann’s Dresses for May 1 % ♦ HORACE, ODE XXII. LIB. I. FREELY TRANSLATED BY LORD ELD— N. 8 The man who keeps a conscience pure, (.If not his own, at least his Prince’s,) 1 Cur non sub alta vel platano, vel hac Pinu jacentes sic temere. 2 Charles Fox. 3 Rosl Canos odorati capillos, Dum licet, Assyriaque nardo Potamus unctL 4 Quis puer ocius Restinguet ardentis Falerni Pocula preetereunte lyntphaf 5 Quis cliciet domo Lyden ? 6 Eburna, die age, cum lyra (qu. liar-a ) MaturcL 7 Incomtam Lac®n® More comam religata nodo. 3 Integer vit® scelerisque purus. 9 Non eget Mauri jaculis, neque arcu, Nec venenatis gravida sagittis, Fusee, pharetra. • 10 Sive per Syrtes iter ®stuosns, Sive facturus per inhospitalem Caucasum, vel qu® loca fabulosus Lambit Hydaspes. The Noble Translator had, at first, laid the scene of these imagined dangers of his Man of Conscience among the Papists of Spain, and had translated the words “qua loca fabulosus lambit Hydaspes” thus — “The fabling Spaniard licks the French ; ” but, recollecting that it is our interest just now to be respectful to Spanish Catholics (though there is certainly no earthly reason for our being even commonly civil to Irish ones), he altered the passage as it stands at present. Through toil and danger walks secure, Looks big and black, and never winces. 9 No want has he of sword or dagger, Cock’d hat or ringlets of Geramb : Though Peers may laugh and Papists swagger, lie doesn’t care one singled d-mn. 10 Whether midst Irish chairmen going, Or through St. Giles’s alleys dim, ’Mid drunken Sheelalis, blasting, blowing, No matter, ’tis all one to him. u For instance, I, one evening late, Upon a gay vacation sally. Singing the praise of Church and State, Got (God knows how) to Cranbournc Alley. When lo 1 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. 12 Yet a more tierce 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. 13 Oh 1 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 ; 1 1 Of Church and State I’ll warble still Though even Dick M— rt— n’s self should grumble 1 Sweet Church and State, like Jack and Jill, 15 So lovingly upon a hill — Ah 1 ne’er like Jack and Jill to tumble I I I Namque me silvi lupus in SabinA, Dum meam canto Lalagen, ct ultra Termiuum curis vagor expeditis, Fugit inermcm. I cannot help calling the reader’s attention to the peculiar ingenuity with which these lines are para- phrased. Not to mention the happy conversion of the Wolf into a Papist, (seeing that Romulus was suckled byaw r olf, that Rome was founded by Romulus, and that the Pope has always reigned at Rome), there is something particularly neat in supposing “ ultra term- inum”to mean vacation-time : and then the modest consciousness with which the. Noble and Learned Trans- lator lias avoided touching upon the words “ curis ex- peditis'' (or, as it has been otherwise read, “ causis expeditis,") and the felicitous idea of his being “ inermis ” when “ without his wig,” are altogether the most delectable specimens of paraphrase in our language. 12 Quale portentum neque militaris Daunias latis alit sesculetis, Nec Jub® tcllus generat ieonum Arida nutrix. 13 Pone me pigris ubi nulla cam pis Arbor sestiva recreatur aura : Quod latus mundi, nebul®, malusquo Jupiter urget. I must here remark, that the said Dick M— rt— n being a very good fellow, it was not at all fair to make a “ malus Jupiter ” of him. 1 4 Dulce ridentem Lalagen amabo, Dulce loquentem. 15 There cannot be imagined a more happy illustra- tion of the inseparability of Church and State, and their SATIRICAL AND HUMOROUS POEMS. 139 THE NEW COSTUME OF THE MINISTERS. .... Nova monstra creavit. Ovid. Metamorph. 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, God bless us I as never deck’d any Male creature before, except Signor Giovanni — “ Let’s see,” said the R— g — t (like Titus, per- plex’d With the duties of empire,) “ whom shall I dress next ?” He looks in the glass — but perfection is there, Wig, whiskers, and cliin-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 1 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 devilish hard work to wnpack him again. So, what’s to be done ! — there’s the Ministers, bless ’em 1 — As he made the puppets, why shouldn’t he dress ’em ? “An excellent thought 1 — call the tailors — be nimble — “Let Cum bring his spy-glass, and II— 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. (what is called) “ standing and falling together,” than this ancient apologue of Jack and Jill. Jack, of course, represents the State in this ingenious little Allegory. Jack fell down. And broke his Crown , And Jill came tumbling after. 1 That model of Princes, the Emperor Commodus, was particularly luxurious in the dressing and orna- menting of his hair. His conscience, however, would While Y— rm— th, with snip-like and brisk ex- pedition, Cuts up, all at once, a large Cath’lic Petition In long tailors’ measures, (the P— e crying, “ Well-done l ”) And first puts in hand my Lord Chancellor Eld— n. * * * * CORRESPONDENCE BETWEEN A LADY AND GENTLEMAN, UPON THE ADVANTAGE OF (WHAT IS CALLED) “HAVING LAW 2 ON ONQ’S SIDE.” The Gentleman's Proposal. Legge aurea, S’ ci piace, ei lice.” Come, fly to these arms, nor let beauties so bloomy To one frigid owner be tied ; Your prudes may revile, and your old ones look gloomy, But, dearest, we’ve Law on our side. Oh ! think the delight of two lovers congenial, Whom no dull decorums divide ; Their error how sweet, and their raptures how venial , When once they’ve got Law on their side. ’Tis a thing, that in every King’s reign has been done, too : Then why should it now be decried ? If the Father has done it, why shouldn’t the Son, too ? For so argues Law on our side. And, ev’n should our sweet violation of duty By cold-blooded jurors be tried, They can hut bring it in “ a misfortune,” my beauty, As long as we’ve Law on our side. The Lady's Ansiver. Hold, hold, my good sir, go a little more slowly j For, grant me so faithless a bride, Such sinners as we, are a little too lowly , To hope to have Law on our side. Had.you been a great Prince, to whose star shining o’er ’em The people should look for their guide, Then your Highness (and welcome I) might kick down decorum — You’d always have Law on your side. not suffer him to trust himself with a barber, and he used, accordingly, to burn off his beard — “ timore tonsoris,” says Lainpridius. (Hist. August. Scriptor.) The dissolute ASlius Verus, too, was equally attentive to the decoration of his wig. (See Jul. Capitolin.) —In- deed, this was not the only princely trait in the cha- racter of Yerus, as he had likewise a most hearty and dignified contempt for his Wife. — See his insulting answer to her in Spartianus. 2 In allusion to Lord Ell — nb— gh. 110 MOORE'S WORKS. Were you ev’u an old Marquis, in mischief grown hoary, Whose heart, though it long ago died To the pleasures of vice, is alive to its g lory — You still would have I.aw on your side. - But for you, Sir, Crim. Con. is a path full of troubles ; By my advice therefore abide. Ami leave the pursuit to those Princes and Nobles Who have 1 2 such a Law on their 6ide. OCCASIONAL ADDRESS FOR THE OPENING OF TIIE NEW THEATRE OF ST. ST— P1I— N, INTENDED TO IIAVE BEEN SI*OKEN BY TIIE riiorniETon in full costume, on the 24tii OF NOVEMBER, 1S12. Tins day a New House, for your edification, We open, most thinking and right-headed nation 1 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 Brah for the galleries first, But, on finding PUt-intcrest 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, Ilimself and his speeches as lengthy as ever, Here offers you still the full use of his breath, Your devoted and long-wiuded proser till death. You remember last season, when things went perverse on, 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.” 2 We expect too — at least we’ve been plotting and planning — To get that great actor from Liverpool, C — nn— g ; 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 — g should stop ’em. Who knows but we’ll have to announce in the papers, “Grand fight — second time— with additional capers.” 1 Lord C — stl — r— gh, 2 He had recently been appointed Chancellor of the Exchequer. 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 Waleheren weep o’er them yet. So much for the Actors ; — for secret machinery, Traps, and deceptions, and shifting of scenery, \ r — 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 Scats in the House , not as yet sold away, May be had of the Manager, Pat C — stl— r— gh. f TIIE SALE OF TIIE TOOLS. Instrumenta regnl. — TACITUS. Here’s a choice set of Tools for you, Gc’mnien and Ladies, They’ll fit you quite handy, whatever your trade is ; (Except it be Cabinet-making ; — no doubt, In that delicate service they’re rather worn out ; Though their owner, bright youth I 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 l What tool is there job after job will not hack ? Their edge is but dullish, it must be confess’d, And their temper, like E 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 are, some of them, excellent turning machines. The first Tool I’ll put up (they call it a Chan- cellor) 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. 3 Who bid3 ? 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; 3 In allusion to Lord Eld-n’s lachrymose ten- dencies. SATIRICAL AXD HUMOROUS POEMS. 141 Or better, perhaps, (for I’m guessing at random,) A heavy drag-chain for some Lawyer’s old Tan- dem. Will nobody bid ? it is cheap, I am sure, Sir — Once, twice, — going, going, — thrice, gone! — it is yours, Sir. To pay ready money you sha’n’t be distrest, As a bill at long date suits the Chancellor best. Come, where’s the next Tool ? — Oh ! ’tis here in a trice — This implement, Ge’mmen, at first was a Vice ; (A tenacious and close sort of tool, that will let Nothing out of his grasp it once happens to get ; ) But it since has receiv’d 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. God be with it, 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 handsel 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 .1 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 ton of the budget ! ♦ “ Must our little, little speech be about, bout, bout, “ Must our little, little speech be about ? ” , The little Man look’d big With th’ assistance of his wig, And he call’d his little Soul to order, order, order,. Till she fear’d he’d make her jog in To gaol, like Thomas Croggan, (As she wasn’t Duke or Earl) to reward her, ward her, ward her, As she wasn’t Duke or Earl, to reward her. The little Man then spoke, “ Little Soul, it is no joke, “For as sure as J — cky F — 11 — r loves a sup, sup sup, “ I will tell the Prince and People “ What I think of Church and steeple, “ And my little patent plan to prop them up, up, up. “ And my little patent plan to prop them up.” Away then, cheek by jowl, Little man and little Soul Went and spoke their little speech to a little, tittle, tittle, And the world all declare That this priggish little pair Never yet in all their lives look’d so little, little, little, Never yet in all their lives look’d so little 1 4 REINFORCEMENTS FOR LORD WELLINGTON. Suosque tibi commendat Troja Penates Bos cape fatorum comites. Virgil. LITTLE MAN AND LITTLE SOUL. A BALLAD. To the tunc of “ There teas a little man, and he woo'd a little maid." DEDICATED TO TIIE KT. IION. CII— RL— S ACE— T. Arcades ambo Et cant- are pares. 1813. There was a little Man, and he had a little Soul, And he said, “Little Soul, let us try, try, try, “ Whether it’s within our reach “ To make up a little Speech, “ Just between little you and little I, T, I, “ Just between little you and little 1 1 ” — Then said his little Soul, Peeping from her little hole, “ I protest, little Man, you are stout, stout, stout, “ But, if it’s not uncivil, “ Pray tell me what the devil 1 “ Of the taxes proposed by Mr. Vansittart, that principally opposed in Parliament was the additional duty on leather.” — A nn. Register. 1813. As recruits in these times are not easily got, And the Marshal must have them — pray why should we not, As the last and, I grant it, the worst of our loans to him, Ship off the Ministry, body and bones to him ! There’s not in all England, I’d venture to swear, Any men we could half so conveniently spare ; And, though they’ve been helping the French for years past, We may thus make them useful to England at last. C — stl — r — gh in our sieges might save some dis- graces, Being us’d to the taking and keeping of places ; And Volunteer C— nn— g, still ready for joining, Might show off his talent for sly undei'mining. Could the Household but spare us its glory and pride, Old II — df— t at horn-works again might be tried, And the Ch — f J — st — e make a bold charge at his side : While V — ns— tt — t could victual the troops upon tick , And the Doctor look after the baggage and sick. 142 MOORE’S WORKS. Xay, I do not see why the great R— g— t himself Should, in times such os these, stay at home on the shelf : Though through narrow defiles he’s not fitted to pass, Yet who could resist, if he bore down en masse t And though oft, of an evening, perhaps he might prove, Like our Spanish confed’rates, “ unable to move,” l Yet there’s one thing in war of advantage un- bounded, Which is, that he could not with ease be sur- rounded. In my next I shall sing of their arms and equipment ; At present no more, but — good luck to the shipment l + HORACE, ODE I. LIB. III. A FRAGMENT. Odl profanum vulgus et arceo ; Favete linguis: carmina non prins Audita Musarum sacerdos Virginibus puerisque canto. Regum timendorum in proprios greges, Reges in ipsos imperium est Jovis. 1813. I hate thee, oh, Mob, as my Lady hates delf : To Sir Francis I’ll give up thy claps and thy • hisses, * Leave Old Magna Charta to shift for itself, And, like G — dw — n, write books for young masters and misses. Oh! it is not high rank that can make the heart merry, Even monarchs themselves are not free from mishap : Though the Lords of Westphalia must quake before Jerry, Poor Jerry himself has to quake before Nap. ****** 1 The character given to the Spanish soldier. In Sir John Murray’s memorable despatch. 2 The literal closeness of the version here cannot but be admired. The Translator has added a long, erudite, and flowery note upon Roses , of which I can merely give a specimen at present. In the first place, he ransacks the Rosarium Politicum of the Persian poet Sadi, with the hope of finding some Political Roses, to match the gentleman in the text — but in vain : he then tells us that Cicero accused Vcrres of reposing upon a cushion “ Melitensi rosdfartum ,” which, from the odd mixture of words, he supposes to bo a kind of Irish Bed of Roses, like Lord Castlereagh’s.” The learned Clerk next favours us with some remarks upon a well- IIORACE, ODE XXXVIII. LIB. I. A FRAGMENT. Fcrslcos odi, pucr, adparatus ; Displicent nexte philyra corona* ; Mitte sectari , Rosa quo locorum Sera moretur. TRANSLATED BY A TREASURY CLERK, WHILE WAITING DINNER FOR TIIE RIGHT HON. G— ROE R— SE. Boy, tell the Cook that I hate all nick-nackeries, Fricassees, vol-au- vents, puffs, and gim-crack- eries — Six by the Horse- Guards ! — old Georgy is late — But come — lay the table-cloth — zounds I do not wait, Nor stop to inquire, while the dinner is staying, At which of his places Old R — e is delaying ! 2 IMPROMPTU. UPON BEING OBLIGED TO LEAVE A TLEASANT PARTY, FROM TIIE WANT OF A PAIR OF BREECHES TO DRESS FOR DINNER IN. 1810. Between Adam and me the great difference is, Though a paradise each has been forc’d to resign, That he never wore breeches, till turn’d out of his, While, for want of my breeches, I’m banish’d from mine 4 LORD WELLINGTON AND TIIE MINISTERS. 1813. So gently in peace Alcibiades smil’d, While in battle he shone forth 60 terribly grand, That the emblem they grav’d on his seal, was a child With a thunderbolt plac’d in its innocent hand. Oh Wellington, long as such Ministers wield Your magnificent arm, the same emblem will do ; For while they're in the Council and you in the Field, We’ve the holies in them, and the thunder in you ! known punning epitaph on fhlr Rosamond, and ex- presses a most loyal hope, that, if “ Rosa munda ” mean “a Rose with clean hands” it may be found applicable to the Right Honourable Rose in question. He then dwells at some length upon the “ Rosa aurea ,” which, though descriptive, in one sense, of the old Trea- sury Statesman, yet, as being consecrated and worn by the Pope, must, of course, not be brought into the same atmosphere with him. Lastly, in reference to the words '■'•old Rose,” he winds up with the pathetic lamentation of the poet “consenuisse Rosas.” The whole note, indeed, shows a knowledge of Rcses, that is quite edifying. IKISH MELODIES. 143 IRISH MELODIES, TO THE MARCHIONESS DOWAGER OF DONEGAL. It is now many years since, in a Letter prefixed to the Third Number of the Irish Melodies, I had the pleasure of inscribing the Poems of that work to your Ladyship, as to one whose character re- flected honour on the country to which they relate, and whose friendship had long been the pride and happiness of their Author. With the same feelings of affection and respect, confirmed if not increased by the experience of every suc- ceeding year, I now place those Poems in their present new form under your protection, and am, With perfect sincerity, Your Ladyship’s ever attached Friend, THOMAS MOORE. ♦ PREFACE. Though an edition of the Poetry of the Irish Melodies, separate from the Music, has long been called for, yet, having, for many reasons, a strong objection to this sort of divorce, I should with difficulty have consented to a disunion of the words from the airs, had it depended solely upon me to keep them quietly and indissolubly toge- ther. But, besides the various shapes in which these, as well as my other lyrical writings, have been published throughout America, they are included, of course, in all the editions of my works printed on the Continent, and have also appeared, in a volume full of typographical errors, in Dublin. I have therefore readily ac- ceded to the wish expressed by the Proprietor of the Irish Melodies, for a revised and complete edition of the poetry of the Work, though well aware that my verses must lose even more than the “ animce dimidium in being detached from the beautiful airs to which it was their good fortune to be associated. The Advertisements which were prefixed to the different numbers, the Prefatory Letter upon Music, &c. will be found in an Appendix at the end of the Melodies. IRISH MELODIES. GO WHERE GLORY WAITS THEE. Go where glory waits thee, But, while fame elates thee, Oh ! still remember me. When the praise thou meetest To thine ear is sweetest, Oh 1 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 1 When, at eve, thou rovest By the star thou lovest, Oh 1 then remember me. Think, when home returning, Bright we’ve seen it burning, Oh 1 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, Iler who made thee love them, Oh 1 then remember me. When, around thee dying, Autumn leaves are lying, Oh I then remember me. And, at night, when gazing On the gay hearth blazing, Oh I 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. ) 14 MOORE’S WORK ; 1 WAR SONG. REMEMBER TIIE GLORIES OF BRIEN TIIE BRAVE.* Remember the glories of Brien the brave, Tho’ the days of the hero are o’er ; Tho’ lost to Mononia, 2 and crld in the grave, lie returns to Kinkora 3 4 no more. That star of the field, which so often hath 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 I when Nature embellish’d the tint Of thy fields, and thy mountains so fair, Did she ever intend that a tyrant should print The footstep of slavery there ? No 1 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 ; While the moss of the valley grew red with their blood, They stirr’d not, but conquer’d and died. That sun which 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 ! TIIE 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 suns w’ith doubtful gleam, Weep while they rise. Erin, thysilent 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 l 1 Brien Boromhe, the great Monarch of Ireland, who was killed at the battle of Clontarf, in the begin- ning of the 11th century, after having defeated the Danes in twenty-five engagements. 2 Munster. 3 The palace of Brien. 4 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 Oil ! BREATHE NOT 1113 NAME. Oil I breathe 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 lie sleeps ; And the tear that we shed, though in secret it rolls, Shall long keep his memory green in our souls. ♦ WHEN IIE, WHO ADORES THEE. When he, who adores thee, has left but the name Of his fault and his sorrows behind, Oil ! say wilt thou weep, when they darken the fame Of a life that for thee was resign’d ? 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 witli mine, Oil I 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. TIIE HARP THAT ONCE THROUGH TARA’S HALLS. 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 ; wounded men entreated that they might be allowed to fight with the rest — “ Let stakes (they said) be stuck in the ground , and suffer each of us, 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’Hallorau), 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 IRISH MELODIES. U5 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 1 stay, — Oh 1 stay,— Joy so seldom weaves a chain Like this to-night, that oh ! ’tis pain To break its links so soon. Fly not yet, the fount that play’d In times of old through Ammon’s shade, 1 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 1 stay, — Oh 1 stay, — When did morning ever break, And find such beaming eyes awake As those that sparkle here ? $ Oil ! THINK NOT MY SPIRITS ARE ALWAYS AS LIGHT. On 1 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 w r aste 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 may gild with a smile, And the smile that compassion can turn to a tear. J Solis Fons, near the Temple of Amnion. 2 “In the twenty-eighth year of the reign of Henry VIII. an Act was made respecting the habits, and dress in general, of the Irish, whereby all persons were re- strained from being shorn or shaven above the ears, or from wearing Glibbcs, or Coulins (long locks), on their heads, or hair on their upper lip, called Crommeal. On thi3 occasion a song was written by one of our bards, in which an Irish virgin is made to give the preference to her dear Coulin (or the youth with the flowing locks) The thread of our life would be dark, Heaven knows ! If it were not with friendship and love inter- twin’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 be- liev’d ; And the heart that has slumber’d in friendship securest, Is happy indeM 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. THO’ THE LAST GLIMPSE OF ERIN WITH SORROW I SEE. Tiro’ 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 liair.2 RICH AND RARE WERE TIIE GEMS SHE WORE. 3 Rich and rare were the gems she w r orc, 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 I 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 ? ” to all strangers (by which the Enslish were meant), or those who wore their habits. Of this song tlio air alone lias reached us, and is universally admired.” — Walker's Historical Memoirs of Irish Bards , p. 134, Mr. Walker informs us, also, that about the same period there were some harsh measures taken against the Irish Minstrels. 3 This ballad is founded upon the following anec- dote: — “ The people were inspired with such a spirit of honour, virtue, and religion, by the great example L 46 MOORE’S WORKS. “ Sir Knight I I feel not the least alarm, No eon of Erin will offer me harm : — “ *'or though they love woman and golden 6torc, 44 Sir Kuiglitl they love honour and virtue more I ” 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 sjing — Oh ! this thought 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.l TriEHE is not in the wide world a valley so sweet As that vale in whose bosom the bright waters meet ;2 Oh 1 the last rays of feeling and life must depart, Ere the bloq^ of that valley shall fade from my heart. Yet it was not that Nature had shed o’er the scene Ilcr purest of crystal and brightest of green ; ’Twas not her soft magic of streamlet or hill, Oh 1 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, And who felt how the best charms of nature improve, When we see them reflected from looks that we love. 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 a 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 Sweet vale of Avoca 1 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. HOW DEAR TO ME THE HOUR. IIow dear to me the hour when daylight dies, And sunbeams melt along the silent sea ; For then sweet dreams of other days 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. TAKE BACK THE VIRGIN PAGE. WRITTEN ON RETURNING 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 I 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 shine Pure, calm, and sweet. And as, o’er ocean fair, Seamen their records keep, Led by some hidden star Through the cold deep ; So may the words I write Tell thjo’ what storms I stray — You still the unseen light, Guiding my way. she robbed of her clothes or jewels.” — Warner's His- tory of Ireland, voL i. book x. 1 “ 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 of the year 1807. 2 The rivers Avon and Avoca. IRISH MELODIES. * THE LEGACY. When in death I shall calmly recline, O 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. 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. 1 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. But when some warm devoted lover To her he adores shall bathe its brim, Then, then my spirit around shall hover, And hallow each drop that foams for him. ♦ IIOW OFT HAS THE BENSHEE CRIED. How oft has the Benshee cried, How oft has death untied Bright links that Glory wove, Sweet bonds entwin’d by Love ! Peace to each manly soul that sleepeth ; Rest to each faithful eye that weepeth ; Long may the fair and brave Sigh o’er the hero’s grave. We’re fall’n upon gloomy days I 2 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 a hero’s bier. Quench’d are our beacon lights — Thou, of the Hundred Fights I 3 Thou, on whose burning tongue Truth, peace, and freedom hung ! 4 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. 1 “In every house was one or two harps, free to all travellers, who were the more caresEed, the more they excelled in music.” — O'Halloran. 2 I have endeavoured here, without losing that Irish character which it is my objoct 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. -WE MAY ROAM THROUGH THIS WORLD. We may roam through 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 placed within call ; But so oft this unamiable dragon has slept, That the garden’s but carelessly watch’d after all. Oh 1 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 1 remember the smile that adorns her at home. In France, when the heart of a woman sets sail, On the ocean of wedlock its fortune to try, 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 beam^f joy, The same as he look’d when he lwt the shore. Then remember, where very our 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 that adorns her at home. 1 EYELEEN’S BOWER. Oh I weep for the hour, When to Eveleen’s bower The Lord of the Valley with false vows came ; 3 This designation, which has been before applied to Lord Nelson, is the title given to a celebrated Irish Hero, in a Poem by O’Guive, the bard of O’Niel, which is quoted in the “ Philosophical Survey of the South of Ireland,” page 433. “ Con, of the hundred Fights, sleep in thy grass-grown tomb, and upbraid not our de- feats with thy victories ! ” 4 Fox, “ Komanorum ultimus.” MOORE’S WORKS. 118 The moon hid her light From the heavens that night, And wept behind her clouds o'er the maiden’s shame. The clouds pass’d 60011 From the chaste cold moon, And heaven smil’d again with her vestal flame ; Rut none will see the day, When the clouds shall pass away, Which that dark hour left upon Evclceu’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 Show’d the track of his footstep toEvclccn’s door. The next sun’s ray Soon melted away Every trace on the path where the false Lord came ; But there’s a light above, Which alone can remove That stain upon the snow of fair Eveleen’s fame. f LET ERIN REMEMBER TIIE DAYS OF OLD. Let Erin remember the days of old, Ere her faithless sons betray’d her ; When Malachi wore the collar of gold, 1 2 3 Which he won from her proud invader, When her kings, with standard of green unfurl’d, Led the Red -Branch Knights to danger ; 2_ 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, lie sees the round towers of other days In the wa4 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. s 1 “ 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 cham- pions, whom lie encountered successively, hand to hand, taking a collar of gold from the neck of one, and carry- ing on the sword of the other, as trophies of his victory.” — Warner's History of Ireland, vol. i. book ix. 2 “ Military orders of knights were very early esta- blished in Ireland ; long before the birth of Christ we find an hereditary order of Chivalry in Ulster, called Curaid/ie na Craiobhe ruadh, or the Knights of the Red Branch, from their chief seat in Emania, adjoining to the palace of the Ulster kings, called Teagli na Craiobhe ruadh, or the Academy of the Red Branch ; and con- tiguous to which was a large hospital, founded for the sick knights and soldiers, called Bronbhearg, or the House of the Sorrowful Soldier.” — O'Halloran's In- troduction, dfc., part i. chap. v. 3 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 J TIIE SONG OF FIONNUALAA Silent, oil 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 6inging, 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 ? + - - COME, SEND ROUND TIIE 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 diff’rence 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 should 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 ! 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. Piscatores aquae illius turres ecclesia^eicas, quae more patrice arctce sunt et altce, necnon ct rolundee, sub undis manifeste sereno tempore conspiciunt, et extraneis transeuntibus, reique causas admirantibus, frequenter ostendunt. — Topogr. Hib., dist. 2. c. 9. 4 To make this story intelligible in a song would re- quire a much greater number of verses than any one is authorised to inflict upon an audience at once ; the reader must therefore be content to learn, in a note, that Fionnuala, the daughter ot Lir, was, by some super natural 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 manuscript translations from the Irish, which were begun under the direction of that enlight- ened friend of Ireland, the late Countess of Moira. IRISH MELODIES, SUBLIME WAS TIIE WARNING. Sublime was the warning that 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, 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 our 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 1 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, Join, join in our hope that the 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 1 God prosper the cause 1 — 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 1 BELIEVE ME, IF ALL THOSE ENDEAR- ING 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, 1 The inextinguishable fire of St. Bridget, at Kil- dare, which Giraldus mentions. “Apud Kildariam oocurrit ignis b'anctae Brigulie, quern inextinguibilom vocant ; non quod cxtingui non possit, sed quod tam solicite monialcs et sancta; mulieres ignem, suppetente 149 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 That the fervour and faith of a soul can be known, To which time will but make thee more dear ; No, 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, Oil ERIN. Like the bright lamp, that shone in Kildare’s holy fane, 1 And burn’d thro’ long ages of darkness and storm, Is the heart that sorrows have frown’d on in vain, Whose spirit outlives 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. Unchill’d by the rain, and unwak’d by the wind, The lily lies sleeping thro’ winter’s cold hour, Till Spring’s light touch her fetters unbind, And daylight and liberty bless the young flower. 2 Thus Erin, oh Erin, thy winter is past, And the hope that liv’d thro’ it shall blossom Cit last. DRINK TO HER. Deixk 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. materia, fovent ct nutriunt, lit a tempore vlrginL per tot annorum curricula semper niansit inextinctus.’ 11 " — Girald. Comb, rfe Mira bit. J/ibern., (list. 2. c. 34. 2 Mrs. II. Tighe, in her exquisite lines on the lily, I has applied this image to a still more important object ; MOORE’S WORKS. ]*0 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. At Beauty’s door of glass, Where 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. So here’s to her, who long Ilatli wak’d the poet’s 6ijh, 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 1 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. ♦ OH 1 BLAME NOT THE BARD.i Oil ! 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 : 2 And the lip, which now breathes but the song of desire, Alight have pour’d the full tide of a patriot’s heart. 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. 1 We may suppose this apology to have been uttered by one of those wandering bards, whom Spenser 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 have 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.” ‘i It is conjectured, by Wormius, that the name of Ireland is derived from Yr , the Runic for a bow, in the use of which weapon the Irish were once very expert. This derivation is certainly more creditable to us than the following: “So that Ireland,' called the Unpriz’d arc her sons, till they’ve learn’d 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 1 give but a hope — let a vista but gleam Through the gloom of his country, and mart how he’ll feel 1 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 Ilarmodius, should cover his sword. 1 * 3 But tho’ glory be gone, and tho’ hope fade away, Thy name, loved 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 burn’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 ; 4 — Thus, Mary, be but thou my own ) While brighter eyes unheeded play, I’ll love those moonlight looks alone, That bless my home and guide my way. The day had sunk in dim showers, But midnight now, with lustre meet, land of Zre, from the constant broils therein for 400 years, was now become the land of concord.” — Lloyd's State Worthies, art. The Lord Grandisoiu 3 See the Hymn, attributed to Alcaeus, Ev p.vprov K\aS(. to ?t0o? oprjau ) — “ I will carry my sword, hidder in myrtles, like Ilarmodius, and Aristogiton,” &c. 4 “Of such celestial bodies as are visible, the sun ex- cepted, the single moon, as despicable as it is in compa- rison to most of the others, is much more beneficial than they all put together.” — Whist on's Theory, Sc In the Entretiens .d' A riste, among other ingenious emblems, we find a starry sky without a moon, with these words, Non mille, quod absent IRISH MELODIES. 151 Illumin’d all the pale flowers, Like hope upon 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 ; ” l 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 daylight was yet sleeping under the billow, And stars in the heavens still lingering 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, Ilad promised to link the last tie before noon ; And, when once the young heart of a maiden is stolen, 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, 1 2 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 1 never to rise ; Ah 1 such,” said the girl, “ is the pride of our faces, “ For wliicn the soul’s innocence too often dies.” While she stole thro’ the garden, where hearts’- ease was growing, She cull’d some, and kiss’d off its night-fall’n dew ; And a rose, farther 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 heart’s-ease was lost : “ Ah ! this means,” said the girl (and she sigh’d at its meaning), ‘‘That love is scarce worth the repose it will cost l ” ♦ BEFORE TIIE BATTLE. By the hope within us springing, Herald of to-morrow’s strife ; By that sun, whose light is bringing Chains or freedom, death or life — 1 Thi9 image was suggested by 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.” 2 An emblem of the soul. 3 “ The Irish Corna was not entirely devoted to martial purposes. In the heroic ages our ancestors quaffed Meadh out of them, as the Danish hunters do their beverage at this day.” — Walker. 4 1 believe it is Marmoutel who says, ‘ Quand cn n’a Oh ! remember life can be No charm for him, who lives not free 1 Like the day-star in the wave, Sinks a hero in his grave, Midst the dew-fall of a nation’s tears. Happy is he o’er whose decline The smiles of home may soothing shine, And light him down the steep of years : — But oh, how blest 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, When his heart that field remembers, Where we tam’d his tyrant might. Never let him bind again A chain, like that we broke from then. Hark ! the horn of combat calls — Ere the golden evening falls, May we pledge that horn in triumph round ! 3 4 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 wond’ring world shall weep I AFTER THE BATTLE. Nioht clos’d around the conqueror’s way, And lightnings show’d the distant hill. Where those who lost that dreadful day, Stood few and faint, but fearless still. The soldier’s hope, the patriot’s zeal, For ever dimm’d, for ever crost — Oh 1 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’s yet a world, where souls are free, Where tyrants taint not nature’s bliss : — - If death that world’s bright opening be, Oh 1 would live a slave in this ? ’TIS SWEET TO THINK. ’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’ve 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, pas ce que Von aime, il faut aimer ce qne Von a.” — There are so many matter-of-fact people, who take such jeux d'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 contended that snow was black; nor Erasmus in any degree the les3 wise for having written an inge- nious encomium of folly. 152 MOORE’S WORKS. Hut will lean to the nearest ami loveliest thing. It can twine with itself, and make closely its own. Then oh 1 what plcasnre where'er we rove, To be snre to find something, still, that is dear, And to know', when far from the lips we love, We’ve but to make love to the lipsw’e arc near. ’Twcre a shame, when flowers around us rise. To make light of the rest, if the rose isn’t there ; And the world’s so rich in resplendent eyes, ’Twcre 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 different hue. Then oh ! what pleasure, where’er we rove. To be sure to find something, still, that is dear, And to know, when far from the lips w r e love, We’ve but to make love to the lips we are near. TIIE IRISII PEASANT TO IIIS MISTRESS.l Through grief and through danger thy smile cheer’d my way, Till hope 6eem’d to bud from each thorn that round me lay ; The darker our fortune, the brighter our pure love bum’d, Till shame into glory, till fear into zeal w'as turn’d ; Yes, slave as I was, in thy arms my spirit felt free. And bless’d even the sorrow’s 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 w’oo’d me to temples, whilst 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 vow’s are frail — Iladst thou been a false one, thy cheek had look’d less pale. They say, too, so long thou hast worn those lin- gering chains, That deep in thy heart they have printed their servile stains — Oh ! foul is the slander,— no chain could that soul subdue — Where shineth thy spirit, there liberty shincth too 12 l Meaning, allegorically, the ancient Church of Ire- land. ‘i “ Where the spirit of the Lord is, there is liberty.” — St. Paul, 2 Cor. iii. 17. ON MUSIC. When thro’ life unblest we rove, Losing all that made life dear, Should some notes w’e used to love, In days of boyhood, meet our ear, Oli ! how welcome breathes the strain ! Wakening thoughts that long have slept ; Kindling former smiles again In faded eyes that long have w r ept. 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 flow'ers have sunk in death ; So, when pleasure’s dream is gone, Its memory lives in Music’s breath. Music, oh 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 1 ’tis only Music’s strain Can sweetly soothe and not betray. IT IS NOT THE TEAR AT THIS MOMENT SUED. l * 3 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 friend that’s fled, Or how deep in our hearts we deplore him. ’Tis the tear, thro’ many a long day wept, ’Tis life’s whole path o’ershaded ; ’Tis the one remembrance, fondly kept, When all lighter griefs have faded. Thus his memory, like some holy light, Kept alive in our hearts, will improve them, For worth shall look fairer, and truth more bright When we think how he liv’d but to love them. And, as fresher flowers the sod perfume Where buried saints arc lying, So our hearts shall borrow a sweet’ning bloom From the image he left there in dying 1 TIIE ORIGIN OF TIIE II ARP. ’Tis believ’d that this Harp, which I wake now for thee, Was a Syren of old, who sung under the sea ; And who often, at eve, thro’ the bright waters rov’d, To meet, on the green shore, a youth whom she lov’d. 3 These lines were occasioned by the loss of a very near and dear relative, who died lately at Ma- deira. IRISH MELODIES. 153 But she lov’d him in vain, for lie left her to weep. And in tears, all the night, her gold tresses 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. Still her bosom rose fair — still her cheeks smil’d the same — While her sea-beauties gracefully form il the light frame ; , And her hair, as, let loose, o er her white arm it fell, Was chang’d to bright chords utt’ring melody’s spell. lienee 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 speak love when I’m near thee, and grief when away. LOVE’S YOUNG DREAM. Oil I 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 : No, there’s nothing half so sweet in life As love’s young dream. Though the bard to purer fame may soar, When wild youth’s past ; Though 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 Ilis soul-felt flame, And at every close, she blush’d to hear The one lov’d name. No, — that hallow’d form is ne’er forgot Which first love trac’d ; Still it lingering haunts the greenest spot On memory’s waste. ’Twas 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 : Oli I ’twas light that ne’er can shine again On life’s dull stream. 4 THE PRINCE’S DAY.l Tiio’ dark arc our sorrows, to-day we’ll forget them, And smile through our tears, like a sunbeam in showers : There never were hearts, if our rulers would let them, More form’d to be 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 spirits to sink — Oh I the joy that we taste, like the light of the poles, Is a flash amid darkness, too brilliant to stay ; But, though ’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, your 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 suffer’d too much to forget ; And I1053 shall be crown’d, and attachment re- warded, 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, which beams through each suffering part, And now smiles at all pain on the Prince’s Day. WEEP ON, WEEP ON Weep on, weep on, your hour 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 I Oh, freedom ! once thy flame hath fled, It never lights again. 1 This song was written for a ffete in honour of the Prince of Wales’s birthday, given by my friend, Major Bryan, at his seat in the county of Kilkenny. MOORE’S WORKS. 164 Weep on — perhaps in after days, They’ll learn to love your name ; When many a deed may wake in praise That long hath slept in blame. And when they tread the ruin’d Isle, WheYe rest, at length, the lord and slave, They'll wond’ring ask, how hands so vile Could conquer hearts so brave ? “ ’Twas fate,” they’ll say, “ a wayward fate “ Your web of discord wove ; “ And while your tyrants join’d in hate, a You never join’d in love. “ But hearts fell off, that ought to twine, “ And man profan’d wliat God had given ; “ Till some were heard to curse the shrine, " Where others knelt to heaven 1 ” 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, Beauty lies In many eyes, But Love in yours, my Nora Creina. Lesbia wears a robe of gold, But all 60 close the nymph hath lac’d it, Not a charm of beauty’s mould Presumes to stay where nature plac’d it. Oh 1 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 1 whose roughest part Is but the crumpling of the roses. Oh 1 my Nora Creina, dear, My mild, my artless Nora Creina 1 Wit though bright, Hath no such light, As warms your eyes, my Nora Creina. 1 I have here made a feeble effort to imitate that exquisite inscription of Shenstone’s, “ Heu I quanto minus est cum reliquis versari quam meminisse f ” ‘i This ballad is founded upon one of the many stories related of St. Kevin, whose bed in the rock I SAW TIIY 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 1 Yet still thy features wore that light, Which fleets not with the breath ; And life ne’er look’d more truly bright Than in thy smile of death, Mary 1 As streams that run o’er golden mines, Yet humbly, calmly glide, Nor seem to know the wealth that shines Within their gentle tide, Mary ! So veil’d beneath the simplest guise, Thy radiant genius shone, And that, which charm’d all other eyes, Seem’d worthless in thy own, Mary I 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 J 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 1 1 BY THAT LAKE WHOSE GLOOMY SHORE. 1 2 By that Lake whose gloomy shore Sky-lark never warbles o’er, 3 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.” Ah 1 the good Saint little knew What that wily sex can do. ’Twas from Kathleen’s eyes he flew,— Eyes of most unholy blue 1 She had lov’d him well and long, Wish’d him hers, 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. Fearless she had track’d his feet To this rocky, wild retreat ; is to be seen at Glendalough, a most gloomy and ro- mantic spot in the county of Wicklow. 3 There are many other curious traditions concern- ing this Lake, which may be found in Giraldus, Colgan, &c. IRISH MELODIES. 155 And when morning met his view, Her mild glances met it too. Ah, your Saints have cruel hearts I 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 1 too late,) Felt her love, and mourn’d her fate. When he said, “ Heav’n rest her soul 1 ” Hound the Lake light music stole ; And her ghost was seen to glide, Smiling o’er the fatal tide. + SHE IS FAR FROM THE LAND. She 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 1 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 sunbeams 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. NAY, TELL ME NOT, DEAR. 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 spell of those eyes, The balm of thy sighs, Still float on the surface, and hallow my bowl. 1 The words of this song were suggested by the very ancient Irish story called “ Dcirdri, or the Lamentable Fate of the Sons of ITsnach,” which has been translated literally from the Gaelic by Mr. O’Flanagan (see vol. i. of Transactions of the Gaelic Society of Dublin ), o.nd upon which it appears that the “Darthula” of Mae- pherson is founded. The treachery of Conor, King of Ulster, in putting to death the three sons of Usna, was the cause of a desolating war against Ulster, which terminated in the destruction of Eman. “ This story (says Mr. O’ Flanagan) has been, from time immemorial, held in high repute as one cf the three tragic stories of the Irish. These are, ‘ The death of the children of Touran ; ’ « The death of tho children of Lear ’ (both regarding Tuatha de Danans) ; and this, ‘ The death 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 1 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 l 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 dwellings When Ulad’s 3 three champions lay sleeping in gore — By the billows of war, which so often, high swelling, Hare wafted these heroes to victory’s shore — We swear to revenge them! — no joy shallbe 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 I tho’ sweet are our home recollec- tions, Though sweet are the tears that from tenderness fall; Though sweet are our friendships, our hopes, our affections, Revenge on a tyrant is sweetest of all 1 of the children of Usnach,’ which is a Milesian story.” It will be recollected that, at p. 148. of these Melodies, there is a ballad upon the story of the children of Lear or Lir ; “ Silent, oh Moyle ! ” &c. Whatever may be thought of those sanguine claims to antiquity, which Mr. O’ Flanagan and others advance for the literature of Ireland, it would be a lasting reproach upon our nationality, if the Gaelic researches of this gentleman did not meet with all the liberal en- couragement they so well merit. 2 “ Oh Nasi ! view that cloud that I here see in the sky I I see over Eman-green a chilling cloud of blood-tinged red.” — Deirdri's Song. 3 Ulster. MOORE*S WORKS. 156 WIIAT T1IE BEE IS TO THE FLOWEIIET. He. — Wiiat the bee is to the flow’ret, 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 Whisp’ring kisses, while they’re going , That I’ll be to you, my dear. She. — But they say, the bee’s a rover, Who will fly, when sweets ore gone ; And, when once the kiss is over, Faithless brooks will wander on. lie Nay, if flowers u ill lose their looks, If sunny banks icill wear away, ’Tis but right, that bees and brooks Should sip and kiss them while they may. LOVE AND THE NOVICE. “ ITehe we dwell, in holiest bowers, “ Where angels of light o’er our orisons bend ; “ Where sighs of devotion and breathings of flowers “ To heaven in mingled odour ascend. “ Do not disturb our calm, oh Love ! “ So like is thy form to the cherubs above, *’ It well might deceive such hearts as ours.” Love stood near the Novice and listen’d, And Love is no novice in taking a hint ; Ills laughing blue eyes soon with piety glisten’d, Ilis rosy wing turn’d to heaven’s own tint. “ Who would have thought,” the urchin cries, “ That Love could so well, so gravely disguise “ Ilis wandering wings and wounding eyes ? ” Love now warms thee, waking and sleeping, Young Novice, to him all thy orisons rise. JTc tinges the heavenly fount with his weeping, lie brightens the censer’s flame with his sighs. Love is the Saint enshrin’d in thy breast, And angels themselves would admit such o guest. If he came to them cloth’d in Piety’s vest. THIS LIFE IS ALL CTIEQUER’D WITH PLEASURES AND WOES. This life is all chequer’d with pleasures and woes, That chase one another like waves of the i eep, — Each brightly or darkly, as onward 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 ; 1 “ Proposito florem praetulit officio.” Propert. lib. i. cleg. 20. ’i It is said that St. Patrick, when preaching the Trinity to the Pagan Irish, used to illustrate his sub- ject by reference to that species of trefoil, called ia And, as fast as the rain-drop of Pity is 6hed, 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 Sorrow, half-sister to Joy, And the light, brilliant Folly that flashes and dies. When Ilylas was sent with his urn to the fount, Through fields full of light, and with heart full of play, Light rambled the boy, over meadow and mount, And neglected his task for the flowers on the way.* Thu3 many, like me, who in youth should 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 ns empty as mine. But pledge me the goblet ; — while Idleness weaves These flow’rets together, should Wisdom but see One bright drop or two that has fall'll on the leaves, From her fountain divine, ’tis sufficient for me. Oil THE SHAMROCK. 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 2 Shoots up, with dew-drops streaming, A softly green As emeralds seen Through 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 I do not sever “ A type that blends “ Three godlike friends, “ Love, Valour, Wit, for ever 1 ” Oh the Shamrock, the green, immortal Shamrock ! Chosen leaf Of Bard and Chief, Old Erin’s native Shamrock ! Ireland by the name of the Shamrock; and hence, perhaps, the Island of Saints adopted this plant as her national emblem. Hope, among the ancients, was sometimes represented as a beautiful child, standing upon tiptoes, and a trefoil, or three-coloured grass, in her hand. IRISH MELODIES. 157 So firmly fond May last the bond They wove that morn together, And ne’er may fall One drop of gall On Wit’s celestial feather. May Love, as twine II is flowers divine, Of thorny falsehood weed ’em ; May Valour ne’er H is standard rear Against the cause of Freedom ! Oh the Shamrock, the green, immortal Shamrock! Chosen leaf Of Bard and Chief, Old Erin’s native Shamrock ! A AT TIIE MID HOUR OF NIGHT. At the mid hour of night, when stars arc weeping, I fly To the lone vale we lov’d, when life shone warm in thine eye ; And I think oft, if spirits can steal from the regions of air, 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 ’twas once such plea- sure to hear ! When our voices commingling breath’d, like one, on the ear ; And, as Echo far off through the vale my sad orison rolls, I think, oh my love I ’tis thy voice from the Kingdom of Souls, l Faintly answering still the notes that once were so dear. ONE BUMPER AT PARTING. Oxe bumper at parting I — though 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 hath in it, Is always so slow to come forth, That seldom, alas, till the minute It dies, do we know half its worth. 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. As onward we journey, how pleasant To pause and inhabit awhile Those few sunny spots, like the present, That ’mid the dull wilderness smile I But Time, like a pitiless master, Cries “ Onward l ” and spurs the gay hours— 1 “ There are countries,” says Montaigne, * where they believe the souls of the happy live in all manner of liberty, in delightful fields ; and that it is those souls, repeating the words we utter, which we call Echo.” 2 " Steals silently to Morna’s grove,” Sec Mr. Bun- Ah, never doth 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. We saw how the sun look’d in sinking, The waters beneath him how bright ; And now, let our farewell of drinking Resemble that farewell of light. You saw how he finish’d, by darting His beam o’er a deep billow’s brim — So, All 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 be made up, ’Twas born on the bosom of Pleasure, It dies ’mid the tears of the cup. ’TIS TIIE LAST ROSE 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 l To pine on the stem ; Since the lovely a^e 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 mdy 7 follow, When friendships decay, And from Love’s shining circle The gems drop away. When true hearts lie wither’d, And fond ones arc flown, Oh 1 who would inhabit This bleak world alone ? THE YOUNG MAY MOON. Tiie young May moon is beaming, love, The glow-worm’s lamp is gleaming, love, How sweet to rove Through Morna’s grove, 1 2 When the drowsy world is dreaming, love ! Then awake I — 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 ! ting’s collection, a poem translated from the Irish, by the late John Brown, one of my earliest college com- panions and friends, whose death was as singularly me- lancholy and unfortunate as his life had been amiable, honourable, and exemplary. 158 MOORE’S WORKS. Now all the world is sleeping, love, But the Sage, his star-watch keeping, love, And I, whose 6tar, More glorious far, Is the eye from that casement peeping, love. Then awake 1 — till rise of sun, my dear, The Sage’s glass we’ll 6hun, my dear, Or, in watching the flight Of bodies of light, lie might happen to take thee for one, my dear. +— — THE MINSTREL BOY. The Minstrel Boy to the war is gone, In the ranks of death you’ll And him : llis father’s sword lie has girded on, And his wild harp slung behind him — “ Land of song 1 ” said the warrior-bard, “ Though 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 l “ Thy songs were made for the pure and free, “ They shall never sound in slavery.” ♦ THE SONG OF O’RUARK, l'lUXCE OP BREFFXI.l 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 I flew to her chamber — ’twas lonely, As if the lov’d tenant lay dead ; — Ah, would it were death, and death only 1 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 a proud rival’s kiss. 1 These stanzas are founded upon an event of most melancholy importance to Ireland ; if, as we are told by our Irish historians, it gave England the first op- portunity of profiting by our divisions and subduing us. The following are the circumstances, as related by O’Halloran : — “The king of Leinster had long conceived a violent affection for Dearbhorgil, daughter to the king of Meath ; and though she had been for some time married to O’Ruark, prince of Breffni, yet it could not restrain his passion. They carried on a private correspondence, and she informed him that O’Ruark intended soon to go on a pilgrimage (an act of piety frequent in those days), and conjured him There was a time, falsest of women, When Breffni’s good sword would have sought That man, thro’ a million of foemen, Who dar’d but to wrong thee in thought / While now — oh degenerate daughter Of Erin, how fall’n is thy fame 1 And through ages of bondage and slaughter, Our 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 1 — 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. Oil I HAD WE SOME BRIGHT LITTLE ISLE OF OUR OWN. Oh 1 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 ot flowers , 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. 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. to embrace that opportunity of conveying her from a husband she detested to a lover she adored. Mac Murchad too punctually obeyed the summons, and had the lady conveyed to his capital of Ferns.” — The mon- arch Roderick espoused the cause of O’Ruark, while Mac Murchad fled to England, and obtained the assist- ance of Henry II. “ Such,” adds Giraldus Cambrensis (as I find him in an old translation), “is the variable and fickle nature of woman, by whom all mischief in the world (for the most part) do happen and come, as may appear by Marcus Antonius, and by the destruction of Troy.” IRISH MELODIES. 150 FAREWELL J — BUT WHENEVER YOU WELCOME THE HOUR. Fakewell ! — 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 pathway of pain, But he ne’er will forget the short vision, that tlirew 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 I ” Let Fate do her worst, there are relics of joy, Bright dreams of the past, which she cannot destroy ; Which come in the night-time of sorrow and care, And bring back the features that joy used to wear. Long, long be my heart with such memories fill’d 1 Like the vase, in which roses have once been distill’d — You may break, you may shatter the vase, if you will, But the scent of the roses will hang round it still. OH I DOUBT ME NOT. On ! 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. Although 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 though my lute no longer May sing of Passion’s ardent spell, Yet, trust me, all the stronger I feel the bliss I do not tell. The bee through many a garden roves, And hums his lay of courtship o’er, But when he finds the flower he loves, He settles there and hums no more. Then doubt me npt — 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 blessed her humble lot, When the stranger, William, had made her his bride, And love was the light of their lowly cot. Together they toil’d through winds and rains, Till William, at length, in sadness 6aid, “ 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 case, 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 1 ” She believ’d him crazed, 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, Shines pure as it did 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 1 l This ballad was suggested by a well-known and interesting story told of a certain noble family in Eng- land. 1G0 MOORE’S WORKS. And though the hope be gone, love, That long sparkled o’er our way, Oh ! we shall journey on, love, More 6afely, without its ray. Far 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, lie feels awhile benighted, And looks round in fear and doubt. But soon, the prospect clearing, By cloudless starlight 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 through 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’rt 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. ■Was 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 u*, All earth forgot, and all heaven around us — Then come o’er the sea, Maiden, with me, Mine through sunshine, storm, and sno v ; Seasons may roll, But the true soul Burns the same, where’er it goes. 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 1 Does Time with his cold wing wither Each feeling that once was dear ? — Then, child of misfortune, come hither, I’ll weep with thee, tear for tear. 1 Our Wicklow gold-mines, to which this verse al ludes, deserve, I fear, but too well the character here given of them. - “ The bird, having got its prize, settled not far cfT, Has love to that soul, so tender, Been like our Lagcniau 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 ,2 That flitted from tree to tree With the talisman’s glitt’ring 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 young hours have fleeted, When sorrow itself look’d bright ; If thus the fair hope hath cheated, That led thee along so light ; If thus the cold world now wither Each feeling that once was dear : — Come, child of misfortune, come hither, I’ll weep with thee, tear for tear. ♦ 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 quire 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 I’d live years of grief and pain To have my long sleep of sorrow broken By such benign, blessed sounds again. WHEN FIRST I MET THEE. Whex first I met thee, warm and young There shone such truth about thee, And on thy lip such promise hung, I did not dare to doubt thee. I saw thee change, yet still relied, Still clung with hope the fonder, And tl'.ought, though 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. with the talisman in his mouth. The prince drew ncai it, hoping it would drop it; but, as he approached, the bird took wing, and settled again,” &c . — Arabian Nights. IRISH MELODIES. When every tongue thy follies nUm’d, I fled the unwelcome story ; Or found, in even the faults they blam’d, Some gleams of future glory. 1 still was true, when nearer friends Conspired to wrong, to slight thee ; The heart that now thy falsehood rends Would then have bled to right thee. But go, deceiver 1 go, — Some day, perhaps, thou’lt waken From pleasure’s dream to know The grief of hearts forsaken. Even now, though youth 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 — though worlds were thine, I would not now surrender One taintless tear of mine For all thy guilty splendour J And days may come, thou false one ! yet, When even those tics 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 Iler 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. ♦ WniLE HISTORY’S MUSE. While History’s Muse the memorial was keeping Of all that the dark hand of Destiny weaves, Beside her the Genius of Erin stood weeping, For her’s was the story that blotted the leaves. But oh 1 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 the whole volume, her Wellington’s name. 11 Hail, Star of my Isle 1 ” said the Spirit, all spark- ling With beams, such as break from her own dewy skies — “ Through ages of sorrow, deserted and darkling, “ I’ve watch’d for some glory like thine to arise. * For, though Heroes I’ve number’d, uublest was their lot, 1 This al’udes to a hind of Irish fairy, which is to be met with, they say, in the flelds 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 in- genious in furnishing some inducement) he vanishes. 161 “ And unhallow’d they sleep in the crossways of Fame ; — “ But oh ! there is not “ One dishonouring blot ‘‘On the wreath that encircles my Wellington’s name. “ Yet still the last crown of thy toils is remaining, “ The grandest, the purest, ev’n thou hast yet known ; “Though proud was thy task, other nations un- chaining, “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. Tiie time I’ve lost in wooing, In watching and pursuing The light, that lies In woman’s eyes, Has been my heart’s undoing. Though wisdom oft has sought 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, i 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 turn’d away, O ! winds could not outrun me. And are those follies going ? And is my proud heart growing Too cold or wise For brilliant eyes Again to set it glowing ? No, vain, alas ! th’ endeavour From bonds so sweet to sever | Poor Wisdom’s chance Against a glance Is now as weak as ever. , + I had thought that this was the sprite which we call the Leprechaun; but a high authority upon such sub- jects, Lady Morgan (in a note upon ner national and interesting novel, O’Donnel), lias giveu a very different account of that goblin. M 1C2 MOORE’S WORKS. WHERE IS THE SLAVE. On, where’s the slave so lowly, Condemn’d to chains unholy, Who, could he burst Ilis bonds at first, Would pine beneath them slowly ? What soul, whose wrongs degrade it, Would wait till time decay’d it, When thus its w ing At once may spring To the throne of Him who made it ? farewell, Erin, — farewell, all, Who live to weep our fall I Less dear the laurel growing, Alive, untouch’d and blowing, Than that, whose braid Is pltick’d to shade The brows with victory glowing. We tread the land that bore us, Iler 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, Though the herd have fled from thee, thy home is still here ; nere still is the smile, that no cloud can o’ercast, And a heart and a hand all thy own to the last. Oh I what was love made for, if ’tis not the same Through joy and through torment, through 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, And thy Angel I’ll be, ’mid the horrors of this, — Through the furnace, unshrinking, thy steps to pursue, And shield thee, and save thee, — or perish there too 1 ’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 mourn- ing, 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 v. ere darting Around thee through all the gross clouds ol the world ; When Truth, from her fetters indignantly start- ing, At once, like a Pun-burst, her banner unfurl’d.! Oh I never shall earth see a moment so splendid! Then, then — had one Hymn of Deliverance blended The tongues of all nations — how sweet had as- cended The first note of Liberty, Erin, from thee ! But, shame on those tyrants, who envied the bless- ing I And shame on the light race, unworthy its good, Who, at Death’s reeking altar, like furies, caress- ing 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 deri- sion, 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 declin- ing* The bark was still there, but the waters were gone. And such is the fate of our life’s early promise, So passing the spring- tide of joy we have known 5 Each wave, that we danc’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 ; — 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 re- turning, When passion first wak’d a new life through his frame, And his soul, like the wood, that grows predouf in burning, Gave out all its sweets to love’s exquisite flame. 1 “The Sun- burst” was the fanciful name given by the ancient Irish to the royal banner. IRISH MELODIES. 163 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 through the frame It shoots from brimming glasses. Fill the bumper fair I 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 briglit’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 that warm us : The careless Youth, when up To Glory’s fount aspiring, Took nor urn nor cup To hide the pilfer’d fire in. — But oh his joy, when, round The halls of Heaven spying, Among the stars he found A bowl of Bacchus lying I Some drops were in that bowl, Remains 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. f DEAR HARP OF MY COUNTRY. Dear Harp of my Country I in darkness I found thee, The cold chain of silence had hung o’er thee long,i I In that rebellious but beautiful song, “ When Erin first rose,” there is, if I recollect right, the following line : — “ The dark chain of Silence was thrown o’er the deep.” The Chain of Silence was a sort of practical figure of rhetoric among the ancient Irish. Walker tells us of " a celebrated contention for precedence between Finn When proudly, my own Island Harp, I unbound thee, And gave all thy chords to light, freedom, and song I The warm lay of love and the light note of glad- ness Have waken’d thy fondest, thy liveliest thrill •, But, so oft hast thou echo’d the deep sigh of sad- ness, That ev’n in thy mirth it will steal from thee still. Dear Harp of my Country I farewell to thy num- bers, This sweet wreath of song is the last we shall twine I 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 alone ; I was but as the wind, passing heedlessly over, And all the wild sweetness I wak’d was thy own. MY GENTLE HARP. My gentle Harp, once more I waken The sweetness of thy slumb’ring strain ; In tears our last farewell was taken, And now in tears we meet again. No light of joy hath o’er thee broken, But, like those Harps whose heav’nly skill Of slavery, dark as thine, hath spoken, Thou hang’st upon the willows still. And yet, since last thy chord resounded, An hour of peace and triumph came, And many an ardent bosom bounded With hopes — that now are turn’d to shame. Yet even then, while Peace was singing Her halcyon song o’er land and sea, Though joy and hope to others bringing, She only brought new tears to thee. Then, who can ask for notes of pleasure, My drooping Harp, from chords like thine ? Alas, the lark’s gay morning measure As ill would suit the swan’s decline l Or how shall I, who love, who bless thee, Invoke thy breath for Freedom’s strains, When ev’n the wreaths in which I dress thee, Are sadly mix’d — half flow’rs, half chains ? But come — If yet thy frame can borrow One breath of joy, oh, breathe for me, And show the world, in chains and sorrow, How sweet thy music still can be ; How gaily, ev’n ’mid gloom surrounding, Thou yet canst wake at pleasure’s thrill — Like Memnon’s broken image sounding, ’Mid desolation tuneful still 1 I 2 ancl Gaul, near Finn’s palace at Almliaim, where the attending bards, anxious, if possible, to produce a cessation of hostilities, shook the Chain of Silence, and flung themselves among the ranks.” See also the Ode to Gaul , the Son of Morni, in Miss Brooke’s Re - liques of Irish Poetry. 2 " Dimidio magicaj resonant ubi Memnone chordte, * ’—Juvenal, 1C4 MOORE’S WORKS. IN THE MORNING} OF LIFE. Ik the morning of life, when its cares arc un- known. And its pleasures in all their new lustre begin, When we live in a bright-beaming world of our own. And the light that surrounds us is all from within ; Oh ’tis not, believe me, in that happy time We can love, as in hours of less transport wc may ; — Of our smiles, of our hopes, ’tis the gay sunny prime, But affection is truest when these fade away. When we see the first glory of youth pass us by, Like a leaf on the stream that will never return ; When our cup, which had sparkled with pleasure so high, First tastes of the other, the dark- flowing urn ; Then, then is the time when affection holds sway With a depth and a tenderness joy never knew; Love, nurs’d among pleasures, is faithless as they, But the love born of Sorrow, like Sorrow, is true. In climes full of sunshine, though splendid the flowers, Their sighs have no freshness, their odour no worth ; ’Tis the cloud and the mist of our own Isle of showers, That call the rich spirit of fragrancy forth. So it is not ’mid splendour, prosperity, mirth, That the depth of Love’s generous spirit ap- pears ; To the sunshine of smiles it may first owe its birth, But the soul of its sweetness is drawn out by tears. f AS SLOW OUR SHIP. As slow our ship her foamy track Against the wind was cleaving, ITer trembling pennant still look’d back To that dear Isle ’twas leaving. So loath we part from all we love, From all the links that bind us ; So turn our hearts as on we rove. To those we’ve left behind us. When, round the bowl of vanish’d years We talk, with joyous seeming,— With smiles that might as well be tears, So faint, so sad their beaming ; While mem’ry brings us back again Each early tie that twined us, Oh, sweet’s the cup that circles then To those we’ve left behind us. And when, in other climes, we meet Some isle, or vale enchanting, Where all looks flow’ry, wild and sweet, And nought but love is wanting j We think how great had been our bliss, If Ileav'n had but assign'd us To live and die in scenes like this, With some we’ve left behind us 1 As travelers oft look back at eve, When eastward darkly going, To gaze upon that light they leave Still faint behind them glowing, — So, when the close of pleasure’s day To gloom hath near consign’d us, We turn to catch one fading ray Of joy that’s left behind us. ♦ WHEN COLD IN THE EARTH. W iiex cold in the earth lies the friend thou hast lov’d, Be his faults and his follies forgot by thee then; Or, if from their slumber the veil be remov’d, Weep o’er them in silence, and close it again. And oh ! if ’tis pain to remember how far From the pathways of light he was tempted to roam. Be it bliss to remember that thou wert the star That arose on Lis darkness, and guided him home. From thee and thy innocent beauty first came The revealings, that taught him true love to adore, To feel the bright presence, and turn him with shame From the idols he blindly had knelt to before. O’er the waves of a life, long benighted and wild, Thou earnest, like a soft golden calm o’er the sea ; And if happiness purely and glowingly smil’d On his ev’ning horizon, the light was from thee. And though, sometimes, the shades of past folly might rise, And though falsehood again would allure him to stray, Tie but turn’d to the glory that dwelt in those eyes, And the folly, the falsehood, soon vanish’d away. As the Priests of the Sun, when their altar grew dim, At the day-beam alone could its lustre repair, So, if virtue a moment grew languid in him, He but flew to that smile, and rekindled it there. REMEMBER THEE. Remember thee ? yes, while there’s life in this heart, It shall never forget tlice, all lorn as thou art ; More dear in thy sorrow, thy gloom, and thy showers, Than the rest of the world in their sunniest hours. Wert thou all that I wish thee, great, glorious, and free, First flower of the earth, and first gem of the sea, I might hail thee with prouder, with happier brow, But oh 1 could I love thee more deeply than now ? IRISH MELODIES. 1G5 No, thy chains as they rankle, thy blood as it runs, But make thee more painfully dear to thy sons — Whose hearts, like the young of the desert-bird’s nest, .Brink love in each life-drop that flows from thy breast. WREATH THE BOWL. Wreath the bowl With flowers of soul, The brightest Wit can find us ; We’ll take a flight Tow’rds heaven to-night, And leave dull earth behind us. Should Love amid The wreaths be hid, That Joy, tli* enchanter, brings us, No danger fear, While wine is near, We’ll drown him if he stings us ; Then, wreath the bowl With flowers of soul, The brightest Wit can find us ; We’ll take a flight Tow’rds heaven to-night, And leave dull earth behind us. ’Twns nectar fed Of old, ’tis said, Their Junos, Joves, Apollos ; And man may brew ' Ilis nectar too, The rich receipt’s as follows : Take wine like this, Let looks of bliss Around it well be blended, Then bring Wit’s beam To warm the stream, And there’s your nectar, splendid I So wreath the bowl With flowers of soul, The brightest Wit can find us ; We’ll take a flight Tow’rds heaven to-night, And leave dull earth behind us. Say, why did Time, Ilis glass sublime, Fill up with sands unsightly, When wine, he knew, Runs brisker through And sparkles far more brightly ? Oh, lend it us, And, smiling thus, The glass in two we’ll sever, Make pleasure glide In double tide, And fill both ends for ever ! Then wreath the bowl With flowers of soul, The brightest Wit can find us 5 We’ll take a flight Tow’rds heaven to night, And leave dull earth behind us. WHENE’ER I SEE THOSE SMILING EYES. Whene’er I see those smiling eyes, So full of hope, and joy, and light As if no cloud could ever rise, To dim a heav’n so purely bright — I sigh to think how soon that brow In grief may lose its every ray, And that light heart, so joyous now, Almost forget it once was gay. For time will come with all its blights, The ruin’d hope, the friend unkind, And love, that leaves, where’er it lights, A chill’d or burning heart behind : — While youth, that now like snow appears, Ere sullied by the dark’ning rain, When once ’tis touch’d by sorrow’s tears Can never shine so bright again. IF THOU’LT BE MINE. Ik thou’lt be mine, the treasures of air, Of earth, and sea, shall lie at thy feet : Whatever in Fancy’s eye looks fair, Or in Hope’s sweet music sounds most sweet, Shall be ours — if thou wilt be mine, love ! Bright flowers shall bloom wherever we rove, A voice divine shall talk in each stream ; The stars shall look like worlds of love, And this earth be all one beautiful dream In our eyes — if thou wilt be mine, love 1 And thoughts, whose source is hidden and high, Like streams, that come from heaven-ward hills, Shall keep our hearts, like meads, that lie To be bathed by those eternal rills, Ever green, if thou wilt be mine, love I All this and more the Spirit of Love Can breathe o’er them, who feel his spells } That heaven, which forms his home above, He can make on earth, wherever he dwells, As thou’lt own, — if thou wilt be mine, love ! TO LADIES’ EYES. To Ladies’ eyes around, boy, We can’t refuse, we can’t refuse, Though bright eyes so abound, boy, ’Tis hard to choose, ’tis hard to choose. For thick as stars that lighten Yon airy bow’rs, yon airy bow’rs, The countless eyes that brighten This earth of ours, this earth of ours. But fill the cup — where’er, boy, Our choice may fall, our choice may fall, We’re sure to find Love there, boy, So drink them all l so drink them all I Some looks there arc so holy, They seem but giv’n, they seem butgiv'n, As shining beacons, solely, To light to heav’n, to light to heav’n. 166 »*■ 4 MOORE’S WORKgf AVIiIIe some — oil ! ne’er believe them — With tempting ray, with tempting ray, Would lead us (God forgive them I) The other way, the other way. But fill the cup — where’er, boy. Our choice may fall, our choice may fall, We’re sure to find Love there, boy, So driuk them all 1 so drink them all ! In some, as in a mirror, Love 6eems portray’d, Love seems portray’d, But shun the flatt’ring error, ’Tis but his shade, ’tis but his shade. Ilimself has fix’d his dwelling In eyes we know, in eyes we know, And lips — h'uk this is telling — So here they go I so here they go ! Till up, fill up — where’er, boy, Our choice may fall, our choice may fall, We’re sure to fiud Love there, boy, So drink them all I so drink them all 1 # ♦ FORGET NOT THE FIELD. Forget not the field where they perish’d, The truest, the last of the brave, All gone — and the bright hope we cherish’d Gone with them, and quench’d in tlieir grave 1 Oh ! could we from death but recover Those hearts as they bounded before, In the face of high lieav’n to fight over That combat for freedom once more ; — Could the chain for an instant be riven Which Tyrauny flung round us then, No, ’tis not in Man, nor in Heaven, To let Tyranny bind it again 1 But ’tis past — and, tho’ blazon’d in story The name of our Victor may be, Accurst is the march of that glory Which treads o’er the hearts of the free. F ar dearer the grave or the prison, Illumed by one patriot name, Than the trophies of all, who have risen On Liberty’s ruins to fame. THEY MAY RAIL AT TIIIS LIFE. They may rail at this life — from the hour I began it, I found it a life full of kindness and bliss ; And, until they can show me some happier planet, More social and bright, I’ll content me with this. As long as the world has such lips and such eyes, As before me this moment enraptur’d I sec, They may say what they will of their orbs in the skies, But this earth is the planet for you, love, and me. 1 “Tons les habitans dc Mercure sont Tifs.” — Plu- rality des Mond.es. 2 “La terre pourra fctre pour Venus l’etoilo du In Mercury’s star, where each moment can bring them New sunshine and wit from the fountain on high, Though the nymphs may have livelier poets to 6ing them, 1 2 They’ve none, even there, more enamour’d than I. And, as long as this harp can be waken’d to love, And that eye its divine inspiration shall be, They may talk as they will of their Edens above, But this earth is the planet for you, love, and me. In that star of the west, by whose shadowy splendour, At twilight so often we’ve roam’d through the dew, There are maidens, perhaps, who have bosoms as tender, And look, in their twilights, as lovely as you.2 But tho’ they were even more bright than the queen Of that isle they inhabit in heaven's blue sea, As I never those fair young celestials have seen, Why — this earth is the planet for you, love, and me. As for those chilly orbs on the verge of creation, Where sunshine and smiles must be equally rare, Did they w’ant a supply of cold hearts for that station, # Heav’n knows we have plenty on’eartli we could spare. Oh 1 think what a world we should have of it here, If the haters of peace, of affection, and glee, Were to fly up to Saturn’s comfortless sphere, And leave earth to such spirits as you, love, and me. OH FOR THE SWORDS OF FORMER TIME 1 On for the swords of former time ! Oh for the men w ho bore them, When arm’d for Right, they stood sublime, And tyrants crouch’d before them : When free yet, ere courts began With honours to enslave him, The best honours worn by Man Were those which Virtue gave him. Oh for the swords, &c. &c. Oh for the Kings who flourish’d then I Oh for the pomp that crown’d them, When hearts and hands of freeborn men Were all the ramparts round them. When, safe built on bosoms true, The throne was but the centre, Round which Love a circle drew, That treason durst not enter. Oh for the Kings who flourish’d then ! Oh for the pomp that crown’d them, When hearts and hands of freeborn men Were all the ramparts round them 1 berger ct la mfcre des amours, comme Venus l’est pom nous .” — Plurality des Mortdcs, IRISH MELODIES. 167 ST. SENANUS AND THE LADY. ST. SENAJTUS.l “ 0H ! haste and leave this sacred isle, “ Unholy bark, ere morning smile ; “ For on thy deck, though 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.” Thy 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 giv’n the saint one rosy smile, She ne’er had left his lonely isle. NE’ER ASK THE HOUR. Ne’er ask the hour — what is it to us How Time deals out his treasures ? The golden moments lent us thus, Are not his coin, but Pleasure’s. If counting them o’er could add to their blisses, I’d number each glorious second : But moments of joy are, like Lesbia’s kisses, Too quick and sweet to be reckon’d. Then fill the cup — what is it to U3 How Time his circle measures ? The fairy hours we call up thus, Obey no wand, but Pleasure’s. Young Joy ne’er thought of counting hours, Till Care, one summer’s morning, Set up, among his smiling flowers, A dial, by way of warning, But Joy lov’d better to gaze on the sun, As long as its light was glowing, Than to watch with old Care how the shadows stole on, And how fast that light was going. So fill the cup — what is it to us How Time his circle measures ? The fairy hours we call up thus, Obey no wand, but Pleasure’s. 1 In a metrical life of St Senanus, which is taken from an old Kilkenny MS., and may be found among the Acta Sanctorum Ilibemice, we are told of his flight to the island of Scattery, and his resolution not to ad- mit any woman of the party ; and that he refused to receive even a sister saint, St Canncra, whom an angel had taken to the island for the express purpose of in- troducing her to him. The following was the ungra- cious answer of Senanus, according to his poetical bio- grapher : Cut Prccsul , quid/oeminis Commune cst cum monachisf SAIL ON, SAIL ON. Sail on, sail on, thou fearless bark — Wherever blows the welcome wind, It cannot lead to scenes more dark, More sad than those we leave behind. Each wave that passes seems to say, “ Though death beneath our smile may be, “ Less cold we are, less false than they, “ Whose smiling wreck’d thy hopes and thee.” Sail, on, sail on,— through endless space — Through calm — through tempest — stop no more : The stormiest sea’s a resting-place To him who leaves such hearts oif shore. Or — if some desert land we meet, Where never yet false-hearted men Profan’d a world, that else were sweet — Then rest thee, bark, but not till then. % ♦ THE PARALLEL. Yes, sad one of Sion, 2 if closely resembling, In shame and in sorrow, thy withered-up heart — If drinking deep, deep, of the same “ cup of trem- bling ” Could make us thy children, our parent thou art. Like thee doth our nation lie conquer’d and broken, And fall’n from her head is the once royal crown ; In her streets, in her halls, Desolation hath spoken, And “ while it is day yet, her sun hath gone down.” 3 Like thine doth her exile, ’mid dreams of re- turning, Die far from the home it were life to behold : Like thine do her sons, in the day of their mourning, Remember the bright tilings that bless’d them of old. Ah, well may we call her, like thee, “ the For- saken,” * Her boldest are vanquish’d, her proudest are slaves ; And the harps of her minstrels, when gayest they waken, Have tones 'mid their mirth like the wind over graves ! Nec te nec ullam aliam Admittemus in insulam. See the Acta Sanct. II ib. p. 610. According to Dr. Ledwicn, St. Senanus was no less a personage than the river Shannon ; but O’Connor and other antiquaries deny the metamorphose indignantly. 2 These verses were written after the perusal of a treatise by Mr. Hamilton, professing to prove that the Irish were originally Jew9. 3 “ Her sun is gone down while it was yet day.’" — Jer. xv. 9. 4 “ Thou slialt no more be termed Forsaken.” — Isaiah, lxii. 4. 168 MOORE’S WORKS. Vet hadst thou thy vengeance —yet came there the morrow, That shines out, at last, on tho longest dark night, When the sceptre, that smote thee with slavery and sorrow, Was shiver’d at once, like a reed, in thy sight. When that cup, which for others the proud Golden City > Had brimm’d full of bitterness, drench’d her own lips ; And the world 6he had trampled on heard, with- out pity, The howl in her halls, and the cry from her ships. I When the curse Heaven keeps for the haughty came over Her merchants rapacious, her rulers unjust, And a ruin, at last, for the earthworm to cover, 2 The Lady of Kingdoms 3 lay low in the dust. DRINK OF THIS CUP. Drink of this cup ; you’ll find there’s a spell in Its every drop ’gainst the ills of mortality ; Talk of the cordial that sparkled for Helen ! Her cup was a fiction, but this is reality. Would you forget the dark world we are in, Just taste of the bubble that gleams on the top of it ; Put would you rise above earth, till akin To Immortals themselves, you must drain every drop of it ; Send round the cup — for oh, there’s a spell in Its every drop ’gainst the ills of mortality ; Talk of the cordial that sparkled for Helen ! Her cup was a fiction, but this is reality. Never was philter form’d with such power To charm and bewilder as this we are quaffing ; Its magic began when, in Autumn’s rich hour, A harvest of gold in the fields it stood laughing. There having, by Nature’s enchantment, been fill’d With the balm and the bloom of her kindliest weather, This wonderful juice from its core was distill’d To enliven such hearts as are here brought together. Then drink of the cup — you'll find there’s a spell in Its every drop ’gainst the ills of mortality ; Talk of the cordial that sparkled for Helen 1 Her cup was a fiction, but this is reality. And though, perhaps— but breathe it to no one— Like liquor the witch brews at midnight so awful, Tli is philter in secret was first taught to flow on, Yet ’tisn’t less potent for being unlawful. I “ now hath the oppressor ceased ! the golden city ceased 1 ” — Isaiah, xiv. 4. “ Thy pomp is brought down to the grave .... and the worms cover thee.” — Isaiah, xiv. 11. 3 “ Thou Shalt no more be called the Lady of King- doms.” — Isaiah, xlvii. 5. And, ev’n though it taste of the 6mokc of that flame, Which in silence extracted its virtue forbidden— Fill up — there’s a fire in some hearts I could name, Which may work too its charm, though as lawless and hidden. So drink of the cup — for oh there’s a spell in Its every drop ’gainst the ills of mortality ; Talk of the cordial that sparkled for Helen 1 Her cup was a fiction, but this is reality. THE FORTUNE-TELLER. Down in the valley come meet me to-night, And I’ll tell you your fortune truly As ever was told, by the new moon’s light, To a young maiden, shining as newly. But, for the world, let no one be nigh, Lest haply the stars should deceive me ; Such secrets between you and me and the sky Should never go farther, believe me. If at that hour the lieav’ns be not dim, My science shall call up before you A male apparition, — the image of him Whose destiny ’tis to adore you. And if to that phantom you’ll be kind, So fondly around you he’ll hover, You’ll hardly, my dear, any difference find ’Twixt him and a true living lover. Down at your feet, in the pale moonlight, He’ll kneel, with a warmth of devotion — An ardour, of which such an innocent sprite You’d scarcely believe had a notion. What other thoughts and events may arise, As in destiny’s book I’ve not seen them, Must only be left to the stars and your eyes To settle, ere morning, between them. Oil, YE DEAD 1 On, ye Dead 1 oh, ye Dead 1 * whom we know by the light you give From your cold gleaming eyes, though you move like men who live, Why leave you thus your graves, In far off fields and waves, Where the worm and the sea-bird only know your bed, To haunt this spot where all Those eyes that wept your fall, And the hearts that wail’d you, like your own, lie dead ? 4 Paul Zealand mentions that there is a mountain in some part of Ireland, >vherc the ghosts of persons Mho have died in foreign lands walk about and converse with those they meet, like living people. If asked why they do not return to their homes, they say they are obliged to go to Mount Hccla, and disappear immediately. IRISH MELODIES. 1G9 It is true, it is true, we are shadows cold and wan ; And the fair and the brave whom we lov’d ou earth are gone ; But still thus ev’n in death, So sweet the living breath Of the fields and the flow’rs in our youth we wander’d o’er, That ere, condemn’d, we go To freeze ’mid Hecla’s snow, We would taste it awhile, and think we live once more ! O’DONOHUE’S MISTRESS. Of all the fair months, that round the sun In light-linlc’d dance their circles run, Sweet May, shine thou for me ; For still, when thy earliest beams arise, That youth, who beneath the blue lake lies, Sweet May, returns to me. Of all the bright haunts, where daylight leaves Us lingering smile on golden eves, Fair Lake, thou’rt dearest to me ; For when the last April sun grows dim, Thy Naiads prepare his steed l for him Who dwells, bright Lake, in thee. Of all the proud steeds, that ever bore Young plumed Chiefs on sea or shore, White Steed, most joy to thee ; Who still, with the first young glance of spring, From under that glorious lake dost bring My love, my chief, to me. While, white as the sail some bark unfurls, When newly launch’d, thy long mane 1 2 curls, Fair Steed, as white and free ; And spirits, from all the lake’s deep bowers, Glide o’er the blue wave scattering flowers, Around my love and thee. Of all the sweet deaths that maidens die, Whose lovers beneath the cold wave lie, Most sweet that death will be, Which, under the next May evening’s light, When thou and thy steed are lost to sight, Dear love, I’ll die for thee. ECHO. IIow sweet the answer Echo makes To music at night, When, rous’d by lute or horn, she wakes, And far away, o’er lawns and lakes, Goes answering light. Yet Love hath echoes truer far, And far more sweet, 1 The particulars of tlio tradition respecting O’Do- nohuc and his White Horse, may be found in Mr. Weld’s Account of Killarncy, or more fully detailed in Derrick’s Letters. For many years after his death, the spirit of this hero is supposed to have been seen on the morning of May-day, gliding over the lake on his favourite white horse, to the sound of sweet unearthly music, and pre- ceded by groups of youths and maidens, who flung 7/reaths of delicate spring flowers in his path. Than e’er beneath the moonlight’s star, Of horn or lute, or soft guitar, The songs repeat. ’Tis when the sigh, in youth sincere, ' And only then, — The sigh that’s breath’d for one to hear, Is by that one, that only dear, Breath’d back again 1 OH BANQUET NOT. On banquet not in those shining bowers, Where Youth resorts, but come to me : F or mine’s a garden of faded flowers, More fit for sorrow, for age, and thee. And there we shall have our feast of tears, And many a cup in silence pour ; Our guests, the shades of former years, Our toasts, to lips that bloom no more. There, while the myrtle’s withering boughs Their lifeless leaves around us shed, We’ll brim the bowl to broken vows, To friends long lost, the changed, the dead. Or, while some blighted laurel waves Its branches o’er the dreary spot, We’ll drink to those neglected graves. Where valour sleeps, unnam’d, forgot. ♦ TIIEE, THEE, ONLY THEE. Tiie dawning of morn, the daylight’s sinking. The night’s long hours still find me thinking Of thee, thee, only thee. When friends are met, and goblets crown’d, And smiles are near, that once enchanted, Unreach’d by all that sunshine round, My soul, like some dark spot, is haunted By thee, thee, only thee. Whatever in fame’s high path could waken My spirit once, is now forsaken For thee, thee, only thee. Like shores, by which some headlong bark To tli’ ocean hurries, resting never, Life’s scenes go by me, bright or dark I know not, heed not, hastening ever To thee, thee, only thee. I have not a joy but of thy bringing. And pain itself seems sweet when springing From thee, thee, only thee. Like spells, that nought on earth can break, Till lips, that know the charm, have spoken, This heart, howe’er the world may wake Its grief, its scorn, can but be broken By thee, thee, only thee. Among other stories, connected with this Legend of the Lakes, it is said that there was a youngaml beautiful girl whose imagination was so impressed with the idea of this visionary chieftain, that she fancied herself in love with him, and at last, in a fit of insanity, on a May-morning threw herself into the lake. - The boatmen at Killarncy call those waves which come on a windy day, crested with foam, “ O’Donohuc’s white horses.” 170 MOORE’S WORKS. SHALL THE HARP, THEN, BE SILENT. Shall the narp, then, be silent, when he who first gave To our country a name, is withdrawn from all eyes ? Shall a Minstrel of Erin stand mute by the grave, Where the first — where the last of her patriots lies ? No — faint tlio’ the death-song may fall from his lips, Tho’ his Harp, like his soul, may with shadows be crost, Yet, yet shall it sound, ’mid a nation’s eclipse, And proclaim to the world what a star hath been lost ; * — What a union of all the affections and powers By which life is exalted, embellish’d, refin’d, Was embrac'd in that spirit — whose centre was ours, While its mighty circumference circled man- kind. Oh, who that loves Erin, or who that can see, Through the waste of her annals, that epoch sublime — Like a pyramid rais’d in the desert — where he And his glory stand out to the eyes of all time ; That one lucid interval, snatch’d from the gloom And the madness of ages when fill’d with his soul, A Nation o’erleap’d the dark bounds of her doom, And for one sacred instant, touch’d Liberty’s goal ? Who, that ever hath heard him — hath drunk at the source Of that wonderful eloquence, all Erin’s own, In whose high-tlioughted daring, the .fire and the force, And the yet untam’d spring of her spirit are shown ? An eloquence rich, wheresoever its wave Wander’d free and triumphant, with thoughts that shone through, As clear as the brook’s “stone of lustre,” and gave, With the flash of the gem, its solidity too. Who, that ever approach’d him, when free from the crowd, In a home full of love, he delighted to tread ’Mong the trees which a nation had giv.’n, and which bow’d, 1 As if each brought a new civic crown for his head — Is there one, who hath thus, through his orbit of life But at distance observ’d him — through glory, through blame, 1 These lines were written on the death of our great patriot, Grattan, in the year 1820. It is only the first two verses that are either intended or fitted to be sung. In the calm of retreat, in the grandeur of strife, Whether shining or clouded, still high and the same,— • Oh no, not a heart, that e’er knew him, but mourns Deep, deep o’er the grave, where such glory is shrin’d — O’er a monument Fame will preserve, ’mong the urns Of the wisest, the bravest, the best of mankind ! OH, THE SIGHT ENTRANCING. Oh, the sight entrancing, When morning’s beam is glancing O’er files array’d With helm and blade, And plumes, in the gay wind dancing ! When hearts are all high beating, And the trumpet’s voice repeating That song, whose breath May lead to death, But never to retreating. Oil. the sight entrancing, When morning’s beam is glancing O’er files array’d, With helm and blade, And plumes, in the gay wind dancing 1 Yet, ’tis not helm or feather — For ask yon despot, whether His plumed bands Could bring such hands And hearts as ours together. Leave pomps to those who need ’em — Give man but heart and freedom, And proud he braves The gaudiest slaves That crawl where monarchs lead ’em. The sword may pierce the beaver, Stone walls in time may sever, ’Tis mind alone, Worth steel and stone, That keeps men free for ever. Oh, that sight entrancing, When the morning’s beam is glancing O’er files array’d With helm and blade, And in Freedom’s cause advancing I « SWEET INNISF ALLEN. Sweet Innisfallen, fare thee well, May calm and sunshine long be thine ! How fair thou art let others tell, — To feel how fair shall long be mine. Sweet Innisfallen, long shall dwell In memory’s dream that sunny smile, Which o’er thee on that evening fell, When first I saw thy fairy isle. ’Twas light, indeed, too blest for one, Who had to turn to paths of care — IRISH MELODIES. 171 Through crowded haunts again to run, And leave thee bright and silent there ; No more unto thy shores to come, But, on the world’s rude ocean tost, Dream of thee sometimes as a home Of sunshine he had seen and lost. Far better in thy weeping hours To part from thee, as I do now, When mist is o’er thy blooming bowers, Like sorrow’s veil on beauty’s brow. For, though unri vail’d still thy grace, Thou dost not look, as then, too blest, But thu3 in shadow, seem’st a place Where erring man might hope to rest — Might hope to rest, and find in thee A gloom like Eden’s, on the day He left its shade, when every tree, Like thine, hung weeping o’er his way. Weeping or smiling, lovely isle I And all the lovelier for thy tears — For though but rare thy sunny smile, ’Tis heav’n’s own glance when it appears. Like feeling hearts, whose joys are few, But, when indeed they come, divine — The brightest light the sun e’er threw Is lifeless to one gleam of thine 1 ’TWAS ONE OF THOSE DREAMS.' ’Twas one of those dreams, that by music are brought, Like a bright summer haze, o’er the poet’s warm thought — When, lost in the future, his soul wanders on, And all of this life, but its sweetness, is gone. Tire wild notes he heard o’er the water were those lie had taught to sing Erin’s dark bondage and woes, And the breath of the bugle now wafted them o’er From Dinis’ green isle, to Glenit’s wooded shore. He listen’d — while, high o’er the eagle’s rude nest, The lingering sounds on their way lov’d to rest ; And the echoes sung back from their full moun- tain quire, As if loath to let song so enchanting expire. It seem’d as if ev’ry sweet note, that died here, Was again brought to life in some airier sphere, Some heav’n in those hills, where the soul of the strain That had ceas’d upon earth was awaking again 1 1 Written during a visit to Lord Kenmare, at Kil- larney. 2 In describing the Skcligs (islands of the Barony of Forth), Dr. Keating says, “ There is a certain attractive virtue in the soil which draws down all the birds that attempt to fly over it, and obliges them to light upon the rock.” Oh forgive, if, while list’ning to music, whose breath Seem’d to circle his name with a charm against death, lie should feel a proud Spirit within him proclaim, “ Even so shalt thou live in the echoes of Fame : “ Even so, tlio’ thy mem’ry should now die away, “ ’Twill be caught up again in some happier day, “ And the hearts and the voices of Erin prolong, “ Through the answering Future, thy name and thy song.” FAIREST I PUT ON AWHILE. Fairest ! put on awhile These pinions of light I bring thee, And o’er thy own Green Isle In fancy let me wing thee. Never did Ariel’s plume, At golden sunset hover O’er scenes so full of bloom, As I shall waft thee over. Fields, where the Spring delays, And fearlessly meets the ardour Of the warm Summer’s gaze, With only her tears to guard her. Rocks, through myrtle boughs In grace majestic frowning ; Like some bold warrior’s brows That Love hath just been crowning. Islets, so freshly fair, That never hath bird come nigh them, But from his course through air He hath been won down by them ; 1 2 — Types, sweet maid, of thee, Whose look, whose blush inviting, Never did Love yet see From Heav’n, without alighting. Lakes, where the pearl lies hid, 3 And caves, where the gem is sleeping, Bright as the tears thy lid Lets fall in lonely weeping. Glens, 4 where Ocean comes, To ’scape the wild wind’s rancour, And Harbours, worthiest homes Where Freedom’s fleet can anchor. Then, if, while scenes so grand, So beautiful, shine before thee, Pride for thy own dear land Should haply be stealing o’er thee, Oh, let grief come first, O’er pride itself victorious — Thinking how man hath curst What Heaven had made so glorious I 3 “ Nennius, a British writer of the ninth century mentions the abundance of pearls in Ireland. Their princes, he says, hung them behind their ears : and this we find confirmed by a present made A. C. 1094, by Gilbert, Bishop of Limerick, to Anselm, Archbishop of Canterbury, of a considerable quantity of Irish pearls.” — O'Halloran. 4 Glcngariff, 172 MOORE’S WORKS. QUICK 1 WE HAVE BUT A SECOND. Qricic ! wc have but a second, Fill round the cup, while you may ; For Time, the churl, hath beckon’d And we must away, away I Grasp the pleasure that’s flying, For oh, not Orpheus’ strain Could keep sweet hours from dying, Or charm them to life again. Then, quick 1 we have but a second, Fill round the cup, while you may ; For Time, the churl, hath beckon’d, And we must away, away 1 Sec the glass, how it flushes, Like some young Hebe’s lip, And half meets thine, and blushes That thou shouldst delay to sip. Shame, oh shame unto thee, If ever thou see’st that daj T , When a cup or lip shall woo thee, And turn untoucli’d away 1 Then, quick 1 we have but a second, Fill round, fill round, while you may ; For Time, the churl, hath beckon’d, And we must away, away ! AND DOTH NOT A MEETING LIKE THIS. Asd doth not a meeting like this make amends, For all the long years I’ve been wand’ring away — To sec thus around me my youth’s early friends, As smiling and kind as in that happy day? Though haply o’er some of your brows, as o’er mine, The snow-fall of time may be stealing — what then ? Like Alps in the sunset, thus lighted by wine, We’ll wear the gay tinge of youth’s roses again. What soften’d remembrances come o'er the heart In gazing on those we’ve been lost to so long I The sorrows, the joys, of which once they were part Still round them, like visions of yesterday, throng, As letters some hand hath invisibly trac’d, When held to the flame will steal out on the sight, So many a feeling, that long seem’d effac’d, The warmth of a moment like this brings to light. And thus, as in memory’s bark we shall glide, To visit the scenes of our boyhood anew, Though oft we may see, looking down on the tide, The wreck of full many a hope shining through ; Yet still, as in fancy we point to the flowers, That once made a garden of all the gay shore, 1 * Jours charmans, quand je songc £ vos heureux in stans, Jo pense remontcr le fleuve do mes ans ; Et moil coeur enchante, sur sa rive fleurie, Ilespire encore Pair pur du matin de la vie.” 2 The same thought lias been happily expressed by my friend Mr. Washington Irving, in liis Bractbr id gt, hall , Deceiv’d for a moment, we’ll think them still ours, And breathe the fresh air of life’s morning once more.* So brief our existence, a glimpse, at the most, Is all wc can have of the few we hold dear ; And oft even joy is unheeded and lost, For want of some heart, that could echo it, near. Ah, well may we hope, when this short life is gone, To meet in some worldof more permanentbliss, For a smile, or a grasp of the hand, hastening on, Is all we enjoy of each other in this.2 But come, the more rare such delight to the heart, The more we should welcome and bless them the more ; They’re ours, when wc meet,— they are lost when we part, Like birds that bring summer, and fly when ’tis o’er. Thus circling the cup, hand in hand, ere wc drink, Let Sympathy pledge us, thro’ pleasure, thro’ pain, That, fast as a feeling but touches one link, Her magic shall send it direct thro’ the chain. THE MOUNTAIN SPRITE. Iy yonder valley there dwelt, alone, A j'outh, whose moments had calmly flown, Till spells came o’er him, and, day and night, He was haunted and watch’d by a Mountain Sprite. As once, by moonlight, he wander’d o’er The golden sands of that island shore, A foot-print sparkled before his sight — ’Twas the fairy foot of the Mountain Sprite l Beside a fountain, one sunny day, As bending over the stream he lay, There peep’d down o’er him two eyes of light, And he saw in that mirror the Mountain Sprite. He turn’d, but lo, like a startled bird, That spirit fled 1 — and the youth but heard Sweet music, such as marks the flight Of some bird of song, from the Mountain Sprite. One night, still haunted by that bright look, The boy, bewilder’d. His pencil took, And, guided only by memory’s light, Drew the once-seen form of the Mountain Sprite. “ Oh thou, who lovest the shadow,” cried A voice, low whisp’ring by his side, “ Now turn and see,” — here the youth’s delight Seal’d the rosy lips of the Mountain Sprite. vol. i. p. 21 3. The sincere pleasure which I feel in calling this gentleman my friend is much enhanced hv the re- flection, that he is too good an American to have ad- mitted me so readily to such a distinction, if he had not known that my feelings towards the great and free country that gave him birth have been long such as every real lover of the liberty aud happiness of the human race must entertain. IRISH MELODIES. 173 “ Of all the .Spirits of land and sea,’* Then rapt he murmur’d, “ there’s none like thee, “ And oft, oh oft, may thy foot thus light “ In this lonely bower, sweet Mountain Sprite 1 ” AS VANQUISH’D ERIN. As vanquish’d Erin wept beside The Boyne’s ill-fated river, She saw where Discord, in the tide, Hud dropp’d his loaded quiver. “ Lie hid,” she cried, “ ye venom’d darts, “ Where mortal eye may shun you “ Lie hid — the stain of manly hearts, “ That bled for me, is on you.” But vain her wish, her weeping vain — As Time too well hath taught her — Each year the Fiend returns again And dives into that water ; And brings, triumphant, from beneath His shafts of desolation, And sends them, wing’d with worse than death, Through all her madd’ning nation. Alas for her who sits and mourns, Ev’n now, beside that river — Unwearied still the Fiend returns, And stor’d is still his quiver. “ When will this end, ye Powers of Good ? ” She weeping asks for ever ; But only hears, from out that flood, The Demon answer, “ Never 1 ” DESMOND’S SONG. 1 2 By the Feal’s wave benighted, No star in the skies, To thy door by Love lighted, I first saw those eyes. Some voice whisper’d o’er me, As the threshold I crost, There was ruin before me, If I lov’d, I was lost. Love came, and brought sorrow Too soon in his train ; Yet so sweet, that to-morrow ’Tvvere welcome again. Though misery’s full measure My portion should be, I would drain it with pleasure, If pour’d out by thee. 1 “Thomas, the heir of the Desmond family, had accidentally been so engaged in the chase, that he was benighted near Tralee, and obliged to take shelter at the Abbey of Feal, in the house of one of his dependants, called Mac Cormac. Catherine, a beautiful daughter of his host, instantly inspired the Earl with a violent passion, which he could not subdue. He married her, and by this inferior alliance alienated his followers, whose brutal pride regarded this indulgence of li is love as an unpardonable degradation of nis family.” — Leland , vol. ii. 2 These verses are meant to allude to that ancient haunt of superstition, called Patrick’s Purgatory. “ In the midst of these gloomy regions of Donegal (says Dr. Campbell) lay a lake, which was to become the mystic You, who call it dishonour To bow to this flume, If you’ve eyes, look but on her, And blush while you blame. Hath the pearl less whiteness Because of its birth ? Hath the violet less brightness For growing near earth ? No — Man for his glory To ancestry flies ; But Woman’s bright story Is told in her eyes. While the Monarch but traces Through mortals his line, Beauty, born of the Graces, Ranks next to Divine l THEY KNOW NOT MY HEART. They know not my heart, who believe there can be One stain of this earth in its feelings for thee ; Who think, while I see thee in beauty’s young hour, As pure as the morning’s first dew on the flow’r, I could harm what I love, — as the sun’s wanton ray But smiles on the dew-drop to waste it away. No — beaming with light as those young features are, There’s a light round thy heart which is lovelier far : It is not that cheek — ’tis the soul dawning clear Thro’ its innocent blush makes thy beauty so dear ; As the sky we look up to, though glorious and fair, Is look’d up to the more, because Heaven lies there I I WISH I WAS BY THAT DIM LAKE. I wish I was by that dim Lake, 2 Where sinful souls their farewell take Of this vain world, and half-way lie In death’s cold shadow, ere they die. There, there, far from thee, Deceitful world, my home should be ; Where, come what might of gloom and pain, False hope should ne’er deceive again. The lifeless sky, the mournful sound Of unseen waters falling round ; theatre of this fabled and intermediate state. In the lake were several islands ; but one of them was dignified with that called the Mouth of Purgatory, which, during the dark ages, attracted the notice of all Christendom, and was the resort of penitents and pilgrims from almost every country in Europe.” “ It was,” as the same writer tells us, “one of the most dismal and dreary spots in tho North, almost inaccessible, through deep glens and rugged mourf- taius, frightful with impending rocks, and the hollow murmurs of the western winds in dark caverns, peopled only with such fantastic beings as the mind, however gay, is, from strange association, wont to appropriate to such gloomy scenes.” — Strictures on the Ecclesiastical and Literary History of Ireland, 174 MOORE’S WORKS. The dry leaves, quiv’ring o’er my head, Like man, unquiet ev’n when dead ! These, ay, these shall wean, My soul from life’s deluding scene, And turn each thought, o’ereharg’d with gloom, Like willows downward tow’rds the tomb. A9 they who to their couch at night Would win repose, first quench the light, So must the hopes that keep this breast Awake, be quench’d, ere it can rest. Cold, cold this heart, must grow, Unmov’d by either joy or woe, Like freezing founts, where all that’s thrown Within their current turns to stone. SHE SUNG OF LOYE. Site sung of Love, while o’er her lyre The rosy rays of evening fell, As if to feed, with their soft fire, The soul within that trembling shell. The same rich light hung o’er her cheek, And play’d around those lips that sung And spoke, as flowers would sing and speak, If love could ’end their leaves a tongue. But soon the West no longer burn’d, Each rosy ray from heav’n withdrew ; And, when to gaze again I turn’d, The minstrel’s form seem’d fading too. As if her light and heav’n’s were one, The glory all had left that frame ; And from her glimmering lips the tone, As from a parting spirit, came. 1 Who ever lov’d, but had the thought That he and all he lov’d must part ? Fill’d with this fear, I flew and caught The fading image to my heart — And cried, “ O Love ! is this thy doom ? “ Oh light of youth’s resplendent day I “ Must ye then lose your golden bloom, “ And thus, like sunshine die away ? ” ♦ SING — SING— MUSIC WAS GIVEN. Sixg — sing — Music was given, To brighten the gay, and kindle the loving ; Souls here, like planets in Heaven, By harmony’s laws alone are kept moving. Beauty may boast of her eyes and her cheeks, But Love from the lips his true archery wings ; And she, who but feathers the dart when she speaks, At once sends it home to the heart when she sings. 1 The thought here was suggested by some beautiful lines in Mr. Rogers’s Poem of Human Life, begin- ning — “ Now in the glimmering, dying light she grows Less and less earthly.” I would quote the entire passage, did I not fear to put my own humble imitation of it out of countenance. Then sing — sing — Music was given, To brighten the gay, and kindle the loving: Souls here, like planets in Heaven, By harmony’s laws alone are kept moving. When Love, rock’d by his mother, Lay sleeping as calm as slumber could make him, “ Hush, hush,” said Venus, “ no other 44 Sweet voice but his own is worthy to wake him.” Dreaming of music he slumber’d the while Till faint from his lip a soft melody broke, And Venus, enchanted, look’d on with a smile, While Love to his own sweet singing awoke. Then sing — sing — Music was given, To brighten the gay, and kindle the loving j Souls here, like planets in Heaven, By harmony’s laws alone are kept moving. + THOUGH HUMBLE THE BANQUET. Though humble the banquet to which I invite thee, Thou’lt find there the best a poor bard can com- mand : Eyes, beaming with welcome, shall throng round to light thee, And Love serve the feast with his own willing hand. And though Fortune may seem to have turn’d from the dwelling Of him thou regardest her favouring ray, Thou wilt find there a gift, all her treasures ex- celling, Which, proudly he feels, hath ennobled his way. ’Tis that freedom of mind, which no vulgar dominion Can turn from the path a pure conscience approves ; Which with hope in the heart, and no chain on the pinion. Holds upwards its course to the light which it loves. ’Tis this makes the pride of his humble retreat, And, with this, though of all other treasures bereav’d, The breeze of his garden to him is more s-weet Than the costliest incense that Pomp e’er re- ceiv’d. Then, come, — if a board so untempting hath power To win thee from grandeur, its best shall be thine ; And there’s one, long the light of the bard’s happy bower, Who, smiling, will blend her bright welcome w’ith mine. IRISH MELODIES. 175 SING, SWEET HARP. Stng, sweet Harp, oh sing to me Some song of ancient days, Whose sounds, in this sad memory Long buried dreams shall raise ; — Some lay that tells of vanish’d fame, Whose light once round us shone ; Of noble pride, now turn’d to shame, And hopes for ever gone. — Sing, sad Harp, thus sing to me ; Alike our doom is cast, Both lost to all but memory, We live but in the past. How mournfully the midnight air Among thy chords doth sigh, As if it sought some echo there Of voices long gone by ; — Of Chieftains, now forgot, who seem’d The foremost then in fame ; Of Bards who, once immortal deem’d, Now sleep without a name.— In vain, sad Harp, the midnight air Among thy chords doth sigh ; In vain it seeks an echo there Of voices long gone by. Couldst thou but call those spirits round, Who once, in bower and hall, Sat listening to thy magic sound, Now mute and mould’ring all ; — But, no ; they would but wake to weep Their children’s slavery ; Then leave them in their dreamless sleep, The dead, at least, are free 1 — Hush, hush, sad Harp, that dreary tone, That knell of Freedom’s day ; Or, listening to its death-like moan, Let me, too, die away. SONG OF THE BATTLE EVE. Time — the Ninth Century. To-morrow, comrade, we On the battle-plain must be, There to conquer, or both lie low ! The morning star is up, — But there’s wine still in the cup, And we’ll take another quaff, ere we go, boy, go ; We’ll take another quaff, ere we go. ’Tis true, in manliest eyes A passing tear will rise, When we think of the friends we leave lone ; But what can wailing do ? See, our goblet’s weeping too l With its tears we’ll chase away our own, boy, our own ; With its tears we’ll chase away our own. But daylight’s stealing on ; — The last that o’er us shone Saw our children around us play : The next — ah 1 where shall we And those rosy urchins be ? But— no matter— grasp thy sword and away, boy, away ; No matter — grasp thy sword and away I Let those, who brook the chain Of Saxon or of Dane, Ignobly by their firesides stay ; One sigh to home be given, One heartfelt prayer to heaven, Then, for Erin and her cause, boy, hurra I hurra ! hurra 1 Then, for Erin and her cause, hurra I THE WANDERING BARD. What life like that of the bard can be, — The wandering bard, who roams as free As the mountain lark that o’er him sings, And, like that lark, a music brings Within him, where’er he comes or goes, — A fount that for ever flows ! The world’s to him like some play- ground, Where fairies dance their moonlight round ; — If dimm’d the turf where late they trod, The elves but seek some greener sod ; So, when less bright his scene of glee, To another away flies he ! Oh, what would have been young Beauty’s doom, Without a bard to fix her bloom ? They tell us, in the moon’s bright round, Things lost in this dark world are found ; So charms, on earth long pass’d and gone, In the poet’s lay live on. — Would ye have smiles that ne'er grow dim ? You’ve only to give them all to him, Who, with but a touch of Fancy’s wand, Can lend them life, this life beyond, And fix them high, in Poesy’s sky, — Young stars that never die ! Then, welcome the bard where’er he comes, — For, though he hath countless airy homes, To which his wing excursive roves, Yet still, from time to time, he loves To light upon earth and find such cliecr As brightens our banquet here. No matter how far, how fleet he flies, You’ve only to light up kind young eyes, Such signal-fires as here are given, — And down he’ll drop from Fancy’s heaven, The minute such call to love or mirth Proclaims he’s wanting on earth l ALONE IN CROWDS TO WANDER ON. Alone in crowds to wander on, And feel that all the charm is gone Which voices dear and eyes belov’d Shed round us once, where’er we rov’d — - This, this the doom must be Of all who’ve lov’d, and liv’d to see MOORE’S WORKS. J7G The few bright things they thought would stay For ever near them, die away. Tho’ fairer forms around us throng, Their 6miiC9 to others all belong. And want that charm which dwells alone Round those the fond heart calls its own. Where, where the sunny brow ? The long-known voice — where are they now ? Thus ask I still, nor ask in vain, The silence answers all too plain. Oh, what is Fancy’s magic worth, If all her art cannot call forth One bliss like those we felt of old From lips now mute, and eyes now cold ? No, no, — her 6pell is vain, — As soon could she bring back again Those eyes themselves from out the grave, As wake again one bliss they gave. I’VE A SECRET TO TELL THEE. I’ve a secret to tell thee, but hush ! not here,— Oh I not where the world its vigil keeps : I’ll seek, to whisper it in thine ear, Some shore where the Spirit of Silence sleeps ; Where summer’s wave unmurm’ring dies, Nor fay can hear the fountain’s gush ; Where, if but a note her night-bird sighs, The rose saith, chidingly, “ Hush, sweet, hush!” There, amid the deep silence of that hour, When stars can be heard in ocean dip, Thyself shall, under some rosy bower, Sit mute, with thy finger on thy lip : Like him, the boy, 1 * who born among The flowers that on the Nile-stream blush, Sits ever thu3, — his only song To earth and heaven, “ Ilush, all, hush ! ” SONG OF INNISFAIL. They came from a land beyond the sea, And now o’er the western main Set sail, in their good ships, gallantly, From the sunny land of Spain. ‘ Oh, where’s the Isle we’ve seen in dreams, “ Our destin’d home or grave ? ” 2 Thus sung they as, by the morning’s beams, They 6wept the Atlantic wave. And, lo, where afar o’er ocean shines A sparkle of radiant green, As though in that deep lay emerald mines, Whose light through the wave was seen. “ ’Tis Innisfail 3 — ’tis Innisfail 1 ” Rings o’er the echoing sea ; While, bending to hcav’n, the warriors hail That home of the brave and free. 1 The God of Silence, thus pictured by the Egyptians. - “ Milesius remembered the remarkable prediction of the principal Druid, who foretold that the posterity of Gadelus should obtain the possession of a Western Then turn’d they unto the Eastern wave, Where now their Day-God’s eye A look of such sunny omen gave As lighted up sea and sky. Nor frown was seen through sky or sea, Nor tear o’er leaf or sod, When first on their Isle of Destiny Our great forefathers trod. THE NIGHT DANCE. Strike the gay harp 1 see the moon is on high, And, as true to her beam as the tides of the ocean, Young hearts, when they feel the soft light of her eye, Obey the mute call, and heave into motion. Then, sound notes — the gayest, the lightest, That ever took wing, when lieav’n look’d brightest l Again I Again ! Oh 1 could such heart-stirring music be heard In that City of Statues described by romancers, So wak’ning its spell, even stone would be stirr’d, And statues themselves all start into dancers ! Why then delay, with such sounds in our ears, And the flower of Beauty’s own garden before us, — While stars overhead leave the song of their spheres, And list’ning to ours, hang wond’ring o’er us ? Again, that strain 1 — to hear it thus sounding Might set even Death’s cold pulses bounding — Again ! Again I Oh, what delight when the youthful and gay, Each with eye like a sunbeam and foot like a feather, Thus dance, like the Hours to the music of May, And mingle sweet song and sunshine together. THERE ARE SOUNDS OF MIRTH. There arc sounds of mirth in the night-air ring- ing. And lamps from every casement shown ; While voices blithe within are singing, That seem to say “ Come,” in every tone. Ah 1 once how light, in Life’s young season, My heart had leap’d at that sweet lay ; Nor paus’d to ask of greybeard Reason Should I the syren call obey. And, see — the lamps still livelier glitter, The syren lips more fondly sound ; No, seek, ye nymphs, some victim fitter To sink in your rosy bondage bound. Shall a bard, whom not the world in arms Could bend to tyranny’s rude controul, Thus quail, at sight of woman’s charms, And } ield to a smile his freeborn soul ? Island (which was Ireland), and there inhabit.” — Keating. . _ 5> The Island of Destiny, one of the ancient names of Ireland. IRISH MELODIES. 177 Thus sung the sage, while, slyly stealing, The nymphs their fetters around him cast, And, — their laughing eyes, the while, conceal- ing,— Led Freedom’s Bard their slave at last. For the Poet’s heart, still prone to loving, Was like that roclc of the Druid race,! Which the gentlest touch at once set moving, But all earth’s power couldn’t cast from its base. On I ARRANMORE, LOY’D ARRAN- MORE. On ! Arranmore, lov’d Arranmore, How oft I dream of thee, And of those days when, by thy shore, I wander’d young and free. Full many a path I’ve tried, since then, Through pleasure’s flowery maze, But ne’er could find the bliss again I felt in those sweet days. How blithe upon thy breezy clilfs At sunny morn I’ve stood, With heart as bounding as the skiffs That danc’d along thy flood ; Or, when the western wave grew bright With daylight’s parting wing, Have sought that Eden in its light Which dreaming poets sing ;2 — That Eden where th’ immortal brave Dwell in a land serene, — Whose bow’rs beyond the shining wave, At sunset, oft are seen. All dream too full of sadd’ning truth ! Those mansions o’er the main Are like the hopes I built in youth, — As sunny and as vain ! LAY HIS SWORD BY HIS SIDE. Lay his sword by his side , 3 it hath serv’d him too well Not to rest near his pillow below ; To the last moment true, from his hand ere it fell, Its point was still turn’d to a flying foe. Fellow-lab’rers in life, let them slumber in death, Side by side, as becomes the reposing brave, — That sword which he loved still unbroke in its sheath, And himself unsubdued in his grave. Yet pause — for, in fancy, a still voice I hear, As if breath’d from his brave heart’s remains ; — Faint echo of that which, in Slavery’s ear, Once sounded the war- word, “ Burst your chains 1 ” 1 The Rocking Stones of the Druids, some of which no force is able to dislodge from their stations. 2 “ The inhabitants of Arranmore arc still persuaded that, in a clear day, they can see from this coast Hy Brysail, or the Enchanted Island, the Paradise of tin Paean Irish, and concerning which they relate a number of romantic stories.” — Beaufort's Ancient Topography of Ireland. 3 It was the custom of the ancient Irish, in the And it cries, from the grave where the hero lies deep, “ Tho’ the day of your Chieftain for ever hath set, “Oh leave not his sword thus inglorious to sleep, — “ It hath victory’s life in it yet I “ Should some alien, unworthy such weapon to wield, “ Dare to touch thee, my own gallant sword, “ Then rest in thy sheath, like a talisman seal’d, “ Or return to the grave of thy chainless lord. “ But if grasp’d by a hand that hath learn’d the proud use “ Of a falchion, like thee, on the battle-plain,— “ Then, at Liberty’s summons, like lightning let loose, “ Leap forth from thy dark sheath again 1 ” OH, COULD WE DO WITH THIS WORLD OF OURS. On, could we do with this world of ours As thou dost with thy garden bowers, Reject the weeds and keep the flowers, What a heaven on earth we’d make it 1 So bright a dwelling should be our own, So warranted free from sigh or frown, That angels soon w r ould be coming down, By the week or month to take it. Like those gay flies that wing through air, And in themselves a lustre bear, A stock of light, still ready there, Whenever they wish to use it ; So, in this world I’d make for thee, Our hearts should all like fire-flies be, And the flush of wit or poesy Break forth whenever we choose it. While ev’ry joy that glads our sphere Hath still some shadow hov’ring near, In this new world of ours, my dear, Such shadows will all be omitted : — Unless they’re like that graceful one, Which, when thou’rt dancing in the sun, Still near thee, leaves a charm upon Each spot where it hath flitted I THE WINE-CITP IS CIRCLING. The wine-cup is circling in Almhin’s hall,* And its Chief, ’mid his heroes reclining. Looks up, with a sigh, to the trophied wall, Where his sword hangs idly shining. When, hark 1 that shout From the vale without, — manner of the Scythians, to bury the favourite sworils of their heroes along with them. 4 The palace of Fin Mac-Cumhal (the Fingal of Macpherson) in Leinster. It was built on the top of tho hill, which has retained from thence the name of the Hill of Allen, in the county of Kildare. The Finians, or Fenii, M ere the celebrated National Militia of Ire land, which this chief commanded. Tho introduction of tho Danes in the above song is an anachronism common to most of the Finian and Ossianic legends. N 178 MOORE’S WORKS. 44 Arm ye quick, the Dane, the Dane is nigh 1 ” Ev’ry Cliicf starts up From liis foaming cup, And “ To battle, to battle I ” is the Finian’s cry. The minstrels have seized their harps of gold, And they sing such thrilling numbers, — ’Tis like the voice of the Brave, of old, Breaking forth from their place of slumbers ! Spear to buckler rang, As the minstrels 6ang, And the Sun-burst * o’er them floated wide ; While rememb’ring the yoke Which their fathers broke, 44 On for liberty, for liberty 1 ” the Finians cried. Like clouds of the night the Northmen came, O’er the valley of Almhin lowering ; While onward mov’d, in the light of its fame, That banner of Erin, towering. With the mingling shock Rung cliff and rock, ■While, rank on rank, the invaders die : And the shout, that last O’er the dying pass’d, ■Was “ Victory I victory I ” — the Finian’s cry. ♦ THE DREAM OF THOSE DAYS. The dream of those days when first I sung thee is o’er, Thy triumph hath stain’d the charm thy sorrows then wore ; And ev’n of the light which Hope once shed o’er thy chains, Alas, not a gleam to grace thy freedom remains. Say, is it that slavery sunk so deep in thy heart, That still the dark brand is there, though chain- less thou art ; And Freedom’s sweet fruit, for which thy spirit long burn’d, Now, reaching at last thy lip, to ashes hath turn’d ? Up Liberty’s steep by Truth and Eloquence led, With eyes on her temple fix’d, how proud was thy tread ! Ah, better thou ne’er had’6t liv’d that summit to gain, Or died in the porch, than thu3 dishonour the fane. ♦ FROM THIS HOUR TOE FLEDGE IS GIVEN. From thi3 hour the pledge is given, From this hour my soul is thine : Come what will, from earth or heaven, Weal or woe, thy fate be mine. I The name giTcn to the banner of the Irish. * It is hardly necessary, perhaps, to inform the reader that these lines are meant as a tribute of sincere When the proud and great stood by thee, None dar’d thy rights to spurn ; And if now they’re false and fly thee, Shall I, too, basely turn ? No ; — whate’er the fires that try thee, In the same this heart shall burn. Though the sea where thou embarkest, Offers now a friendly shore, Light may come where all looks darkest, Hope hath life, when life seems o’er. And, of those past ages dreaming, W r hen glory deck’d thy brow, Oft I fondly think, though seeming So fall’n and clouded now, Thou’lt again break forth, all beaming,— None 60 bright, so blest as thou ! ♦ SILENCE IS IN OUR FESTAL IIALLS.2 Silence is in our festal halls, — Sweet Son of Song 1 thy course is o’er ; In vain on thee sad Erin calls, Her minstrel’s voice responds no more ; — All silent as th’ Eolian shell Sleeps at the close of some bright day, When the sweet breeze, that wak’d its swell At sunny morn, hath died away. Yet, at our feasts, thy spirit long, Awak’d by music’s spell, shall rise ; For, name so link’d with deathless song Partakes its charm and never dies : And ev’n within the holy fane, When music wafts the soul to heaven, One thought to him, whose earliest strain Was echoed there, shall long be given. But, where is now the cheerful day, The social night, when, by thy side, ne, who now weaves this parting lay, His skilless voice with tliine allied ; And sung those songs whose every tone, When bard and minstrel long have past, Shall still, in sweetness all their own, Embalm’d by fame, undying last. Yes, Erin, thine alone the fame,— Or, if thy bard have shar’d the crown, From thee the borrow’d glory came, And at thy feet is now laid down. Enough, if Freedom still inspire His latest song, and still there be, As evening closes round his lyre, One ray upon its chords from thee. + friendship to the memory of an old and valued colleague in this work, Sir John btevenson. IRISH MELODIES. 170 APPENDIX: CONTAINING TIIE ADVERTISEMENTS ORIGINALLY PREFIXED TO TIIE DIFFERENT NUMBERS, AND &()£ ISrcfnforiT fetter on $rislj Utait# ADVERTISEMENT PREFIXED TO TIIE FIRST AND SECOND NUMBERS. • Power takes the liberty of announcing to the Public a Work which has long been a Desideratum in this country. Though the beauties of the National Music of Ireland have been very gene- rally felt and acknowledged, yet it has happened, through the want of appropriate English words, and of the arrangement necessary to adapt them to the voice, that many of the most excellent compositions have hitherto remained in obscurity. It is intended, therefore, to form a Collection of the best Original Irish Melodies, with charac- teristic Symphonies and Accompaniments ; and with Words containing, as frequently as possible, allusions to the manners and history of the coun- try. Sir John Stevenson has very kindly con- sented to undertake the arrangement of the Airs ; and the lovers of Simple National Music may rest secure, that, in such tasteful hands, the native charms of the original melody will not be sacrificed to the ostentation of science. In the Poetical Part, Power has had promises of assistance from several distinguished Literary Characters ; particularly from Mr. Moore, whose lyrical talent is so peculiarly suited to such a task, and whose zeal in the undertaking will be best understood from the following Extract of a Letter which he has addressed to Sir John Ste- venson on the subject: — “I feel very anxious that a work of this kind should be undertaken. We have too long neg- lected the only talent for which our English neighbours ever deigned to allow us any credit. Our National Music has never been properly collected, 1 * * and, while the composers of the Con- tinent have enriched their Operas and Sonatas with melodies borrowed from Ireland, — very often without even the honesty of acknowledg- ment, — we have left these treasures, in a great degree, unclaimed and fugitive. Thus our Airs, like too many of our countrymen, have, for want of protection at home, passed into the service of foreigners. But we are come, I hope, to a better period of both Politics and Music ; and how much they are connected, in Ireland at least, appears too plainly in the tone of sorrow and depression which characterises most of our early Songs. “ The task which you propose to me, of adapt- ing words to these airs, is by no means easy. The Poet who would follow the various sentiments 1 The writer forgot, when he made this assertion, that the public arj indohied to Mr. Bunting for a very valuable collection of Irish Music; and that the pa- wliich they express, must feel and understand that rapid fluctuation of spirits, that unaccount- able mixture of gloom and levity, which composes the character of my countrymen, and has deeply tinged their Music. Even in their liveliest strains we find some melancholy note intrude, — some minor Third or flat Seventh, — which throws its shade as it passes, and makes even mirth inte- resting. If Burns had been an Irishman (and I would willingly give up all our claims upon Ossian for him), his heart would have been proud of such music, and his genius would have made it immortal. “ Another difficulty (which is, however, purely mechanical) arises from the irregular structure of many of those airs, and the lawless kind of metre which it will in consequence be necessary to adapt to them. In these instances the Poet must write, not to the eye, but to the ear ; and must be content to have his verses of that de- scription which Cicero mentions, 4 Quos si cantu spoliaveris nuda remanebit oratio .’ That beau- tiful Air, 4 The Twisting of the Rope,’ which has all the romantic character of the Swiss lianz dcs Vackes, is one of those wild and sentimental rakes which it will not he very easy to tie down in sober wedlock with Poetry. However, not- withstanding all these difficulties, and the very moderate portion of talent which I can bring to surmount them, the design appears to me so truly National, that I shall feel much pleasure in giving it all the assistance in my power. “ Leicestershire , Feb. 1807.” , > ADVERTISEMENT TO TIIE THIRD NUMBER. In presenting the Third Number of this work to the Public, Power begs leave to offer his acknow- ledgments for the very liberal patronage with which it lias been, honoured ; and to express a hope that the unabated zeal of those who have hitherto so admirably conducted it, will enable him to continue it through many future Numbers with equal spirit, variety, and taste. The stock of popular Melodies is far from being exhausted ; and there is still in reserve an abundance of beautiful Airs, which call upon Mr. Moore, in the language he so well understands, to save them from the oblivion to which they are hastening. Power respectfully trusts lie will not be thought presumptuous in saying, that he feels proud, as an Irishman, in even the very subordinate share which he can claim, in promoting a Work so creditable to the talents of the Country, — a Work which, from the spirit of nationality it breathes, will do more, he is convinced, towards liberalizing the feelings of society, and producing that brother- hood of sentiment which it is so much our interest to cherish, than could ever be effected by the mere arguments of well-intentioned but uninte- resting politicians. triotic genius of Miss Owenson lias been employed upon some of our finest airs. 180 MOORE’S WORKS. LETTER TO Qt ^llart^lonwi Jpofoagcr of ponc^t’, PREFIXED TO THE THIRD NUMBER. While the publisher of these Melodies very pro- perly inscribes them to the Nobility and Gentry of Ireland in general, I have much pleasure in selecting one from that number, to whom vvj share of the Work is particularly dedicated. I know that, though your Ladyship has been so long absent from Ireland, you still continue to remember it well and warmly, — that you have not suffered the attractions of English society to produce, like the taste of the lotus, any forgetful- ness of your own country, but that even the humble tribute which I offer 'derives its chief claim upon your interest and sympathy from the appeal which it makes to your patriotism. In- deed, absence, however fatal to some affections of the heart, rather tends to strengthen our love for the land where we were born ; and Ireland is the country, of all others, which an exile from it must Temember with most enthusiasm. Those few darker and less amiable traits with which bigotry and misrule have stained her character, and which are too apt to disgust us upon a nearer intercourse, become at a distance softened, or altogether in- visible. Nothing is remembered but her virtues and her misfortunes, — the zeal with which she lias always loved liberty, and the barbarous policy which lias always withheld it from her, — the ease with which her generous spirit might be conci- liated, and the cruel ingenuity which has been exerted to “ wring her into undutifulness.” 1 It has been often remarked, and still oftener felt, that in our music is found 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 even many airs, which it is difficult to listen to, without recalling some 1 A phrase which occurs in a letter from the Earl of Desmond to the Earl of Ormond, in Elizabeth’s time. Scrinia Sacra, as quoted by Curry. •2 There are some gratifying accounts of the gal- lantry of these Irish auxiliaries in “The complete History of the Wars in Scotland under Montrose” (1660). See particularly, for the conduct of an Irish- man at the battle of Aberdeen, chap. vi. p. 49.; and for a tribute to the bravery of Colonel O’Kyan, chap. vii. p. 55. Clarendon owns that the Marquis of Montrose was indebted for much of his miraculous success to the small band of Irish heroes under Macdonnell. 3 The associations of the Hindu music, though more obvious and defined, were far less touching and characteristic. They divided their songs according to the seasons of the year, by which (says Sir William .Toner.) “they were able to recall the memory of au- tnmnal merriment, at the close of the harvest, or of separation and melancholy during the cold months,” period or event to which their expreseion seems applicable. Sometimes, for instance, when the strain is open and spirited, yet here and there shaded by a mournful recollection, wc can fancy that we behold the brave allies of Montrose, - marching to the aid of the royal cause, notwith- standing 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 Ca- rolan take us back to the times in which he lived, when our poor countrymen were driven to wor- ship their God in caves, or to quit fur ever the land of their birth, — like the bird that abandons the nest which human touch has violated. In many of these mournful songs we seem to hear the last farewell of the exile, 8 mingling regret fur the ties which he leaves at home, with sanguine hopes of the high honours that await him abroad, — such honours as were won on the field of Fon- tenoy, where the valour of Irish Catholics turned the fortune of the day, and extorted from George the Second that memorable exclamation, “ Cursed be the laws which deprive me of such subjects ! ” Though much has been said of the antiquity of our music, it is certain that our finest and most popular airs are modern ; and perhaps we may look no further than the last disgraceful century for the origin of most of those wild and melan- choly strains, which were at once the offspring and solace of grief, and were applied to the mind as music was formerly to the body, “ decantare loca dolentia.” Mr. Pinkerton is of opinion 4 that none of 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 persuaded that there are few, of a civilized description, (and by this I mean to exclude all the savage Ceanans, Cries, 1 * 3 * 5 &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 has been rather unreasonably indulged ; and, however he- retical it may be to dissent from these romantic speculations, I cannot help thinking that it is possible to love our country very zealously, and to feel deeply interested in her honour and hap- piness, without believing that Irish was the lan- guage spoken in Paradise, 6 that our ancestors were kind enough to take the trouble of polishing the Greeks, 7 or that Abaris, the Hyperborean, was a native of the North of Ireland. 8 By 6ome of these zealous antiquaries it has &c. — Asiatic Transactions, vol. iii. , on the Musical Modes of the Hindus. — What the Abbe du Bos says of the symphonies of Lully, may be asserted, with much more probability, of our bold and impassioned airs — “ elles auroient produit de ces effets, qui nous paroissent fabuleux dans le recit dcs anciens, si on les avoit fait entendre a dcs hommes d’un naturel aussi vif que les Atheniens.” — liCJiex. sur la Peinture, &e. tom. i. sect. 43. 4 Dissertation prefixed to the 2d volume of his Scot- tish Ballads. 5 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. 6 See Advertisement to the Transactions of the Gaelic Society of Dublin. 7 O’Halloran, vol. i. part iv. chap. vii. 8 Id. ib. chap. vi. IRISH MELODIES. 181 been imagined that the Irish were early ac- quainted with counterpoint 1 2 ; and they endea- vour 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 much too vague, too deficient in technical accu- racy, to prove that even Giraldus himself knew any thing of the artifice of counterpoint. 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 2 ; and it is in general now conceded, I believe, 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 transmit the “ light of Song ” through the variegating prism of Harmony. Indeed, the irregular scale of the early Irish (in which, as in the music of Scotland, the interval of the fourth was wanting 3 4 ,) must have furnished but wild and refractory subjects to the harmonist. It was only when the invention of Guido began to be known, and the powers of the harp 4 were en- larged by additional strings, that our airs can be supposed to have assumed the sweet character which interests us at present ; and while the Scotch persevered in the old mutilation of the scale 5 , our music became by degrees more amenable to the laws of harmony and counterpoint. While profiting, however, by the improvements of the moderns, our style still keeps its original character sacred from their refinements ; and though Carolan, it appears, had frequent opportu- 1 It is also supposed, but with as little proof, that they understood the diesis, or enharmonic interval The Greeks seem to have formed their ears to this delicate gradation of sound ; and, whatever difficulties or objec- tions may lie in the way of its practical use, we must agree with Mersenne (Preludes de P Harmonic, Quest. 7.), that the theory of Music would be imperfect without it. Even in practice, too, as Tosi, among others, very justly remarks, (Observations on Florid Song, chap. x. sect. 16.) 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 piano-forte. The effect of modulation by enharmonic transitions is als® very striking and beautiful. 2 The words 7rot*iXta and irepoif>covi.a, 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 counterpoint. M. Burette, however, has answered him, I think, satisfac- torily. (Examen d’un Passage de Platon, in the 5d vol. of Histoire de l’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 this suppo- sition, occurs in the Treatise (II ept Koa/xov) attributed to Aristotle — M ovomr) 6e ap.a kcu /japeij, k. t. 3 Another lawless peculiarity of our music is the frequent occurrence of, what composers call, consecutive fifths : but this, I must say, is an irregularity which can hardly be avoided by persons not conversant with all the rules of composition. If I may venture, indeed, to cite my own wild attempts in this way, it is a fault which I find myself continually committing, and which has even, at times, appeared so pleasing to my ear, that I have surrendered it to the critic with no small reluct- ance. May there not be a little pedantry in adhering too rigidly to this rule ? — I have been told that there 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. 4 A singular oversight occurs in an Essay upon the nities of hearing the works of Geminiani and other great masters, we but rarely find him sacrificing his native simplicity to any 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, pro- duces 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 innovation ® ; and the chief corruptions of which we have to complain arise from the unskilful per- formance 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 ramos aura refulget,” 7 the pure gold of the melody shines through the ungraceful foliage which sur- rounds it, — and the most delicate and difficult duty of a compiler is to endeavour, 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 an- tiquity 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 in- validate the claims of Ireland to as early a rank in the annals of minstrelsy, as the most zealous antiquary may be inclined to allow her. In addi- Irish Harp, by Mr. Bcaufovd, which is inserted in the Appendix to Walker’s Historical Memoirs : — “ The Irish (says he), according to Bromton, in the reign of Henry II. had two kinds of Harps, * Hibernici tamen in duobus musici generis instruments, quamvis praeci- pitem et velocem, suavem tamen et jucundum 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 mutilate the grammatical 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 feme filia, utatur lyra, tympano et choro, ac Wallia cithard, tubis et choro Hibernici tamen in duobus musici generis instruments, quamvis prcecipitem et velccem , suavem tamen et ju~ cundam , crispatis modulis et intricatis notulis, efficiunt harmoniam .” — Hist. Anglic. Script, page 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 im- plicitly. 5 The Scotch lay claim to some of our best airs, but there are strong traits of difference between their melo- dies and ours. They had formerly the same passion for robbing us of our Saints, and the learned Dempster was for this offence called “The Saint Stealer.” It must have been some Irishman, I suppose, who, by way of reprisal, stole Dempster’s beautiful wife from him at Pisa — See this anecdote in the Pinacotheca of Ery- thraeus, part i. page 25. 6 Among other false refinements of the art, our music (with the exception 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, &c. which disgraces so often the works of even Handel himself. D’Alembert ought to have had better taste than to become the patron of this imi- tative affectation Discours Preliminaire de VEncy- clop6die. 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. 7 Virgil, jEneid, lib. vi. verse 204. 182 MOORE’S WORKS. lion, indeed, to the power which music must always have possessed over the minds of a people so ardent aud susceptible, the stimulus of perse- cution 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 reigns of Ilenry 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 melodies, as they are intended rather to be sung than read, I can answer for their sound with somewhat more confidence than for their sense. Yet it would be affectation to deny that I have given much attention to the task, and that it is not through any 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 criticism, it was not to be expected that those touches of political feeling, those tones of national complaint, in which the poetry some- times sympathizes with the music, would be suf- fered to pass without censure or alarm. It has been accordingly said, that the tendency of this publication is mischievous!, and that I have chosen these airs but as a vehicle of dangerous politics, — as fair and precious vessels (to borrow an image of St. Augustine 1 2 ), from which the wine of error might 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 faint- est gleam of liberality that threatens to disturb their darkness, — like that Demophon of old, who, when the 6un shone upon him, shivered 3 , — to such men I shall not condescend to offer an apo- logy for the too great warmth of any political sentiment which may occur in the course of these pages. But as there are many, among the more wise and tolerant, who, with feeling enough to mourn over the wrongs of their country, and sense enough to perceive all the danger of not redressing them, may yet be of opinion that allusions, in the east degree 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 more sincerely deprecates than I do, any 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 piano-fortes of the rich and the educated, — of those who can afford to have their national zeal a little stimulated, without ex- citing 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. 1 See Letters, under the signatures of Timseus, &c. in the Morning Post, Pilot, and other papers. 2 “Non accuso verba, quasi vasa electa atque pretiosa ; sed vinum erroris quod cum eis nobis propinatur.” — Lib. L Confess, chap. xvi. 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 de- fence of my ingenious coadjutor, Sir John Steven- son, who has been accused of having spoiled the simplicity of the airs by the chromatic richness of his symphonies, and the elaborate variety of hi s harmonics. We might cite the example of the ad- mirable Haydn, who has sported through all the mazes of musical science, in his arrangement of the simplest Scottish melodies ; but it appears to me, that Sir John Stevenson has brought to tins task an innate and national feeling, which it would be vain to expect from a foreigner, how- ever tasteful or judicious. Through many of his own compositions we trace a vein of Irish senti- ment, which points him out as peculiarly suited to catch the spirit of his country’s music ; and, far from agreeing with those fastidious critics who think that his symphonies have nothing kindred with the airs which they introduce, I would say, that, on the contrary, they resemble, in general, those illuminated initials of old manuscripts, which are of the same character with the writing which follows though more highly coloured and more curiously ornamented. In those airs, which he has arranged for voices, his skill has particularly distinguished itself, and, though it cannot be denied that a single melody most naturally expresses the language of feeling and passion, yet often, when a favourite strain has been dismissed as having lost its charm of novelty for the ear, it returns, in a harmonised shape, with new claims on our interest and at- tention ; 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, independently of the rest; — so artfully has the harmonist (if I may thus express it) gavelled the melody, distributing an equal portion of its sweetness to every part. If your Ladyship’s love of Music were not well known to me, I should not have hazarded so long a letter upon the subject ; but as, probably, I may have presumed too far upon your partiality, the best revenge you now can take is to write me just as long a letter upon Painting ; and I promise to attend to your theory of the art, with a pleasure only surpassed by that which I have so often derived from your practice of it — May the mind which such talents adorn continue calm as it is bright, and happy as it is virtuous 1 Believe me, your Ladyship’s Grateful Friend and Servant, Thomas Mooke. 3 This emblem of modern bigots was head-butler (rpa7refo7roioc) to Alexander the (Jr eat. — Sext. JSmpir, Pyrrh. llypoth. Lib. i. IRISH MELODIES. 183 ADVERTISEMENT ADVERTISEMENT TO THE FOURTH NUMBER. TO THE FIFTH NUMBER. Tins Number of the Melodies ought to have appeared much earlier ; and the writer of the words is ashamed to confess, that the delay of its publication must be imputed chiefly, if not en- tirely, to him. He finds it necessary to make this avowal, not only for the purpose of removing all blame from the publisher, but in consequence of a rumour, which has been circulated industri- ously in Dublin, that the Irish Government had interfered to prevent the continuance of the Work. This would be, indeed, a revival of Henry the Eighth’s enactments against Minstrels, and it is flattering to find that so much importance is at- tached to our compilation, even by such persons as the inventors of the report. Bishop Lowtli, it is true, was of opinion, that one song, like the Hymn to Harmodius, would have done more towards rousing the spirit of the Romans, than all the Philippics of Cicero. But we live in wiser and less musical times ; ballads have long lost their revolutionary powers, and we question if even a “ Lillibullero ” would produce any very cerious consequences at present. It is needless, therefore, to add, that there is no truth in the report ; and we trust that whatever belief it ob- tained was founded more upon the character of the Government than of the Work. The Airs of the last Number, though full of originality and beauty, were, in general, perhaps, too curiously seleoted to become all at once as popular as, we think, they deserve to be. The public are apt to be reserved towards new ac- quaintances in music, and this, perhaps, is one of the reasons why many modern composers intro- duce none but old friends to their notice. It is, indeed, natural that persons, who love music only by association, should be somewhat slow in feel- ing the charms of a new and strange melody ; while those, on the other hand, who have a quick sensibility for this enchanting art, will as natu- rally seek and enjoy novelty, because in every variety of strain they find a fresh combination of ideas ; and the sound has scarcely reached the ear, before the heart has as rapidly rendered it into imagery and sentiment. After all, however, it cannot be denied that the most popular of our National Airs are also the most beautiful ; and it has been our wish, in the present Number, to select from those Melodies only which have long been listened to and admired. The least known in the collection is the Air of “ Love's Young Dream;" but it will be found, I think, one of those easy and artless strangers whose merit the heart instantly acknowledges. T. M. Bury Street , St. James's, Kov. 1811. It is but fair to those, who take an interest in this Work, to state that it is now very near its termination, and that the Sixth Number, which shall speedily appear, will, most probably, be the last of the series. Three volumes will then have been completed, according to the original plan, and the Proprietors desire me to say that a List of Subscribers will be published with the con- cluding Number. It is not so much, I must add, from a want of materials, and still less from any abatement of zeal or industry, that we have adopted the re- solution of bringing our task to a close ; but we feel so proud, still more for our country’s sake than our own, of the general interest which this purely Irish Work has excited, and so anxious lest a particle of that interest should be lost by too long a protraction of its existence, that we think it wiser to take away the cup from the lip, while its flavour is yet, we trust, fresh and sweet, than to risk any further trial of the charm, or give so much as not to leave some wish for more. In speaking thus, I allude en- tirely to the Airs, which are, of course, the main attraction of these Volumes : and though we have still a great many popular and delightful Me- lodies to produce 1, it cannot be denied that we should soon experience considerable difficulty in equalling the richness and novelty of the earlier numbers, for which, a3 we had the choice of all before us, we naturally selected only the most rare and beautiful. The Poetry, too, would be sure to sympathise with the decline of the Music ; and, however feebly my words have kept pace with the excellence of the Airs, they would follow their falling off, I fear, with wonderful alacrity. Both pride and prudence, therefore, counsel us to come to a close, while yet our Work is, we believe, flourishing and attractive, and thus, in the imperial attitude, “ stantes mori" before we incur the charge either of altering for the worse, or, what is equally unpardonable, continuing too long the same. We beg to say, however, that it is only in the event of our failing to find Airs as good as most of those we have given, that we mean thus to anticipate the natural period of dissolution (like those Indians who when their relatives become worn out, put them to death) ; and they who are desirous of retarding this Euthanasia of the Irish Melodies, cannot better effect their wish than by contributing to our collection, — not what are called curious Airs, for we have abundance of such, and they are, in general, only curious, — but any real sweet and expressive Songs of our Coun- try, which either chance or research may have brought into their hands. T. M. Mayfield Cottage , Ashbourne, December, 1813. 1 Among these is Savourna Deelish, which I have been hithorto only withheld from selecting by the dif- fidence I feel in treading upon the same ground with Mr. Campbell, whose beautiful words to this fine Air have taken too strong possession of all ears and hearts, for me to think of following in his footsteps with any success. I suppose, however, as a matter of duty I must attempt the air for our next Number. MOORE’S WORKS. m ADVERTISEMENT TO THE SIXTH. NUMBER. Tv presenting this Sixth Number to the Fublic ns our last, and bidding adieu to the Irish Harp for ever, we shall not answer very confidently for the strength of our resolution, nor feel quite sure that it may not turn out to be one of those eternal farewells which a lover takes occasionally of his mistress, merely to enhance, perhaps, the plea- sure of their next meeting. Our only motive, indeed, for discontinuing the Work was a fear that our treasures were nearly exhausted, and a natural unwillingness to descend to the ga- thering of mere seed-pearl, after the really pre- cious gems it has been our lot to string together. The announcement, however, of this intention, in our Fifth Number, has excited a degree of anxiety in the lovers of Irish Music, not only pleasant and flattering, but highly useful to us ; for the various contributions we have received in consequence, have enriched our collection with so many choice and beautiful Airs, that should we adhere to our present resolution of publishing no more, it would certainly furnish an instance of forbearance unexampled in the history of poets and musicians. To one gentleman in particular, who has been for many years resident in England, but who has not forgot, among his various pur- suits, either the language or the melodies of his native country, we beg to offer our best thanks for the many interesting communications with which he has favoured us. We trust that neither he nor any other of our kind friends will relax in those efforts by which we have been so consider- ably assisted ; for, though our work must now be looked upon as defunct, yet — as Reaumur found out the art of making the cicada sing after it was dead — it is just possible that we may, some time or other, try a similar experiment upon the Irish Melodies. T. M. Mayfield , Ashbourne, March, 1815. ADVERTISEMENT TO TIIE SEVENTH NUMBER. TTad I consulted only my own judgment, this Work would not have extended beyond the Six Numbers already published ; which contain the flower, perhaps, of our national melodies, and have now attained a rank in public favour, of which I would not willingly risk the forfeiture, by degenerating, in any way, from those merits that were its source. Whatever treasures of our music were still in reserve, (and it will be seen, I 1 One Gentleman, in particular, whose name I shall feel happy in being allowed to mention, has not only sent us nearly forty ancient airs, but has communi- cated many curious fragments of Irish poetry, and some interesting traditions current in the country trust, that they are numerous and valuable), I would gladly have left to future poets to glean, and, with the ritual words “ tibi trcido ,” would havo delivered up the torch into other hands, before it had lost much of its light in my own. But the call for a continuance of the work has been, as I understand from the Publisher, so general, and we have received so many contri- butions of old and beautiful airs > , — the suppres- sion of which, for the enhancement of those we have published, would too much resemble the policy of the Dutch in burning their spices, — that I have been persuaded, though not without much diffidence in my success, to commence a new series of the Irish Melodies. T. M. §cbi cation: TO TnE MARCHIONESS OF IIEADFORT, TKEFIXED TO TnE TENTH NUMBER. It is with a pleasure, not unmixed with melan- choly, that I dedicate the last Number of the Irish Melodies to your Ladyship ; nor can I have any doubt that the feelings with which you re- ceive the tribute will be of the same mingled and saddened tone. To you, — who, though but little beyond the season of childhood, when the earlier numbers of this work appeared, — lent the aid of your beautiful voice, and, even then, exquisite feeling for music, to the happy circle who met, to sing them together, under your father’s roof, the gratification, whatever it may be, which this humble offering brings, cannot be otherwise than darkened by the mournful reflection, how many of the voices, which then joined with ours, are now silent in death ! I am not without hope that, as far as regards the grace and spirit of the Melodies, you will find tills closing portion of the work not unworthy of what has preceded it. The Sixteen Airs of which the Number and the Supplement consists, have been selected from the immense mass of Irish music, which has been for years past accumulating in my hands ; and it was from a desire to include all that appeared most -worthy of preservation, that the four supplementary songs, which follow this Tenth Number, have been added. Trusting that I may yet again, in remembrance of old times, hear our voices together in some of the harmonized air3 of this Volume, I have the honour to subscribe myself, Your Ladyship’s faithful Friend and Servant, Thomas Mooke. Sloperton Cottage, May, 1854. where he resides, illustrated by sketches of the romantic scenery to which they refer ; all of which, though too late for the present Number, will be of infinite service to us in the prosecution of our task. NATIONAL AIKS, 185 NATIONAL AIRS, ADVERTISEMENT. It is Cicero, I believe, who says, “ natural ad tnodos ducimur ; ” and the abundance of wild, in- digenous airs, which almost every country, except England, possesses, sufficiently proves the truth of his assertion. The lovers of this simple, but in- teresting kind of music, are here presented with the first number of a collection, which, I trust, their contributions will enable us to continue. A pretty air without words resembles one of those half creatures of Plato, which are described as wandering in search of the remainder of them- selves through the world. To supply this other half, by uniting with congenial words the many fugitive melodies which have hitherto had none, — or only such as are unintelligible to the gene- rality of their hearers, — is the object and ambition of the present work. Neither is it our intention to confine ourselves to what are strictly called National Melodies, but, wherever we meet with any wandering and beautiful air, to which poetry has not yet assigned a worthy home, we shall venture to claim it as an cstray swan, and enrich our humble Ilippocrene with its song. ***** T. M. NATIONAL AIRS. A TEMPLE TO FRIENDSHIP. 1 (Spanish Air.) “A Temple to Friendship,” said Laura, en- chanted, “I’ll build in this garden, — the thought is divine ! ” Iler temple was built, and she now only wanted An image of Friendship to place on the shrine She flew to a sculptor, who set down before her A Friendship the fairest his art could invent ; But so cold and so dull, that the youthful adorer Saw plainly this was not the idol she meant. “ Oh ! never,” she cried, “ could I think of en- shrining “An image, whose looks are so joyless and dim ; — “ But yon little god, upon roses reclining, “ We’ll make, if you please, Sir, a Friendship of him.” So the bargain was struck ; with the little god laden She joyfully flew to her shrine in the grove : 1 The thought 19 taken from a song by Le Prieur, cal'ed “ La Statue de l’Amitie.” “Farewell,” said the sculptor, “you’re not the first maiden “ Who came but for Friendship and took away Love.” FLOW ON, THOU SHINING RIVER. (Portuguese Air.) F low on, thou shining river ; But, ere thou reach the sea, Seek Ella’s bower, and give her The wreaths I fling o’er thee. And tell her thus, if she’ll be mine, The current of our lives shall be. With joys along their course to shine, Like those sweet flowers on thee. But if, in wand’ring thither, Thou find’st she mocks my prayer, Then leave those wreathes to wither U pon the cold bank there ; And tell her thus, when youth i3 o’er, Her lone and loveless charms shall be Thrown by upon life’s weedy shore, Like those sweet flowers from thee. ALL THAT’S BRIGHT MUST FADE. (Indian Air.) All that’s bright must fade, — The brightest still the fleetest All that’s sweet was made, But to be lost when sweetest. Stars that shine and fall ; — The flower that drops in springing ; — These, alas 1 are types of all To which our hearts are clinging. All that’s bright must fade, — The brightest still the fleetest ; All that’s sweet was made But to be lost when sweetest I Who would seek or prize Delights that end in aching ? Who would trust to ties That every hour are breaking ? Better far to be In utter darkness lying, Than to be bless’d with light and see That light for ever flying. All that’s bright must fade, — The brightest still the fleetest ; All that’s sweet was made But to be lost when sweetest 1 MOORE’S WORKS. 1*G SO WARMLY WE MET. (IIuxoariax Air.) So warmly we met and so fondly we parted, That which was the sweeter ev’n I could not tell,— That first look of welcome her sunny eyes darted, Or that tear of passion, which blcss'd our fare- well. To meet was a heaven, and to part thus another,— Our joy and our sorrow seem’d rivals in bliss ; Oh I Cupid’s two eyes are not liker each other In smiles and iu tears, than that moment to this. The first was like day-break, new, sudden, de- licious, — The dawn of a pleasure scarce kindled up yet ; The last like the farewell of daylight, more precious, More glowing and deep, as ’tis nearer its set. Our meeting, though happy, was ting’d by a sorrow To think that such happiness could not remain ; While our parting, though sad, gave a hope that to-morrow Would bring back the bless’d hour of meeting again. THOSE EVENING BELLS. (Air.— The Bells of St. Peteksbukoh.) Those evening bells 1 those evening bells 1 How many a tale their music tells, Of youth, and home, and that sweet time, When last I heard their soothing chime. Those joyous hours are pass’d away ; And many a heart that then was gay, Within the tomb now darkly dwells, And hears no more those evening bells. And so ’twill be when I am gone ; That tuneful peal will still ring on, While other bards shall walk these dells, And sing your praise, sweet evening bells ! ♦ SHOULD THOSE FOND HOPES. (Portuguese Air.) Should those fond hopes e’er forsake thee,i Which now so sweetly thy heart employ ; Should the cold world come to wake thee From all thy visions of youth and joy ; Should the gay friends, for whom thou wouldst banish Him who once thought thy young heart his own, All, like spring birds, falsely vanish, And leave thy winter unheeded and lone ; — Oh I ’tis then that he thou hast slighted Would come to cheer thee, when all seem’d o’er ; 1 This is one of the many instances among my ly- rical poems, — though the above, it must be owned, is Then the truant, lost and blighted, Would to his bosom be takeu once more. Like that deal bird we both can remember, Who left us while summer shone round, But, when chill’d by bleak December, On our threshold a welcome still found. REASON, FOLLY, AND BEAUTY. (Italian Air.) Reaso.v, and Folly, and Beauty, they say, Went on a party of pleasure one day ; Folly play’d Around the maid, The bells of his cap rung merrily out ; While Reason took To his sermon-book Oh ! which was the pleasanter no one need doubt.. Which was the pleasanter no one need doubt. Beauty, who likes to be thought very sage. Turn’d for a moment to Reason’s dull page, Till Folly said, “ Look here, sweet maid ! ” — The sight of his cap brought her back to herself ; While Reason read His leaves of lead, With no one to mind him, poor sensible elf 1 No, — no one to mind him, poor sensible elf I Then Reason grew jealous of Folly’s gay cap ; Had he that on, he her heart might entrap — “There it is,” Quoth Folly, “ old quiz l ” (Folly was always good-natured, ’tis said,) “ Under the sun “ There’s no such fun, “ As Reason with my cap and bells on his head, “ Reason with my cap and bells on his head I ” But Reason the head-dress so awkwardly wore. That Beauty now lik’d him still less than before ; While Folly took Old Reason’s book, And twisted the leaves in a cap of such ton t That Beauty vow’d (Though not aloud), She liked him still better in that than his own. Yes, — lik’d him still better in that than his own 4 FARE THEE WELL, THOU LOVELY ONE 1 (Sicilian Air.) Fare thee well, thou lovely one ! Lovely still, but dear no more ; Once his soul of truth is gone, Love’s sweet life is o’er. Thy words, wliate’er their flatt’ring spell, Could scarce have thus deceiv’d ; an extreme case, — where the metre has been necessarily sacrificed to the structure of the air. NATIONAL AIRS. 167 But eyes that acted truth so well Were sure to be believ’d. Then, fare thee well, thou lovely one 1 Lovely still, but dear no more ; Once his soul of truth is gone, Love’s sweet life is o’er. Yet those eyes look constant still, True as stars they keep their light ; Still those cheeks their pledge fulfil Of blushing always bright. ’Tis only on thy changeful heart The blame of falsehood lies ; Love lives in every other part, But there, alas I he dies. Then, fare thee well, thou lovely one ! Lovely still, but dear no more ; Once his soul of truth is gone, Love’s sweet life is o’er. DOST TIIOU REMEMBER. (PORTUGUESE Allt.) Dost thou remember that place so lonely, A place for lovers, and lovers only, Where first I told thee all my secret sighs ? When, as the moonbeam, that trembled o’er thee, Illum’d thy blushes, I knelt before thee, And read my hope’s sweet triumph in those eyes ? Then, then, while closely heart was drawn to heart, Love bound us — never, never more to part I And when I call’d thee by names the dearest 1 That love could fancy, the fondest, nearest, — “ My life, my only life I ” among the rest ; In those sweet accents that still enthral me, Thou saidst, “ Ah I wherefore thy life thus call me ? “Thy soul, thy soul’s the name that I love best ; “For life soon passes, — but how bless’d to be “That Soul which never, never parts from thee l ” OH, COME TO ME WHEN DAYLIGHT SETS. (Venetian Air.) Oh, come to me when daylight sets ; Sweet 1 then come to me, When smoothly go our gondolets O’er the moonlight sea. When Mirth’s awake, and Love begins, Beneath that glancing ray, With sound of lutes and mandolins, To steal young hearts away. 1 The thought in this verse is borrowed from the original Portuguese words. Then, come to me when daylight sets ; Sweet ! then come to me, When smoothly go our gondolets O’er the moonlight sea. Oh, then’s the hour for those who love, Sweet I like thee and me ; When all’s so calm below, above, In heav’n and o’er the sea. When maidens sing sweet barcarolles - And Echo sings again So sweet, that all with ears and souls Should love and listen then. So, come to me when daylight sets ; Sweet 1 then come to me, When smoothly go our gondolets O’er the moonlight sea. OFT, IN THE STILLY NIGHT. (Scotch Air.) Oft, in the stilly night, Ere Slumber’s chain has bound me, Fond Memory brings the light Of other days around me ; The smiles, the tears, Of boyhood’s years, The words of love then spoken ; The eyes that shone, Now dimm’d and gone, The cheerful hearts now broken ! Thus, in the stilly night, Ere Slumber's chain hath bound me, Sad Memory brings the light Of other days around me. When I remember all The friends, so link’d together, I’ve seen around me fall, Like leaves in wintry weather ; I feel like one, Who treads alone Sume banquet-hall deserted, Whose lights arc fled, Whose garlands dead, And all but he departed I Thus, in the stilly night, Ere Slumber’s chain has bound me, Sad Memory brings the light Of other days around me. * HARK! THE VESPER HYMN IS STEALING. (Russian Air.) IIark I the vesper hymn is stealing O’er the waters soft and clear ; Nearer yet and nearer pealing, And now bursts upon the ear : Jubilate, Amen. 2 “ Barcarolles, sorto do chansons en langue V6nl- tienne, quo chautcut les gondoliers a. Ycnis© ,s *— gtau, j)ictionnaire dc Musique. 188 MOORE’S WORKS. Farther now, now further stealing, Soft it fades upon the ear s Jubilate, Amen. Now, like moonlight waves retreating To the shore, it dies along ; Now, like angry surges meeting, Breaks the mingled tide of song : Jubilate, Amen. Hush 1 again, like waves, retreating To the shore, it dies along: Jubilate, Amen. LOVE AND nOPE. (Swiss Ain.) At morn, beside yon summer sea, Young Hope and Love reclin’d ; But scarce had noon-tide come, when he Into his bark leap’d smilingly. And left poor Hope behind. “ I go,” said Love, “ to sail awhile “ Across this sunny main ; ” And then so sweet his parting smile, That Hope, who never dreamt of guile, Believ’d he’d come again. She linger’d there till evening’s beam Along the waters lay ; And o’er the sands, in thoughtful dream, Oft trac’d his name, which still the stream As often wash’d away. At length a sail appears in sight, And tow’rd the maiden moves ! ’Tis Wealth that comes, and gay and bright, Ilis golden bark reflects the light, But ah I it is not Love’s. Another sail — ’twas Friendship show’d Her night-lamp o’er the sea ; And calm the light that lamp bestow’d ; But Love had lights that warmer glow’d, And where, alas ! was he ? Now fast around the sea and shore Night threw her darkling chain ; The sunny sails were seen no more, Hope’s morning dreams of bliss were o’er, — Love never came again. ♦ THERE COMES A TIME. (German Air.) There comes a time, a dreary time, To him whose heart hath flown O’er all the fields of youth’s sweet prime, And made each flower its own. ’Tis when his soul must first renounce Those dreams so bright, so fond ; Oh ! then’s the time to die at once, For life has nought beyond. When sets the sun on Afric’s shore, That instant all is night ; And so should life at once be o’er, When Love withdraws his light ; — Nor, like our northern day, gleam on Through twilight’s dim delay, The cold remains of lustre gone, Of fire long pass’d away. MY HARP HAS ONE UNCHANGING THEME. (Swedish Air.) Mv harp has one unchanging theme, One strain that still comes o’er Its languid chord, as ’twere a dream Of joy that’s now no more. In vain I try, with livelier air, To wake the breathing string ; That voice of other times is there, And saddens all I sing. Breathe on, breathe on, thou languid strain, Henceforth be all my own ; Though thou art oft so full of pain, Few hearts can bear thy tone. Yet oft thou’rt sweet, as if the sigh, The breath that Pleasure’s wings Gave out, when last they wanton’d by, Were still upon thy strings. on, NO -NOT EY’N WHEN FIRST WE LOV’D. (Casiimeriax Air.) Oh, no — not ev’n when first we lov’d, Wert thou as dear as now thou art ; Thy beauty then my senses mov’d, But now thy virtues bind my heart. What was but Passion’s sigh before, Has since been turn’d to Reason’s vow ; And, though I then might love thee more , Trust me, I love thee better now. Although my heart in earlier youth Might kindle with more wild desire, Believe me, it lias gain’d in truth Much more than it has lost in fire. The flame now warms my inmost core, That then but sparkled o’er my brow, And though I seem’d to love thee more, Yet, oh, I love thee better now. PEACE BE AROUND THEE. (Scotch Air.) Peace be around thee, wherever thou rov’st ; May life be for thee one summer’s day, And all that thou wisliest, and all that thou lov’st, Come smiliDg around thy sunny way I NATIONAL AIRS. 189 If sorrow e’er this calm should break, May even thy tears pass off so lightly, Like spring-showers, they’ll only make The smiles that follow shine more brightly. May Time, who sheds his blight o’er all, And daily dooms some joy to death, O’er thee let years so gently fall. They shall not crush one flower beneath. As half in shade and half in sun This world along its path advances, May that side the sun’s upon Be all that e’er shall meet thy glances ! COMMON SENSE AND GENIUS. (French Aik.) While I touch the string, Wreathe my brows with laurel, For the tale I sing Has, for once, a moral. Common Sense, one night, Though not used to gambols, Went out by moonlight, "With Genius, on his rambles. While I touch the string, &c. Common Sense went on, Many wise things saying ; While the light that shone Soon set Genius straying. Ova his eye ne’er rais’d From the path before him ; T'other idly gaz’d On each night-cloud o’er him. While I touch the string, &c. So they came, at last, To a shady river ; Common Sense soon pass’d, Safe, as lie doth ever ; While the boy, whose look Was in Heaven that minute, Never saw the brook But tumbled headlong in it ! While I touch the string, &c. IIow the Wise One smil’d, When safe o’er the torrent, At that youth, so wild, Dripping from the current l Sense went home to bed ; Genius, left to shiver On the bank, ’tis said, Died of that cold river ! While I touch the string, &c. » THEN, FARE TIIEE WELL. (Old English Air.) Then, fare thee well, my own dear love, This world ha3 now for us No greater grief, no pain above The pain of parting thus, Dear love ! The pain of parting thus. Had we but known, since first we met, Some few short hours of bliss, We might, in numb’ring them, forget The deep, deep pain of this, Dear love 1 The deep, deep pain of this. But no, alas, we’ve never seen One glimpse of pleasure’s ray, But still there came some cloud between, And chas’d it all away, Dear love ! And chas’d it all away. Yet, ev’n could those sad moments last, Far dearer to my heart Were hours of grief, together past, Than years of mirth apart, Dear love I Than years of mirth apart. Farewell I our hope was born in fears, And nurs’d ’mid vain regrets ; Like winter suns, it rose in tears, Like them in tears it sets, Dear love ! Like them in tears it sets. GAILY SOUNDS THE CASTANET. (Maltese Aik.) Gaily sounds the castanet, Beating time to bounding feet, "When, after daylight’s golden set, Maids and youths by moonlight meet. Oh, then, how sweet to move Through ail that maze of mirth, Led by light from eyes we love Beyond all eyes on earth. Then, the joyous banquet spread On the cool and fragrant ground, With lieav’n’s bright sparklers overhead, And still brighter sparkling round. Oh, then, how sweet to say Into some lov’d one’s ear, Thoughts reserv’d through many a day To be thus whisper’d here. When the dance and feast are done, Arm in arm as home we stray, IIow sweet to see the dawning sun O’er her cheek’s warm blushes play ! Then, too, the farewell kiss — The words, whose parting tone Lingers still in dreams of bliss, That haunt young hearts alone. LOVE IS A IIUNTEll- BOY. (Languedocian Air.) Love is a hunter-boy, Who makes young hearts his prey ; And, in his nets of joy, Ensnares them night and day. 100 MOORE’S WORKS. In vain conceal'd they lie — Love tracks them every where ; In vain aloft they fly — Love 6hoots them flying there. But ’tis his joy most sweet, At early dawn to trace The print of Beauty’s feet, And give the trembler chafe. And if, through virgin snow, He tracks her footsteps fair, How 6wcet for Love to know None went before him there. ♦ COME, CHASE THAT STARTING TEAR AWAY. (French Air.) Come, chase that starting tear away, Ere mine to meet it springs ; To-night, at least, to-night be gay, What’er to-morrow brings. Like sun-set gleams, that linger late When all is dark’ning fast, Are hours like these we snatch from Fate — The brightest, and the last. Then, chase that starting tear, &c. To gild the deep’ning gloom, if IleaA'cn But one bright hour allow, Oh, think that one bright hour is given, In all its splendour, now. Let’s live it out — then sink in night, Like waves that from the 6hore One minute swell, are touch’d with light, Then lost for evermore I Come, chase that starting tear, & c. JOYS OF YOUTH, nOW FLEETING I (Portuguese Air.) Wmisp’rixgs, heard by wakeful maids, , To whom the night-stars guide us ; ♦ Stolen walks through moonlight shades, With those we love beside us, Hearts beating, At meeting ; Tears starting, At parting ; Oh, sweet youth, how soon it fades ! Sweet joys of youth, how fleeting l Wand’rings far away from home, With life all new before us ; Greetings warm, when home we come, From hearts whose prayers watch’d o’er us. Tears starting, At parting ; Hearts beating, At meeting ; Oh, sweet youth, how lost on some To some how bright and fleeting HEAR ME BUT ONCE. (French Air.) IIf.ar me but once, while o’er the grave, In which our Love lies cold and dead, I count each flatt’ring hope he gave Of joys, now lost, and charms now fled. Who could have thought the smile he wore, When first we met would fade away ? Or that a chill would e’er come o’er Those eyes so bright through many a day ? Hear me but once, &c. > WHEN LOVE WAS A CHILD. (SwEDisn Air.) When Love was a child, and went idling round. ’Along flowers, the whole summer’s daj', One morn in the valley a bower he found, So sweet, it allur’d him to stay. O’erliead, from the trees, hung a garland fair, A fountain ran darkly beneath; — ’Twits Pleasure had hung up the flow’rets there ; Love knew it, and jump’d at the wreath. But Love didn’t know — and, at Jiis weak years, What urchin was likely to know ? — That Sorrow had made of her own salt tears The fountain that murmur’d below. lie caught at the wreath — but with too much haste, As boys when impatient will do — It fell in those waters of briny taste, And the flowers were all wet through. This garland he now wears night and day ; And, though it all sunny appears With Pleasure’s own light, each leaf, they say, Still tastes of the Fountain of Tears. ♦ SAY, WHAT SHALL BE OUR SPORT TO- DAY ? (Sicilian Air.) Say, what shall be our sport to-day ? There’s nothing on earth, in sea, or air, Too bright, too high, too wild, too gay, For spirits like mine to dare l ’Tis like the returning bloom Of those days, alas, gone by, When I lov’d, each hour — I scarce knew' whom— And was bless’d — I scarce knew why. Ay — those were days when life had wings, And flew, oh, flew' so wild a height, That, like the lark w'hiclf sun ward springs, ’Tw'as giddy W'ith too much light. And, though of some plumes bereft, With that sun, too, nearly set, I’ve enough of light and wing still left For a few gay soarings yet. NATIONAL AIRS. 191 BRIGHT BE THY DREAMS. (Welsh Air.) Bright be thy dreams — may all thy weeping Turn into smiles while thou art sleeping. May those by death or seas remov’d, The friends, who in thy spring-time knew thee, All, thou hast ever priz’d or lov’d, In dreams come smiling to thee I There may the child, whose love lay deepest, Dearest of all, come while thou sleepest ; Still as she was — no charm forgot — No lustre Jost that life had given ; Or, if chang’d, but chang’d to what Tliou’lt find her yet in Heaven ! GO, THEN— ’TIS VAIN. (Sicilian Air.) Go, then — *tis vain to hover Thus round a hope that’s dead ; At length my dream is over ; ’Twas sweet — ’twas false — ’tis fled 1 Farewell 1 since nought it moves thee, Such truth as mine to see — Some one, who far less loves thee, Perhaps more bless’dwill be. Farewell, sweet eyes, whose brightness New life around me shed ; Farewell, false heart, whose lightness Now leaves me death instead. Go, now, those charms surrender To some new lover’s sigh — One who, though far less tender, May be more bless’d than I. THE CRYSTAL-nUNTERS. (Swiss Air.) O’er mountains bright With snow and light, We Crystal-Hunters speed along ; While rocks and caves, And icy waves, Each instant echo to our song ; And, when we meet with store of gems, Wc grudge not kings their diadems. O’er mountains bright With snow and light, We Crystal-Hunters speed along ; While grots and caves, And icy waves, Each instant echo to our song. Not half so oft the lover dreams Of sparkles from his lady’s eyes, As we of those refreshing gleams That tell where deep the crystal lies Though, next to crystal, we too grant, That ladies’ eyes may most enchant. O’er mountains blight, &c. Sometimes, when on the Alpine rose The golden sunset leaves its ray, So like a gem the flow’ret glows, We thither bend our headlong way ; And, though we find no treasure there, We bless the rose that shine3 so fair. O’er mountains bright With snow and light, We Crystal- Hunters speed along ; While rocks and caves, And icy waves, Each instant echo to our song. ROW GENTLY HERE. (Venetian Air.) Row gently here, My gondolier, So softly wake the tide, That not an ear, On earth, may hear, But hers to whom we glide. Had Heaven but tongues to speak, as well As starry eyes to see, Oh, think what tales ’twould have to tell Of wandering youths like me I Now rest thee here, My gondolier ; nush, hush, for up I go, To climb yon light Balcony’s height, While thou keep’st watch below. Ah ! did we take for Heaven above But half such pains as we Take, day and night, for woman’s love, What Angels we should be ! OH, DAYS OF YOUTH. (French Air.) On, days of youth and joy, long clouded, Why thus for ever haunt my view ? When in the grave your light lay shrouded Why did not Memory die there too ? Vainly doth Hope her strain now sing me, Telling of joys that yet remain — No, never more can this life bring me One joy that equals youth’s sweet pain. Dim lies the way to death before me, Cold winds of Time blow round my brow Sunshine of youth I. that once fell o’er me, Where is your warmth, your glory now ? 'Tis not that then no pain could sting me ; ’Tis not that now no joys remain ; Oh, ’tis that life no more can bring me One joy so sweet as that worst pain. 192 MOORE’S WORKS. WHEN FIRST THAT SMILE. (Venetian Aiu.) When first that smile, like sunshine, blcss’d my sight, Oh what a vision then came o’er me ! Long years of love, of calm and pure delight, Seem’d in that smile to pass before me. Ne’er did the peasant dream of summer skies, Of golden fruit, and harvests springing, With fonder hope than I of those sweet eyes, And of the joy their light was bringing. Where now are all thos Too plain, alas, my doom is spoken, Nor canst thou veil the sad truth o’er ; Thy heart is chang’d, thy vow is broken, Thou lov’st no more — thou lov’st no mors. Though kindly still those eyes behold me, The smile is gone, which once they wore ; Though fondly still those arms enfold me, ’Tis not the same — thou lov’st no more. Too long my dream of bliss believing, I’ve thought thee all thou wert before ; But now — alas ! there’s no deceiving, ’Tis all too plain, thou lov’st no more. NATIONAL AIRS. 197 Oil, thou as soon the dead couldst waken, As lost affection’s life restore, Give peace to her that is forsaken, Or bring back him who loves no more. WHEN ABROAD IN THE WORLD. When abroad in the world thou appearest, And the young and the lovely are there, To my heart while of all thou’rt the dearest, To my eyes thou’rt of all the most fair. They pass, one by one, Like waves of the sea, *. That say to the Sun, “ See, how fair we can be.” But where’s the light like thine, In sun or shade to shine ? No — no, ’mong them all, there is nothing like thee, Nothing like thee. Oft, of old, without farewell or warning, Beauty’s self used to steal from the skies ; Fling a mist round her head, some fine morning, And post down to earth in disguise ; But, no matter what shroud Around her might be, Men peep’d through the cloud, And whisper’d, “ ’Tis She.” So thou, where thousands are, Shin’st forth the only star, — Yes, yes, ’mong them all, there is nothing like thee, Nothing like thee. ♦ KEEP THOSE EYES STILL PURELY MINE. Keep those eyes still purely mine, Though far off I be ; When on others most they shine, Then think they’re turn’d on me. Should those lips as now respond To sweet minstrelsy, When their accents seem most fond, Then think they’re breath’d for me. Make what hearts thou wilt thy own, If when all on thee Fix their charmed thoughts alone, Thou think’st the while on me. nOPE COMES AGAIN. Hope comes again, to this heart long a stranger, Once more she sings me her flattering strain ; But hush, gentle syren— for, ah, there’s less danger In still suff’ring on than in hoping again. Long, long, in sorrow, too deep for repining, Gloomy, but tranquil, this bosom hath lain ; And joy coming now, like a sudden light shining O’er eyelids long darken’d, would bring me but pain. Fly then, ye visions, that Hope would shed o’er me ; Lost to the future, my sole chance of rest Now lies not in dreaming of bliss that’s before me, But, ah — in forgetting how once I was blest. + O SAY, THOU BEST AND BRIGHTEST. O say, thou best and brightest, My first love and my last, When he, whom now thou slightest, From life’s dark scene hath past, Will kinder thoughts then move thee ? Will pity make one thrill For him who liv’d to love thee, And dying, lov’d thee still ? If when, that hour recalling From which he dates his woes, - . Thou feel’st a tear-drop falling, Ah, blush not while it flows : But, all the past forgiving, Bend gently o’er his shrine, And say, “ This heart, when living, “ With all its faults, was mine.” ♦ WHEN NIGllT BRINGS THE HOUR. When night brings the hour Of starlight and joy, There comes to my bower A fairy-wing’d boy ; With eyes so bright, So full of wild arts, Like nets of light, To tangle young hearts ; With lips, in whose keeping Love’s secret may dwell. Like Zephyr asleep in Some rosy sea-sliell. Guess who he is, Name but his name, And his best kiss, For reward, you may claim. Where’er o’er the ground He prints his light feet, The flow’rs there are found Most shining and sweet : Mis looks, as soft As lightning in May, Though dangerous oft, Ne’er wound but in play : And oh, when his wings Have brush’d o’er my lyre, You’d fancy its strings Were turning to fire. Guess who he is, Name but his name, An4 his best kiss, For reward, you may claim. 198 MOORE’S WORKS. LIKE ONE WHO, DOOM’D. Like one who, doom’d o’er distant seas His weary path to measure, When home at length, with fav’ring breeze, lie brings the far-sought treasure ; Ilis ship, in sight of 6 hore, goes down, That shore to which he hasted 5 And all the wealth he thought his own Is o’er the waters wasted. Like him, this heart, through many a track Of toil and sorrow straying, One hope alone brought fondly back, Its toil and grief repaying. Like him, alas, I see that ray Of hope before me perish, And one dark minute sweep away What years were given to cherish. FEAR NOT THAT, WHILE AROUND THEE. Fear not that, while around thee Life’s varied blessings pour, One sigh of hers shall wound thee, Whose smile thou seek’st no more. No, dead and cold for ever Let our past love remain ; Once gone, its spirit never Shall haunt thy rest again. May the new ties that bind thee Far sweeter, happier prove, Nor e’er of me remind thee, But by their truth and love. Think how, asleep or waking, Thy image haunts me yet ; But, how this heart is breaking For thy own peace forget. WHEN LOYE IS KIND. When Love is kind, Cheerful and free, Love’s sure to find Welcome from me. But when Love brings Heartache or pang, Tears, and such things— Love may go hang ! If Love can sigh For one alone, Well pleas’d am I To be that one. But should I see Love giv’n to rove To two or three, ^heu — good-by, Love ! Love must, in short. Keep fond and true, Through good report, And evil too. Else, here I swear, Young Love may go, For aught I care — To Jericho. f THE GARLAND I SEND THEE. Tiie Garland I 6 end thee was cull’d from those bowers Where thou and I wander’d in long vanish’d hours ; Not a leaf or a blossom its bloom here displays, But bears some remembrance of those happy days. The roses were gather’d by that garden gate, Where our meetings, though early, seem’d always too late ; Where ling’ring full oft through a summer- night’s moon, Our partings, though late, appear’d always too soon. The rest were all cull’d from the banks of that glade, Where, watching the sunset, so often we’ve stray’d, And mourn’d, as the time went, that Love had no power To bind in his chain even one happy hour. HOW SHALL 1 WOO ? If I speak to thee in Friendship’s name, Thou think’st I speak too coldly ; If I mention Love’s devoted flame, Thou say’st I speak too boldly. Between these two unequal fires, Why doom me thus to hover ? I’m a friend, if such thy heart requires, If more thou seek’st, a lover. Which shall it be ? How shall I woo ? Fair one, choose between the two. Tho’ the wings of Love will brightly play, When first he comes to woo thee, There’s a chance that he may fly away As fast as he flies to thee. While Friendship, though on foot she come No flights of fancy trying, Will, therefore, oft be found at home, When Love abroad is flying. Which shall it be ? How shall I woe ? Dear one, choose between the two. If neither feeling suits thy heart, Let’s 6 ee, to please thee, whether We may not learn some precious art To mix their charms together ; One feeling, still more sweet, to form From two so sweet already — SACRED SONGS. 199 A friendship that like love is warm, A love like friendship steady. Thus let it be, thus let me woo, Dearest, thus we’ll join the two. SPRING AND AUTUMN. Ev’ry season hath its pleasures ; Spring may boast her flow’ry prime, Yet the vineyard’s ruby treasures Brighten Autumn’s sob’rer time. So Life’s year begins and closes ; Days, though short’ning, still can shine ; What though youth gave love and roses, ; Age still leaves us friends and wine. Phillis, when she might have caught me, All the Spring look’d coy and shy, Yet herself in Autumn sought me, When the flowers were all gone by. Ah, too late ; — she found her lover Calm and free beneath his vine, Drinking to the Spring-time over In his best autumnal wine. Thus may we, as years are flying, To their flight our pleasures suit Nor regret the blossoms dying, While we still may taste the fruit. Oh, while days like this are ours, Where’s the lip that dares repine ? Spring may take our loves and flow’rs, So Autumn leaves us friends and wine. LOVE ALONE. If thou wouldst have thy charms enchant our eyes, First win our hearts, for there thy empire lies : Beauty in vain would mount a heartless throne, Her Right Divine is given by Love alone. What would the rose with all her pride be worth, Were there no sun to call her brightness forth ? Maidens, unlov’d, like flowers in darkness thrown, W ait but that light, which comes from Love alone. Fair as thy charms in yonder glass appear, Trust not their bloom, they’ll fade from year to year : Wouldst thou they still should shine as first they shone, Go, fix thy mirror in Love’s eyes alone. SACRED SONGS, WVWWWVWWWWW^ TO EDWARD TUITE DALTON, ESQ. THIS FIRST NUMBER OF SACRED SONGS IS INSCRIBED, BY HIS SINCERE AND AFFECTIONATE FRIEND, Mayfield Cottage , Ashbourne , May , 1810. THOMAS MOORE. THOU ART, Oil GOD. (Air Unknown.*) “ The day is tliinc, the night also is thine : thou hast prepared the light and the sun. “ Thou hast set all the borders of the earth : tlion hast made summer and winter.” — Psalm Ixxiv. 16, 17. Tnou art, O God, the life and light Of all this wondrous 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 1 When Day, with farewell beam, delays Among the op’ning clouds of Even, * I have heard that this air is by the late Mrs. Sheri - dan. It is sung to the beautiful old words, “ 1 do confess thou’rt smooth and fair.” 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 I are Thine. When youthful Spring around us breathes, Thy Spirit warms her fragrant eigh ; And every flower the Summer wreathes Is born beneath that kindling eye. Where’er we turn, thy glories shine, And all things fair and bright are Thine I 200 MOORE’S WORKS. TIIE BIRD, LET LOOSE. (Air.— 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 F reedom in her wings l ♦ FALLEN IS TIIY THRONE. (Air. — Martini.) Fall’n is thy Throne, oh Israel I 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 heritage, 1 2 Her power thy glory’s throne. 3 4 5 6 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, 3 The wild wind whirls away. Silent and waste her bowers, Where once the mighty trod, And sunk those guilty lowers, While Baal reign’d as God. “ Go — said the Lord — “ Ye Conquerors ! “ Steep in her blood your swords, 1 The carrier-pigeon, it is well known, flies at an elevated pitch, in order to surmount every obstacle be- tween her and the place to which she is destined. 2 “ I have left mine heritage ; I have given the dearly beloved of my soul into the hands of her ene- mies.” — Jeremiah , xii. 7. 3 “ Do not disgrace the throne of thy glory.” — Jer. xiv. 21. 4 “ The Lord called thy name a green olive-tree ; fair and of goodly fruit,” &c. — Jer. xi. 16. 5 “ For he shall be like the heath in the desert.” — Jer. xvii. 6. 6 “ Take away her battlements ; fer they are not the Lord’s.”’— Jer. v. 10. “ And raze to earth her battlements,® “ For.they arc not the Lord’s. “ Till Zion’s mournful daughter “ O’er kindred bones shall tread, “ And Ilinnom’s vale of slaughter 7 “ Shall hide but half her dead 1 ” ♦ WHO IS TIIE MAID ? st. Jerome’s love.® (Air — Beethoven.) Who is the Maid my spirit seeks, Through cold reproof and slander’s blight ? Has sJic 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, I chose not her, my heart’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. 4 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 ; 7 “ 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. 8 These linos were suggested by a passage in one of St. Jerome’s Letters, replying to some calumnious re- marks that had been circulated respecting his intimacy with the matron Paula “ Numquid me vestes series-, niterttes gemmae, picta facies, aut auri rapuit ambitio ? Nulla fuit alia Itomae matronarum, quae meam possit edomarc mentem, nisi lugens atque jejunans, fletupene caecata.” — Epist. “ Si tibiputem .” 9 Ov yap Kpvaoifiopetv tjjv da/cpvovaav det. — Ckrysosi. IIomil. 8. in Epist. ad Tim. SACRED SONGS. 201 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, Serve but to light the troubled way — There’s nothing calm, but Heaven l OH, THOU ! WHO DRY’ST THE MOURNER’S TEAR. (Air. — Haydn.) “ He healetb the broken in heart, and bindetli up their wounds.”— Psalm cxlvii. 3. On, 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 I 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 I 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, 1 This second verse, which I wrote long 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 our ears when we heard of her death. During her last delirium And but sleeps till the sunshine of Heaven has unchain’d it, To water that Eden where first was its source. 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. Mourn not for her, the young Bride of the 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 1 that Arch of thine ; My censer’s breath the mountain airs. And silent thoughts my only prayers.2 :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’ll seek, by day, some glade unknowm, 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 wondrous name. I’ll read thy anger in the 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, she sung several hymns, in a voice even clearer and sweeter than usual, and among them were some from the present collection, (particularly, “ There’s nothing bright but Heaven,”) which this very interesting girl had often heard me sing during tlic summer. 2 Pii orant tacitd. 202 MOORE’S WORKS. . But in its light my 6011I can see Some feature 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 1 » SOUND TIIE LOUD TIMBREL. Miriam's song. (Air — Avison.I) “ 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. xt. 20. Sound the loud Timbrel o’er Egypt’s dark sea I 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 boast, for the Lord hath but spoken, And chariots and horsemen are sunk in the wave. Sound the loud Timbrel o’er Egypt’s dark sea ; jF.novAH has triumph’d — his people are free. Praise to the Conqueror, praise to the Lord 1 Ilis word was our arrow, his breath was our sword. — Who shall return to tell Egypt 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 , 2 And all her brave thousands are dash’d in the tide. Sound the loud Timbrel o’er Egypt’s dark sea ; jEJiovAn has triumph’d — his people are free I ♦ GO, LET ME WEEP. (Air. — Stevenson. ) Go, let me weep — there’s bliss in tears, When lie 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. Leave me to sigh o’er hours that flew More idly than the summer’s wind, 1 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 acknowledg- ment, it could hardly, I think, be recognised. 2 “ 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. j 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. ♦ COME NOT, OH LORD. (Air. — Haydn.) Come not, oh Lord, in the dread robe of splendour Thou wor’st on the Mount, in the day of thine ire ; Come veil’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 1 2 3 Stood fronting her Foe by the red-rolling stream ; O’er Egypt thy pillar shed 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 6 ide remove ; While shrouded in terrors the guilty behold Tliec, Oh, turn upon us the mild light of thy Love ! * WERE NOT THE SINFUL MARY’S TEARS. (Air. — Stevenson.) Were 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 ner day of luxury stor’d, She o’er her Saviour’s hallow’d feet The precious odours pour’d ; — And wip’d them with that golden hair, Where once the diamond shone ; Though now those gems of grief were there Which shine for God alone I 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 hast slept in error’s sleep, Oh, wouldst thou wake in Heaven, Like Mary kneel, like Mary weep, “ Love much ” * and be forgiven ! 3 “ And it came between the camp of the Egyptian* and the camp of Israel ; and it was a cloud and dark- ness to them, but it gave light by night to these.” — Exod. xiv. 20. 4 “ Her sins, which are many, arc forgiven ; for she loved much.” — Luke vii. 47. SACRED SONGS. 203 AS DOWN IN THE SUNLESS RETREATS. (Air. — Haydn.) As down in the sunless retreats of the Ocean, Sweet flowers are springing no mortal can see, So, deep in my soul the still prayer of devotion, Unheard by the world, rises silent to Thee, My God I 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. BUT WHO SHALL SEE. (Air. — 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 ? 1 2 When earth no more beneath the fear Of his rebuke shall lie I 2 When pain shall cease, and every tear Be wip’d from ev’ry eye. 3 Then, Judah, thou no more slialt mourn Beneath the heathen’s chain ; Thy days of splendour shall return, And all be new again. 4 The Fount of Life shall then be quaff’d In peace, by all who come ; 5 And every wind that blows shall waft Some long-lost exile home. ALMIGHTY GOD I CHORUS OF PRIESTS. (Air. — Mozart.) Almighty God I when round thy shrine The Palm-tree’s heavenly branch we twine 6 (Emblem of Life’s eternal ray, And Love that “ fadeth not away,”) We bless the flowers, expanded all, 7 We bless the leaves that never fall, 1 “ And he will destroy, in this mountain, the face of the covering cast over all people, and the vail that is spread over all nations.” — Isaiah, xxv. 7. 2 “ The rebuke of his people shall he take away from off all the earth.” — Isaiah xxv. 8. 3 “ And God shall wipe away all tears from their eyes; .... neither shall there be any more pain.” — Rev. xxi. 4. 4 “ And he that sat upon the throne said, Behold, I make all things new.” — Rev. xxi. 5. 5 “ And whosoever will, let him take the water of life freely.” — Rev. xxii. 17. 6 “ 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. f “ And he carved all the walls of the house round And trembling say, — “ In Eden thus “ The Tree of Life may flower for us I ” When round thy Cherubs — smiling calm, Without their flames 8_ 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 FAIR ! OH PUREST I SAINT AUGUSTINE TO HIS SISTER . 3 (Air — Moore.) Oh fair I oh purest 1 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 reach liis prey, And warns the timorous bird away. Be thou thi3 dove ; Fairest, purest, be thou 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 diieir shadows lie Between Heaven and Thee, and trembling fly I Be thou that dove ; Fairest, purest, be thou that dove. ANGEL OF CHARITY. (Air. — Handel.) Angel of Charity, who, from above, Comest to dwell a pilgrim here, Thy voice is music, thy smile is love, And Pity’s soul is in thy tear. When on the shrine of God were laid First-fruits of all most good and fair, That ever bloom’d in Eden’s shade, Thine was the holiest offering there. about with carved figures of cherubims, and pabn-tree 9 , and open flowers." — 1 Kings, vi. 29. 8 “ When the passover of the tabernacles was re- vealed to the great lawgiver 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 JE- HOVAH confirmed his gracious covenant to redeem mankind.” — Observations on the Palm. 0 In St. Augustine’s Treatise upon the advantages of a solitary life, addressed to his sister, there is the fol- lowing fanciful passage, from which, the reader will perceive, the thought of this song was taken : — “ Tc, soror, nunquam nolo esse securam, sed timere semper- que tuam fragilitatem habere suspectam, ad instar pa- Yidae columbie frequentare rivos aquarum et quasi iu speculo accipitris cernere supcrvolantis effigiem ct ca- vere. Rivi aquarum sententise sunt scripturarum, qua> dc limpidissimo sapient iae fonte profluentes,” &c. &c JJe Vit. Ercmit. ad Sororcm. 204 MOORE’S WORKS. Hope anu her sister, Faith, were given But as our guides to yonder sky ; Soon as they reach the verge of heaven. There, lost in perfect bliss, they die.* But, loug as Love, Almighty Love, Shall on his throne of thrones abide, Thou, Charity, shalt dwell above, j Smiling for ever by His side 1 BEIIOLD THE SUN. (Air — Lord Mornington.) Beiiold the Sun, how bright From yonder East he springs, As if the soul of life and light Were breathing from his wings. So bright the Gospel broke Upon the souls of men ; So fresh the dreaming world awoke In Truth’s full radiance then. Before yon Sun arose, Stars cluster’d through the sky — But oh, how dim 1 how pale were those, To His one burning eye 1 So Truth lent many a ray. To bless the Pagan’s night — But, Lord, how weak, how cold were they To Thy One glorious Light 1 LORD, WHO SHALL BEAR THAT DAY. (Air — Dr. Boyce.) Lord, who shall bear that day, so dread, so splen- did, When we shall see thy Angel, hov’ring o’er This sinful world, with hand to heav’n extended, And hear him swear by Thee that Time’s no more ? 2 When Earth shall feel thy fast consuming ray — Who, Mighty God, oh who shall bear that day ? When through the world thy awful call hath sounded — “ Wake, all ye Dead, to judgment wake, ye Dead ! ” 3 And from the clouds, by seraph eyes surrounded, The Saviour shall put forth his radiant head; 4 1 " Then Faith shall fail, and holy Hope shall die. One lost in certainty, and one in joy.” _ Prior. 2 “ And the angel which I saw stand upon the sea and upon the earth, lifted up his hand to heaven, and sware by Him that liveth for ever and ever, .... that there should be time no longer.” — Rev. x. 5, G. 3 “ Awake, yc Dead, and come to judgment.” 4 “ They shall see the Son of Man coming in the clouds of heaven — and all the angels with him.” — Matt. xxiv. 30. and xxv. 31. 5 “ From whose face the earth and the heaven fled away.” — Rev. xx. 11. 6 “ And before Him shall be gathered all nations, and He shall separate them one from another While Earth and IleaVn before Him puss nwnyS — Who, Mighty God, oh who shall bear that day ? When, with a glance, tlx’ Eternal Judge shall sever Earth’s evil spirits from the pure and bright. And say to those , “ Depart from me for ever ! ” To these , “ Come, dwell with me in endless light ! ” « When each and all in silence take their way — Who, Mighty God, oh who shall bear that day ? Oil, TEACH ME TO LOYE THEE. (Air. —IIaydn.) Oh, teach me to love Thee, to feel what thou art, Till, fill’d with the one sacred image, my heart Shall all other passions disown ; Like some pure temple, that shines apart, Reserv’d for Thy worship alone. In joy and in sorrow, through praise and through blame, Thus still let me, living and dying the same, In Thy service bloom and decay — Like some lone altar, whose votive flame In holiness wasteth away. Though born in this desert, and doom’d by my birth To pain and afflictions, to darkness and dearth, On Thee let my spirit rely — Like some rude dial, that, fix’d on earth, Still looks for its light from the sky. ♦ WEEP, CHILDREN OF ISRAEL. (Air — Stevenson.) Weep, weep for him, the Man of God? — In yonder vale he sunk to rest ; But none of earth can point the sod 8 That flowers above his sacred breast. Weep, children of Israel, weep ! Ilia doctrine fell like Heaven’s rain, 0 His words refresh’d like Heaven’s dew — Oh, ne’er shall Israel see again A Chief to God and her so true. Weep, children of Israel, weep l “ Then shall the King say unto them on his right hand, Come, ye blessed of my Father, inherit the king- dom prepared for you, &c. “ Then shall He say also unto them on the left hand, Depart from me, ye cursed, &c. “And these shall go away into everlasting punish- ment; but the righteous into life eternal.” —Matt. xxv. 32. et seq. ^ “ And the children of Israel wept for Moses in the plains of Moab.” — Deut. xxxiv. 8. 8 “ And he buried him in a valley in the land of Moab ; . . . but no man knoweth of his sepulchre unto this day.” — Ibid. ver. 6. 0 “ My doctrine shall drop as the rain, my speech shall distil as the dew.” — Moses ’ Sony, Deut. xiix.iL 2. SACRED SONGS. 205 Remember ye liis parting gaze, His farewell song by Jordan’s tide, When, full of glory and of days, He saw the promis’d land — and died. 1 2 Weep, children of Israel, weep 1 Yet died he not as men who sink. Before our eyes, to soulless clay; But chang’d to spirit, like a wink Of summer lightning, pass’d away.3 Weep, children of Israel, weep ! > LIKE MORNING, WHEN HER EARLY BREEZE. (Aik — Beethoven.) Like morning, when her early breeze Breaks up the surface of the seas, That, in those furrows, dark with night, Her hand may sow the seeds of light — Thy Grace can send its breathings o’er The Spirit, dark and lost before, And, fresh’ning all its depths, prepare For Truth divine to enter there. Till David touch’d his sacred lyre, In silence lay th* unbreathing wire; But when he swept its chords along, Ev’n Angels stoop’d to hear that song. So sleeps the soul, till Thou, oh Lokd, Shalt deign to touch its lifeless chord — Till, wak’d by Thee, its breath shall rise, In music worthy of the skies ! COME, YE DISCONSOLATE. (Air German.) Come, ye disconsolate, where’er you languish, Come, at God’s altar fervently kneel ; Here bring your wounded hearts, here tell your anguish — Earth has no sorrow that Heaven cannot heal. Joy of the desolate, Light of the straying, Hope, when all others die, fadeless and pure, Here speaks the Comforter, in God’3 name say- ing— “ Earth has no sorrow that Heaven cannot cure.” 1 “ I have caused tlieo to see it with thine eyes, hut thou shalt not go over thither.” — Deut. xxxiv. 4. 2 “ As he was going to embrace Eleazer and Joshua, and was still discoursing with them, a cloud stood over him on the sudden, and he disappeared in a certain valley, although he wrote in the Holy Books that he died, which was done out of fear, lest they should ven- ture to say that, because of his extraordinnry virtue, he went to God.” — Josephus, book iv. chap. viii. 3 “ Arise, shine ; for thy light is come, and the glory of the Lord is risen upon thee.” — Isaiah , lx. 4 “ And the Gentiles shall come to thy light, and kings to the brightness of thy rising.” — lb. 5 “ Lift up thine eyes round about, and see ; all they gather themselves together, they come to thee : thy sons shall come from afar, and thy daughters shall be nursed at thy side.” — lb. 0 “ The multitude of camels shall cover thee ; the Go, ask the infidel, what boon he brings us, What charm for aching hearts he can reveal,’ Sweet as that heavenly promise Hope sings us — “ Earth has no sorrow that God cannot heal.” AWAKE, ARISE, TIIY LIGHT IS COME (Air.— Stevenson. ) Awake, arise, thy light is come ; 3 The nations, that before outshone thee, Now at thy feet lie dark and dumb — The glory of the Lord is on thee ! Arise — the Gentiles to thy ray, From ev’ry nook of earth shall cluster ; And kings and princes haste to pay Their homage to thy rising lustre. 4 5 * * Lift up thine eyes around, and see, O’er foreign fields, o’er farthest waters, Thy exil’d sons return to thee, To thee return thy home-sick daughters.® And camels rich, from Midian’s tents, Shall lay their treasures down before thee ; And Saba bring her gold and scents, To fill thy air and sparkle o’er thee.® See,” who are these that, like a cloud ,7 Are gathering from all earth’s dominions, Like doves, long absent, when allow’d Homeward to shoot their trembling pinions. Surely the isles shall wait for me, 8 The ships of Tarshish round will hover, To bring thy sons across the sea, And waft their gold and silver over. And Lebanon thy pomp shall grace 8 — The fir, the pine, the palm victorious Shall beautify our Holy Place, And make the ground I tread on glorious. No more shall discord haunt thy ways,! 3 Nor ruin waste thy cheerless nation ; But thou shalt call thy portals, Praise, And thou shalt name thy walls, Salvation. The sun no more shall make thee bright, 11 Nor moon shall lend her lustre to thee ; But God, Himself, shall be thy Light, And flash eternal glory through thee. dromedaries of Midian and Epliah ; all they from Sheba shall come ; they shall bring gold and incense.” — 76 7 “ Who are these that fly as a cloud, and as the doves to their windows ? ” — lb. 8 “ Surely the isles shall wait for me, and the ships of Tarshish first, to bring thy sons from far, their silver and their gold with them.” — 76. 9 “ The glory of Lebanon shall come unto thee ; the fir-tree, the pine-tree, and the box together, to beautify the place of my sanctuary ; and I will make the place of my feet glorious.” _ 76. 10 “ Violence shall no more be heard in thy land, wasting nor destruction within thy borders ; but thou shalt call thy walls Salvation, and thy gates Praise.” — 76. 11 “Thy sun shall be no more thy light by day; neither for brightness shall the moon give light unto thee: but the Lord shall be unto thee an everlasting light, and thy GOD thy glory.” _/6. 206 MOORE’S WORKS. Thy sun shall never more go down ; A ray, from Heav’n itself descended, Shall light thy everlasting crown — Thy days of mourning all are ended.* My own, elect, and righteous Land ! The Branch, for ever green and vernal, Which I have planted with this hand — Live thou shalt in Life Eternal.' 2 THERE IS A BLEAK DESERT. (Air. — Crescentini.) There is a bleak Desert, where daylight grows weary Of wasting its smile on a region so dreary — What may that desert be ? ’Tis Life, cheerless Life, where the few joys that come Are lost like that daylight, for ’tis not their home. There is a lone Pilgrim, before whose faint eyes The water he pants for but sparkles and flies — Who may that Pilgrim be ? ’Tis Man, hapless Man, through this life tempted on By fair shining hopes, that in shining are gone. There is a bright Fountain, through that Desert stealing To pure lips alone its refreshment revealing — What may that Fountain be ? ’Tis Truth, holy Truth, that like springs under ground, By the gifted of Heaven alone can be found.3 There is a fair Spirit, whose wand hath the spell To point where those waters in secrecy dwell — Who may that Spirit be ? ’Tis Faith, humble Faith, who hath learn’d that where’er Her wand bends to worship, the Truth must be there 1 SINCE FIRST THY WORD. (Air.— Nicholas Freeman.) Since first Thy Word awak’d my heart, Like new life dawning o’er me, Where’er I turn mine eyes, Thou art, All light and love before me. Nought else I feel, or hear or see — All bonds of earth I sever — Thee, O God, and only Thee I live for, now and ever. Like him whose fetters dropp’d away When light shone o’er his prison, 11 1 “ Thy sun shall no more go down ; .... for the LORD shall be thine everlasting light, and the days of thy mourning shall be ended.” — Isaiah, lx. 2 “ Thy people also shall ho all righteous ; they shall inherit the land for ever the branch of my planting, the work of my hands.” — lb My spirit, touch’d by Mercy’s ray, Hath from her chains arisen. Ami shall a soul Thou bidst be free, Return to bondage ? — never I Thee, O God, and only Thee, I live for, now and ever. 4 HARK ! ’TIS THE BREEZE. (Air.— Rousseau.) Hark ! ’tis the breeze of twilight calling Earth’s weary children to repose ; While, round the couch of Nature falling, Gently the night’s soft curtains close. Soon o’er a world in sleep reclining, Numberless stars, through yonder dark, Shall look, like eyes of Cherubs shining From out the veils that hid the Ark. Guard us, oh Thou, who never sleepest, Thou who, in silence thron’d above, Throughout all time, unwearied, keepest Thy watch of Glory, Pow’r, and Love. Grant that, beneath thine eye, securely, Our souls, awhile from life withdrawn, May, in their darkness, stilly, purely, Like “ sealed fountains,” rest till dawn. + WHERE IS YOtJR DWELLING, YE SAINTED ? (Air.— Hasse.) Where is your dwelling, ye Sainted ? Through what Elysium more bright Than fancy or hope ever painted, Walk ye in glory and light ? Who the same kingdom inherits ? Breathes there a soul that may dare Look to that world of Spirits, Or hope to dwell with you there ? Sages ! who, ev’n in exploring Nature through all her bright ways, Went, like the Seraphs, adoring, And veil’d your eyes in the blaze — Martyrs 1 who left for our reaping Truths you had sown in your blood — Sinners I whom long years of weeping Chasten’d from evil to good — Maidens ! who, like the young Crescent, Turning away your pale brows From earth and the light of the Present, Look’d to your Heavenly Spouse — Say, through what region enchanted, Walk ye, in Heaven’s sweet air ? Say, to what spirits ’tis granted, Bright souls, to dwell with you there ? 3 In singing, the following line had better bc concerns expressly meant, The fond p.oposal first was made," And love and silence blush’d consent. Parents and friends (all here ns Jews, Enchanters, housemaids, Turks, Hindoos,) Have heard, approv’d, and blest the tie ; And now, hadst thou a poet’s eye, Thou might’st behold, in tlx’ air above That brilliant brow, triumphant Love, Holding, as if to drop it down Gently upon her curls, a crown Of ducal shape — but, oh, such gems I Pilfer’d from Peri diadems, And set in gold like that which shines To deck the fairy of the Mines : In short, a crown all glorious — such as Love orders when lie makes a Duchess. Put see, *tis morn in heaven ; the Sun Up the bright orient hath begun To canter his immortal team ; And, though not yet arriv’d in sight, His leader's nostrils send a steam Of radiance forth, so rosy bright As makes their onward path all light. What’s to be done ? if Sol will be So deuced early, so must we ; And when the day thus shines outright, Ev’n dearest friends must bid good night. So, farewell, scene of mirth and masking, Now almost a by-gone tale ; Peauties, late in lamp-light basking, Now, by daylight, dim and pale ; Harpers, yawning o’er your harps, Scarcely knowing flats from sharps ; Mothers who, while bor’d you keep Time by nodding, nod to sleep ; Heads of hair, that stood last night Crdpti, crispy, and upright, Put have now, alas, one sees, a Leaning like the tower of Pisa ; Fare ye well — thus sinks away All that’s mighty, all that’s bright ; Tyre and Sidon had their day, And ev’n a Ball — has but its night 1 EVENINGS IN GREECE. In thus connecting together a series of Songs by a thread of poetical narrative, my chief object has been to combine Recitation with Music, so as to enable a greater number of persons to join in the performance, by enlisting, as readers, those who may not feel willing or competent to take a part as singers. The Island of Zea, where the scene is laid, was called by the ancients Ceos, and was the birthplace of Simonides, Bacchylides, and other eminent persons. An account of its present state may be found in the Travels of Dr. Clarke, who says, that “ it appeared to him to be the best cultivated of any of the Grecian Isles.” — Yol. vi. p. 174. T.M. EVENINGS IN GREECE. ^irst (Bbrning. w Tiir sky is bright — the breeze is fair, “ And the mainsail flowing, full and free — “ Our farewell word is woman’s pray’r, “ And the hope before us — Liberty I “ Farewell, farewell. “ To Greece we give our shining blades, “ And our hearts to you, young Zcan Maids ! “ The moon is in the heavens above, “ And the wind is on the foaming sea — Thus shines the star of woman’s love “ On the glorious strife of Liberty ! “ Farewell, farewell. “ To Greece we give our shining blades, “ And our hearts to you, young Zean Maids ! Tlius sang they from the bark, that now Turn’d to the sea its gallant prow, Bearing within it hearts as brave, As e’er sought Freedom o’er the wave ; And leaving on that islet’s shore, Where still the farewell beacons burn, Friends, that shall many a day look o’er The long, dim sea for their return. Virgin of Heaven ! speed their way — Oh, speed their way, — the chosen flow’r Of Zca’s youth, the hope and stay Of parents in their wintry hour. The love of maidens, and the pride Of the young, happy, blushing bride, Whose nuptial wreath has not yet died — All, all are in that precious bark, Which now, alas, no more is seen — Though every eye still turns to mark The moonlight spot where it had been. Vainly you look, ye maidens, sires, And mothers, your belov’d are gone ! — Now may you quench those signal fires, Whose light they long look’d back upon EVENINGS IN GREECE. 217 From their dark deck — watching the flame As fast it faded from their view With thoughts, that, but for manly shame, Had made them droop and weep like you. Home to your chambers I home, and pray For the bright coming of that day, When, bless’d by heaven, the Cross shall sweep The Crescent from the iEgean deep, And your brave warriors, hast’ning back, Will bring such glories in their track, As shall, for many an age to come, Shed light around their name and home. There is a Fount on Zea’s isle, Ilound which, in soft luxuriance, smile All the sweet flowers, of every kind, On which the sun of Greece looks down, Pleas’d as a lover on the crown His mistress for her brow hath twin’d, "When he beholds each flow’ret there, Himself had wish’d her most to wear ; Here bloom’d the laurel-rose ] , whose wreath Hangs radiant round the Cypriot shrines, And here those bramble-flowers, that breathe Their odour into Zante’s wines : 2 — The splendid woodbine, that, at eve, To grace their floral diadems, The lovely maids of Patmos weave : 1 2 3 — And that fair plant, whose tangled stems Shine like a Nereid’s hair 4 5 , when spread, Dishevell’d, o'er her azure bed ; — All these bright children of the clime, (Each at its own most genial time, The summer, or the year’s sweet prime,) Like beautiful earth-stars, adorn The Valley, where that Fount is born : While round, to grace its cradle green, Groups of Velani oaks are seen, Tow’ring on every verdant height — Tall, shadowy, in the evening light, Like Genii, set to watch the birth Of some enchanted child of earth — Fair oaks, that over Zea’s vales, Stand with their leafy pride unfurl’d ; While Commerce, from her thousand sails, Scatters their fruit throughout the world I 5 ’Twas here — as soon as prayer and sleep (Those truest friends to all who weep) Had lighten’d every heart, and made Ev’n sorrow wear a softer shade — ’Twas here, in this secluded spot, Amid whose breathings calm and sweet Grief might be sooth’d, if not forgot, The Zean nymphs resolv’d to meet Each evening now, by the same light That saw their farewell tears that night ; And try, if sound of lute and song, If wand’ring ’mid the moonlight flowers In various talk, could charm along With lighter step, the ling’ring hours, 1 Ncrium Oleander. “ In Cyprus it retains its ancient name, Rhododaphne, and the Cypriots adorn their churches with the flowers on fcast-dayi” — Journal of Dr. Sibthorpe, Walpole's Turkey. 2 Id. 3 Lonicera Caprifolium, used by the girls of Patmos for garlands. 4 Cuscuta europtea. “ From the twisting and twin- ing of the stems, it is compared by the Greeks to the dishevelled hair of the Nereids.” — Walpole's Turkey. 5 “ The produce of the island in these acorns alono Till tidings of that Bark should come, Or Victory waft their warriors home I When first they met — the wonted smile Of greeting having gleam’d awhile — ’Twould touch ev’n Moslem heart to see The sadness that came suddenly O’er their young brows, when they look’d round Upon that bright, enchanted ground ; And thought, how many a time, with those Who now were gone to the rude wars, They there had met, at evening’s close, And danc’d till morn outshone the stars ! But seldom long doth hang th’ eclipse Of sorrow o’er such youthful breasts — The breath from her own blushing lips, That on the maiden’s mirror rests, Not swifter, lighter from the glass, Than sadness from her brow doth pass. Soon did they now, as round the Well They sat, beneath the rising moon — And some, with voice of awe, would tell Of midnight fays, and nymphs who dwell In holy founts — while some would tune Their idle lutes, that now had lain, For days, without a single strain ; — And others, from the rest apart, With laugh that told the lighten’d heart, Sat, whisp’ring in each other’s ear Secrets, that all in turn would hear ; — Soon did they find this thoughtless play So swiftly steal their griefs away, That many a nymph, though pleas’d the while lteproach’d her own forgetful smile, And sigh’d to think she could be gay. Among these maidens there was one, Who to Leucadia<> late had been — Ilad stood, beneath the evening sun, On its white tow’ring cliffs, and seen The very spot were Sappho sung Her swan-like music ere she sprung (Still holding, in that fearful leap, By her lov’d lyre,) into the deep, And dying quench’d the fatal fire, At once, of both her heart and lyre. Mutely they listen’d all — and well Hid the young tra veil’d maiden tell Of the dread height to which that steep Beetles above the eddying deep 7 — Of the lone sea-birds, wheeling round The dizzy edge with mournful sound — And of those scented lilies 3 found Still blooming on that fearful place — As if call’d up by Love, to grace Th’ immortal spot, o’er which the last Bright footsteps of his martyr pass’d 1 While fresh to ev’ry listener’s thought These legends of Leucadia brought amounts annually to fifteen thousand quintals.” _ Clarke's Travels. <> Now Santa Maura — the island, from whose cliffs Sappho leaped into the sea. 7 “ The precipice, which is fearfully dizzy, is about one hundred and fourteen feet from the water, w hich is of a profound depth, as appears from the dark-blue colour and the eddy that plays round the pointed and projecting rocks.” — Goodisson's Ionian Isles. S See Mr. Goodisson’s very interesting description of all these circumstances. 218 MOORE’S WORKS. All that of Sappho’s hapless flame Is kept alive, still watch’d by Fame — The maiden, tuning her soft lute, While all the rest stood round her, mute, Thus sketch’d the languishment of soul, That o’er the tender Lesbian stole ; And, in a voice, whose thrilling tone Fancy might deem the Lesbian’s own, One of those fervid fragments gave, Which still, — like sparkles of Greek Fire, Undying, ev’n beneath the wave, — Burn on through Time, and ne’er expire. SONG. As o’er her loom the Lesbian Maid In love-sick languor hung her head, Unknowing where her fingers stray’d, She weeping turn’d away, and said, “ Oh, my sweet mother — ’tis in vain — “ I cannot weave, as once I wove — “ So wilder’d is my heart and brain “ With thinking of that youth I love 1 ” 1 Again the web she tried to trace, But tears fell o’er each tangled thread ; While, looking in her mother’s face, Who watchful o’er her lean’d, she said, “ Oh, my sweet mother — ’tis in vain — “ I cannot weave, as once I wove — “ So wilder’d is my heart and brain “ With thinking of that youth I love 1 ” A silence follow’d this sweet air, As each in tender musing stood, Thinking, with lips that mov’d in pray’r, Of Sappho and that fearful flood : While some, who ne’er till now had known IIow much their hearts resembled hers, Felt as they made her griefs their own, That theij, too, were Love’s worshippers. At length a murmur, all but mute, So faint it was, came from the lute Of a young melancholy maid, Whose fingers, all uncertain play’d From chord to chord, as if in chase Of some lost melody, some strain Of other times, whose faded trace She sought among those chords again. Slowly the half-forgotten theme (Though born in feelings ne’er forgot) Came to her memory — as a beam Falls broken o’er some shaded spot ; — And while her lute’s sad symphony Fill’d up each sighing pause between ; And Love himself might weep to see What ruin comes where he hath been — As wither’d still the grass is found Where fays have danc’d their merry round — Thus simply to the list’ning throng She breath’d her melancholy song : — 1 I have attempted, in these four lines, to give some idea of that beautiful fragment of Sappho, beginning T Xvtceia fj.arep, which represents so truly (as Warton remarks) “the languor and listlessness of a person deeply in love.” 2 This word is defrauded here, I suspect, of a syl- SONG. Weicpinq for thee, my love, through the long day, Lonely and wearily life wears away. Weeping for thee, my love, through the long night — No rest in darkness, no joy in light 1 Nought left but Memory, whose dreary tread Sounds through this ruin’d heart, where all lies dead — Wakening the echoes of joy long fled l Of many a stanza, this alone Had scaped oblivion — like the one Stray fragment of a wreck, which thrown, With the lost vessel’s name, ashore, Tells who they were that live no more. When thus the heart is in a vein Of tender thought, the simplest strain Can touch it with peculiar power — As when the air is w arm, the scent Of the most wild and rustic flower Can fill the whole rich element — And, in such moods, the homeliest (one That’s link’d with feelings, once our own — With friends or joys gone by — will be W orth choirs of loftiest harmony ! But some there were, among the group Of damsels there, too light of heart To let their spirits longer droop, Ev’n under music’s melting art ; And one upspringing, with a bound, From a low bank of flowers, look’d round With eyes that, though so full of light, Ilad still a trembling tear w’ithin ; And, while her fingers, in swift flight, Flew o’er a fairy mandolin, Thus sung the song her lover late Had sung to her — the eve before That joyous night, when, as of yore, All Zea met, to celebrate The Feast of May, on the sea-shorc. SONG. When the Balaika 1 2 Is heard o’er the sea, I’ll dance thellomaika By moonlight with thee. If waves then, advancing, Should steal on our play, Thy white feet, in dancing, Shall chase them away. 9 When the Balaika Is heard o’er the sea, Thou’lt dance the Romaika, My own love, with me. Then, at the closing Of each merry lay, lablc ; Dr. Clarke, if I recollect right, makes it “ Bala- laika.” 9 “ I saw above thirty parties engaged in dancing the Romaika upon the sand ; in some of those groups, the girl who led them chased the retreating wave.” — Douglas on the Modern Greeks EVENINGS IN GREECE. 219 How sweet ’tis, reposing, Beneath the night ray ! Or if, declining, The moon leave the skies, We’ll talk by the shining Of each other’s eyes. Oh then, how featly The dance we’ll renew, Treading so fleetly Its light mazes through : 1 Till stars, looking o’er us From heaven’s high bow’rs, Would change their bright chorus For one dance of ours 1 When the Balaika Is heard o’er the sea, Thou’lt dance the Romaika, My own love, with me. How changingly for ever veers The heart of youth, ’twixt smiles and tears ! Ev’n as in April, the light vane Now points to sunshine, now to rain. Instant this lively lay dispell’d The shadow from each blooming brow, And Dancing, joyous Dancing, held, Full empire o’er each fancy now. But say — what shall the measure be ? “ Shall we the old Romaika tread, (Some eager ask’d) “ as anciently “ ’Twas by the maids of Delos led, “ When, slow at first, then circling fast, '* As the gay spirits rose — at last, f ‘ With hand in hand, like links, enloclc’d, “ Through the light air they seem’d to flit “ In labyrinthine maze, that mock’d “ The dazzled eye that follow’d it ? ” Some call’d aloud “ the Fountain Dance ! ” — While one young, dark-ey’d Amazon, Whose step was air-like, and whose glance Flash’d, like a sabre in the sun, Sportively said, “ Shame on these soft “ And languid strains we hear so oft. “ Daughters of Freedom I have not we “ Beam’d from our lovers and our sires “ The Dance of Greece, while Greece was free — “ That Dance, where neither flutes nor lyres, “ But sword and shield clash on the ear “ A music tyrants quake to hear ? 1 2 u Heroines of Zea, arm with me, “ And dance the dance of Victory l ” Thus saying, she, with playful grace, Loos’d the wide hat, that o’er her face (From Anatolia 3 came the maid) Ilung, shadowing each sunny charm ; 1 “ In dancing the Romaika (says Mr. Douglas) they begin in slow and solemn step till they have gained the time, but by degrees the air becomes more sprightly ; the conductress of the dance sometimes setting to her partner, sometimes darting before the rest, and leading them through the most rapid revolutions ; sometimes crossing under the hands, which arc held up to let her pass, and giving as much liveliness and intricacy as she can to the figures, into which she conducts her com- panions, while their business is to follow her in all her movements, without breaking the chain, or losing the measure.” And, with a fair young armourer’s aid, Fixing it on her rounded arm, A mimic shield with pride display’d ; Then, springing tow’rds a grove that spread Its canopy of foliage near Pluck’d off a lance-like twig, and said, “ To arms, to arms 1 ” while o’er her head She wav’d the light branch, as a spear. Promptly the laughing maidens all Obey’d their chief’s heroic call ; — Round the shield-arm of each was tied Hat, turban, shawl, as chance might be ; The grove, their verdant armoury, Falchion and lance 4 alike supplied ; And as their glossy locks, let free, Fell down their shoulders carelessly, You might have dream’d you saw a throng Of youthful Thyads, by the beam Of a May Moon, bounding along Peneus’ silver-eddied 5 stream ! And now they stepp’d, with measur’d tread, Martially, o’er the shining field : Now, to the mimic combat led (A heroine at each squadron’s head), Struck lance to lance and sword to shield : While still, through every varying feat, Their voices, heard in contrast sweet With some, of deep but soften’d sound, From lips of aged sires around, Who smiling watch’d their children’s pi a}’ — Thus sung the ancient Pyrrhic lay : — SONG. “ Raise the buckler — poise the lance — “Now here — now there — retreat — advance S ” Such were the sounds, to which the warrior boy Danc’d in those happy days, when Greece was free ; When Sparta’s youth, ev’n in the hour of joy, Thus train’d their steps to war and victory; “ Raise the buckler — poise the lance — “ Now here — now there — retreat — advance 1 ” Such was the Spartan warriors’ dance. “ Grasp the falchion — gird the shield — “ Attack — defend — do all, but yield.” Thus did thy sons, oh Greece, one glorious night, Dance by a moon like this, till o’er the sea That morning dawn’d by whose immortal light They nobly died for thee and liberty 1 6 “ Raise the buckler — poise the lance — “ Now here — now there — retreat — advance I ” Such was the Spartan heroes’ dance. 2 For a description of the Pyrrhic Dance, see Do Guj’s, &c. — It appears from Apuleius (lib. x.) that this war- dance was, among the ancients, sometimes performed by females. 3 See the costume of the Greek women of Natolia in Castellan's Mceurs des Othomans. 4 The sword was the weapon chiefly used in this dance. 5 Homer, II. ii. 753. 6 It is said that Leonidas and his companions em- ployed themselves, on the eve of the battle, in music and the gymnastic exercises of their country. 220 MOORE’S WORKS. Scarce had they clos’d this martial lay When, flinging their light spears away, The combatants, in broken ranks. All breathless from the war-field fly ; And down, upon the velvet banks And flow’ry slopes, exhausted lie, Like rosy huntresses of Thrace, liesting at sunset from the chase. “ Fond girls ! ” an aged Zean 6aid — One who, himself, had fought and bled, And now, with feelings, half delight, Half sadness, watch'd their mimic fight — “ Fond maids ! who thus with War can jest — “Like Love, in Mars’s helmet drest, “ When, in his childish innocence, “ Pleas’d with the shade that helmet flings, “ He thinks not of the blood, that thence “ Is dropping o’er his snowy wings. “ Ay — true it is, young patriot maids, « If Honour’s arm still won the fray, « If luck but shone on righteous blades, “ War were a game for gods to play I “ But, no, alas 1 — hear one, who well “ Hath track’d the fortunes of the brave — “ Hear me, in mournful ditty, tell “ What glory waits the patriot’s grave : ” — SONG. As by the shore, at break of day, A vanquish’d Chief expiring lay, Upon the sands, with broken sword, He trac’d his farewell to the free ; And, there, the last unfinish’d word lie dying wrote was “ Liberty 1 ” At night a Sea-bird shriek’d the knell Of him who thus for Freedom fell ; The words he wrote, ere evening came, Were cover’d by the sounding sea ; — So pass away the cause and name Of him who dies for Liberty 1 That tribute of subdued applause A charm’d, but timid, audience pays, That murmur, which a minstrel draws From hearts, that feel, but fear to praise, Follow’d this song, and left a pause Of silence after it, that hung Like a fix’d spell on every tongue. At length, a low and tremulous sound Was heard from midst a group, that round A bashful maiden stood, to hide Her blushes, while the lute she tried — Like roses, gath’ring round to veil The song of some young nightingale, Whose trembling notes steal out between The cluster’d leaves, herself unseen. And, while that voice, in tones that more Through feeling than through weakness err’d, Came, with a stronger sweetness, o’er Th’ attentive ear, this strain was heard: — 1 '* This morning we paid our visit to the Cave of Trophonius, and the Fountains of Memory and Oblivion, SONG. I saw, from yonder silent cave,* Two Fountains running, side by side, The one was Mem’ry’s limpid wave, The other cold Oblivion’s tide. “ Oh Love ! ” said I, in thoughtless mood, As deep I drank of Lethe’s stream, “ Be all my sorrows in this flood “ Forgotten like a vanish’d dream ! ” But who could bear that gloomy blank, Where joy was lost as well as pain ? Quickly of Mem’ry’s fount I drank, And brought the past all back again ; And said, “ Oh Love 1 whate’er my lot, “ Still let this soul to thee be true — “ Bather than have one bliss forgot, “ Be all my pains remember’d too 1 ” The group that '/cood around, to shade The blushes of that bashful maid, Had, by degrees, as came the lay More strongly forth, retir’d away, Like a fair shell, whose valves divide, To show the fairer pearl inside : For such she was — a creature, bright And delicate as those day-flow’rs. Which, while they last, make up, in light And sweetness, what they want in hours. So rich upon the ear had grown Her voice’s melody — its tone Gath’ring new courage, as it found An echo in each bosom round — That, ere the nymph, with downcast eye Still on the chords, her lute laid by, “ Another Song,” all lips exclaim’d. And each some matchless fav’rite nam’d ; While blushing, as her fingers ran O’er the sweet chords, she thus began : — SONG. Oil, Memory, how coldly Thou paiutest joy gone by : Like rainbows, thy pictures But mournfully shine and die, Or, if some tints thou keepest, That former days recall, As o’er each line thou weepest, Thy tears efface them all. But, Memory, too truly Thou paintest grief that’s past Joy’s colours are fleeting, But those of Sorrow last. And while thou bring’st before us Dark pictures of past ill, Life’s evening, closing o’er us. But makes them darker still. just upon the water of Ilercyna, which flows through stupendous rocks.” — Williams's Travels in Greece. EVENINGS IN GREECE. 221 So went the moonlight hours along. In this sweet glade ; and so, with song And witching sounds — not such as they, The cymbalists of Ossa, play’d, To chase the moon’s eclipse away, 1 But soft and holy — did each maid Lighten her heart’s eclipse awhile, And win back Sorrow to a smile. Not far from this secluded place, On the sea-shore a ruin stood ; — A relic of th’ extinguish’d race, Who once look’d o’er that foamy flood, When fair Ioulis2, by the light Of golden sunset, on the sight Of mariners who sail’d that sea, Rose, like a city of chrysolite, Call’d from the wave by witchery. This ruin — now by barb’rous hands Debas’d into a motley shed, Where the once splendid column stands Inverted on its leafy head — Form’d, as they tell, in times of old, The dwelling of that bard, whose lay Could melt to tears the stern and cold, And sadden, ’mid their mirth, the gay — Simonides 3, whose fame, through years And ages past, still bright appears — Like Hesperus, a star of tears ! ’Twas hither now— to catch a view Of the white waters, as they play’d Silently in the light — a few Of the more restless damsels stray’d ; And some would linger ’mid the scent Of hanging foliage, that perfum’d The ruin’d walls j while others went, Culling whatever flow’ret bloom’d In the lone leafy space between, Where gilded chambers once had been ; Or, turning sadly to the sea, Sent o’er the wave a sigh unblest To some brave champion of the Free — Thinking, alas, how cold might be, At that still hour, his place of rest 1 Meanwhile there came a sound of song From the dark ruins — a faint strain, As if some echo, that among Those minstrel halls had slumber’d long, Were murm’ring into life again. But, no — the nymphs knew well the tone — A maiden of their train, who lov’d, Like the night-bird, to sing alone, Had deep into those ruins rov’d, And there, all other thoughts forgot, Was warbling o’er, in lone delight, 1 This superstitious custom of the Thessalians exists also, as Pietro della Valle tells us, among the Persians. 2 An ancient city of Zea, the walls of which were of marble. Its remains (says Clarke) “extend from the shore, quite into a valley watered by the streams of a fountain, whence Ioulis received its name.” 3 Zea was the birthplace of this poet, whose verses are by Catullus called “ tears.” 4 These “ Songs of the Well,” as they were called among the ancients, still exist in Greece. De Guys tells us that he has seen “ the j'oung women in Prince’s Island, assembled in the evening at a public well, sud- A lay that, on that very spot, Her lover sung one moonlight night : — SONG. Ah ! where are they, who heard, in former hours, The voice of Song in these neglected bow’rs ! They are gone — all gone 1 The youth, who told liis pain in such sweet tone. That all, who heard him, wish’d his pain their own — He is gone — he is gone I And she, who, while he sung, sat list’ning ny And thought, to strains like these ’twere sweet to die— . She is gone — she too is gone ! ’Tis thus, in future hours, some bard will say Of her, who hears, and him who sings this lay They are gone — they both are gone 1 The moon was now, from Heaven’s steep, Bending to dip her silv’ry urn Into the bright and silent deep — And the young nymphs, on their return From those romantic ruins, found Their other playmates, rang’d around The sacred Spring, prepar’d to tune Their parting hymn 4 , ere sunk the moon To that fair Fountain, by whose stream Their hearts had form’d so many a dream. Who has not read the tales, that tell Of old Eleusis’ sacred Well, Or heard what legend-songs recount Of Syra, and its holy Fount, * Gushing, at once, from the hard rock Into the laps of living flowers — Where village maidens lov’d to flock, On summer-nights, and, like the hours, Link’d in harmonious dance and song, Charm'd the unconscious night along ; While holy pilgrims, on their way To Delos’ isle, stood looking on, Enchanted with a scene so gay, Nor sought their boats, till morning shone ? Such was t’ e scene this lovely glade And its fair inmates now display’d, As round the Fount, in linked ring, They went, in cadence slow and light, And thus to that enchanted Spring Warbled their F arewell for the night : — mem. 5 “ The inhabitants ofSyra, both ancient and modern, may be considered as the worshippers of water. The old fountain, at which the nymphs of the island as- sembled in the earliest ages, exists in its original state . the same rendezvous as it was formerly, whether of love aud gallantry, or of gossiping and tale-telling. It is near to the town, and the most limpid water gushes continually from the solid rock. It is regarded by the inhabitants with a degree of religious veneration; and they preserve a tradition, that the pilgrims of old time, in their way to Dtlos, resorted hither for purification.” — Clarke. 222 MOORE’S WORKS. SONG. IIkkk, while the moonlight dim Tails on that mossy brim, Sing we our Fountain llymn, Maidens of Zea 1 Nothing but Music’s strain, When Lovers part in pain, Soothes, till they meet again, Oh, Maids of Zea 1 Bright Fount, so clear and cold, Bound which the nymphs of old Stood, with their locks of gold, Fountain of Zea l Not even Castaly, Fam’d though its streamlet be, Murmurs or shines like tlice, Oh, Fount of Zea 1 Thou, while our hymn wc sing, Thy silver voice shall bring, Answering, answering, Sweet Fount of Zea 1 For, of all rills that run, Sparkling by moon or sun, Thou art the fairest one, Bright Fount of Zea 1 Now, by those stars that glance Over heaven’s still expanse, Weave we our mirthful dance, Daughters of Zea 1 Such as, in former days, Danc’d they, by Dian’s rays, Where the Eurotas strays,! Oh, Maids of Zea I But when to merry feet Hearts with no echo beat, Say, can the dance be sweet ? Maidens of Zea ! No, nought but Music’s strain, When lovers part in pain, Soothes, till they meet again, Oh, Maids of Zea 1 H-eccmb (Signing. SONG. When evening shades are falling O’er Ocean’s sunny sleep, To pilgrims’ hearts recalling Their home beyond the deep ; When, rest o’er all descending, The shores with gladness smile, And lutes, their echoes blending, Are heard from isle to isle, Then, Mary, Star of the Sea, 2 We pray, we pray, to thee ! The noon-day tempest over, Now Ocean toils no more, 1 “ Qualis in Euro tee ripis, aut per ,juja Cyutlii Exercct Diana choros.” — Virgil. And wings of halcyons hover, Where all was strife before. Oh thus may life, in closing Its short tempestuous day, Beneath heaven’s smile reposing, Shine all its storms away ; Thus, Mary, Star of the Sea, We pray, wc pray, to tliec 1 On Ilclle’s sea the light grew dim, As the last sounds of that sweet hymn Floated along its azure tide — Floated in light, as if the lay Had mix’d with sunset’s fading ray, And light and song together died. So soft through evening’s air had breath d That choir of youthful voices, wreath’d In many-linked harmony, That boats, then hurrying o’er the sea, Paus’d, when they reach’d this fairy shore, And linger’d till the strain was o’er. Of those young maids who’ve met to fleet In song and dance this evening’s hours, F ar happier now the bosoms beat, Than when they last adorn’d these bowers ; For tidings of glad sound had come, At break of day, from the far isles — Tidings like breath of life to some — 0 That Zea’s sons would soon wing home, Crown’d with the light of Vict’ry’s smiles To meet that brightest of all meeds That wait on high, heroic deeds, When gentle eyes that scarce, for tears, Could trace the warrior’s parting track, Shall, like a misty morn that clears, When the long-absent sun appears, Shine out, all bliss, to hail liim back. IIow fickle still the youthful breast ! — More fond of change than a young moon, No joy so new was e’er possess’d But Youth would leave for newer soon. These Zean nymphs, though bright the spot, Where first they held their evening play, As ever fell to fairy’s lot To wanton o’er by midnight’s ray, Ilad now exchang’d that shelter’d scene For a wide glade beside the sea — A lawn, whose soft expanse of green — Turn’d to the west sun smilingly, As though, in conscious beauty bright, It joy’d to give him light for light. And ne’er did evening more serene Look down from heav’n on lovelier scene. Calm lay the flood around, while fleet, O’er the blue shining element, Light barks, as if with fairy feet That stirr’d not the hush’d waters, went ; Some that, ere rosy eve fell o’er The blushing wave, with mainsail free, Ilad put forth from the Attic shore, Or the near Isle of Ebony ; — Some, Hydriot barks, that deep in caves Beneath Colonna’s pillar’d cliffs, 2 One of tlic titles of the Virgin : — “ Maria iilumi natrix, sive Stella Maris.” — Isulor. EVENINGS IN GREECE. 223 ilud all day lurk’d, and o’er the waves Now shot tlieir long and. dart-like skiffs. Woe to the craft, however fleet, These sea-hawks in their course shall meet, Laden with juice of Lesbian vines, Or rich from Naxos’ emery mines ; For not more sure, when owlets flee O’er the dark crags of Pendelee, Doth the night-falcon mark his prey, Or pounce on it more fleet than they. And what a moon now lights the glade Where these young island nymphs arc met ! Full-orb’d, yet pure, as if no shade Had touch’d its virgin lustre yet ; And freshly bright, as if just made By Love’s own hands, of new-born light Stol’n from his mother’s star to-night. On a bold rock, that o’er the flood Jutted from that soft glade, there stood A Chapel, fronting tow’rds the sea, — Built in some by-gone century, — Where, nightly, as the seaman’s mark, When waves rose high or clouds were dark, A lamp, bequeath’d by some kind Saint, Shed o’er the wave its glimmer faint, Waking in way-worn men a sigh And pray’r to Heav’n, as they went by. ’Twas tkere, around that rock-built shrine, A group of maidens and their sires Had stood to watch the day’s decline, And, as the light fell o’er their lyres, Sung to the Queen- Star of the Sea That soft and holy melody. But lighter thoughts and lighter song Now woo the coming hours along : For, mark, where smooth the herbage lies, Yon gay pavilion, curtain’d deep With silken folds, through which, bright eyes, From time to time, are seen to peep ; While twinkling lights that, to and fro, Beneath those veils, like meteors, go, Tell of some spells at work, and keep Young fancies chain’d in mute suspense, Watching what next may shine from thence Nor long the pause, ere hands unseen That mystic curtain backward drew, And all, that late but shone between, In half-caught gleams, now burst to view. A picture ’twas of the early days Of glorious Greece, ere yet those rays Of rich, immortal Mind were hers That made mankind her worshippers ; While, yet unsung, her landscapes shone With glory lent by Heaven alone ; Nor temples crown’d her nameless hills, Nor Muse immortalis’d her rills ; Nor aught but the mute poesy Of sun, and stars, and shining sea Illum’d that land of bards to be. While, prescient of the gifted race That yet would realm so blest adorn, Nature took pains to deck the place Where glorious Art was to be born. 1 “ Violet-crowned Athens.” — Pindar. 2 The whole of this scene was suggested by Pliny’s Such was the scene that mimic stage Of Athens and her hills portray’d ; Athens, in her first, youthful age. Ere yet the simple violet braid, 1 Which then adorn’d her, had shone down The glory of earth’s loftiest crown. While yet undream’d, her seeds of Art Lay sleeping in the marble mine — Sleeping till Genius made them start To all but life, in shapes divine ; Till deified the quarry shone And all Olympus stood in stone ! There, in the foreground of that scene, On a soft bank of living green, Sat a young nymph, with her lap full Of newly gather’d flowers, o’er which She graceful lean’d, intent to cull All that was there of hue most rich, To form a wreath, such as the eye Of her young lover, who stood by, With pallet mingled fresh, might choose To fix by Painting’s rainbow hues. The wreath was form’d ; the maiden rais’d Her speaking eyes to his, while he — Oh not upon the flowers now gaz’d, But on that bright look’s witchery. While, quick as if but then the thought, Like light, had reach’d his soul, he caught Ilis pencil up, and, warm and true As life itself, that love-look drew : And, as his raptur’d task went on, And forth each kindling feature shone, Sweet voices, through the moonlight air, From lips as moonlight fresh and pure, Thus hail’d the bright dream passing there, And sung the Birth of Portraiture. 1 2 SONG. As once a Grecian maiden wove Her garland mid the summer bow’rs, There stood a youth, with eyes of love, To watch her while she wreath’d the flow’rs. The youth was skill’d in Painting’s art, But ne’er had studied woman’s brow, Nor knew what magic hues the heart Can shed o’er Nature’s charms, till now. ciiorus. Blest be Love, to whom we owe All that’s fair and bright below. Ilis hand had pictur’d many a rose, And sketch’d the rays that light the brook ; But what were these, or what were those, To woman’s blush, to woman’s look ? “ Oh, if such magic pow’r there be, “ This, this,” he cried, “ is all my prayer, “ To paint that living light I sec, “ And fix the soul that sparkles there.” Ilis prayer, as soon as breath’d, was heard ; Ilis pallet, touch’d by Love, grew warm, account of the artist Pausias and his mistress Glyccra. lib. xxxy. c. 40. MOORE’S WORKS. rtr».^ Ami Painting saw her hues transferr’d From lifeless flow'rs to woman’s form. Still os from tint to tint he stole, The fair design shone out the more, And there was now a life, a soul, Where only colours glow’d before. Then first carnations learn’d to speak, And lilies into life were brought ; While, mantling on the maiden’s check, Young roses kindled into thought. Then hyacinths their darkest dyes Upon the locks of Beauty threw ; And violets, transform’d to eyes, Inshrin'd a soul within their blue. cnonus. Blest be Love, to whom we owe All that’s fair and bright below. Song was cold and Painting dim Till song and Painting learn’d from him. Soox as the scene had clos’d, a cheer Of gentle voices, old and young, Hose from the groups that stood to hear This tale of yore so aptly sung ; And while some nymphs, in haste to tell The workers of that fairy spell IIow crown’d with praise their task had been, Stole in behind the curtain’d scene, The rest, in happy converse stray’d — Talking their ancient love-tale o’er — Some, to the groves that skirt the glade, Some, to the chapel by the shore, To look what lights were on the sea, And think of th’ absent silently. But soon that summons, known so well Through bow’r and hall, in Eastern lands, Whose sound, more sure than gong or bell, Lovers and slaves alike commands, — The clapping of young female hands, Calls back the groups from rock and field To see some new* form’d scene reveal’d ; — And fleet and eager, down the slopes Of the green glade, like antelopes, When, in their thirst, they hear the sound Of distant rills, the light nymphs bound. Far different now the scene — a waste Of Libyan sands, by moonlight’s ray ; An ancient well, whe reon were trac’d The warning words, for such as stray Unarmed there, “ Drink and away ! ” 1 While, near it, from the night-ray screen’d, And like his bells, in hush’d repose. 1 The traveller Shaw mentions a beautiful rill in Ilarbary, which is received into a large bason called Shrub wee krub, “ Drink and away,” — there being great danger of meeting with thieves and assassins in such places. ‘2. The Arabian shepherd has a peculiar ceremony in weaning the young camel : when the proper time arrives, he turns the camel towards the rising star, Canopus, and says, “Do you see Canopus? from this moment you taste not another drop of milk.” — Richard- son. 3 “ Whoever returns from a pilgrimage to Mecca hangs this plant (the mitre-shaped Aloe) over his street- door, as a token of his haying performed this holy journey.” — JIasselquist. A camel slept — young as if wean’d When last the star, Canopus, rocc. 1 2 Such was the back -ground’s silent scene ; — While nearer lay, fast slumb’ring too, In a rtide tent, with brow serene, A youth whose cheeks of way-worn hue And pilgrim-bonnet, told the tale That he had been to Mecca’s Yale ! Haply in pleasant dreams, ev’n now Thinking the long wish’d hour is come When, o’er the well-known porch at home, llis hand shall hang the aloe bough — Trophy of his accomplish’d vow. 3 * But brief his dream — for now the call Of the camp-chiefs from rear to van, “ Bind on your burdens V’ wakes up all The widely 6lumb’ring caravan ; And thus meanwhile, to greet the ear Of the young pilgrim as he wakes, The song of one who, ling’ring near, Had watched his slumber, cheerly breaks. SONG. Ui* and march ! the timbrel’s sound Wakes the slumb’ring camp around , Fleet thy hour of rest hath gone, Armed sleeper, up, and on l Long and weary is our way O’er the burning sands to-day ; But to pilgrim’s homeward feet Ev’n the desert’s path is sweet. When we lie at dead of night, Looking up to heaven’s light, Hearing but the watchman’s tone Faintly chaunting “ God is one,” 5 Oh what thoughts then o’er us come Of our distant village home, Where that chaunt, when ev’ning sets, Sounds from all the minarets. Cheer thee ! — soon shall signal lights, Kindling o’er the Red Sea heights, Kindling quick from man to man, Hail our coming caravan : 6 Think what bliss that hour will be ! Looks of home again to see, And our names again to hear Murmur’d out by voices dear. So pass’d the desert dream away, Fleeting as his who heard this lay. 4 This form of notice to the caravans to prepare for marching was applied by Hafiz to the necessity of re- linquishing the pleasures of this world, and preparing for death : — “ For me what room is there for pleasure in the bower of Beauty, when every moment the bell makes proclamation, ‘ Bind on your burdens ? * ” 5 The watchmen, in the camp of the caravans, go their rounds, crying one after another, “ God is one,” &c. &c. 6 “It was customary,” says Irwin, “to light up fires on the mountains, within view of Cosseir, to give notice of the approach of the caravans that came from the Nile.” EVENINGS IN GREECE, 225 Nor long the pause between, nor mov’d The spell-bound audience from that spot ; While still, as usual, Fancy rov’d On to the joy that yet was not ; — Fancy, who hath no present home, But builds her bower in scenes to come, Walking for ever in a light That flows from regions out of sight. But see, by gradual dawn descried, A mountain realm — rugged as e’er Uprais’d to heav’n its summits bare, Or told to earth, with frown of pride, That Freedom’s falcon nest was there, Too high for hand of lord or king To hood her brow, or chain her wing. 'Tis Maina’s land — her ancient hills, The abode of nymphs 1 — her countless rills And torrents, in their downward dash, Shining, like silver, through the shade Of the sea-pine and flow’ring ash — All with a truth so fresh portray’d As wants but touch of life to be A world of warm reality. And now, light bounding forth, a band Of mountaineers, all smiles, advance — Nymphs with their lovers, hand in hand, Link’d in the Ariadne dance ; 2 And while, apart from that gay throng, A minstrel youth, in varied song. Tells of the loves, the joys, the ills Of these wild children of the hills, The rest by turns, or fierce or gay, As war or sport inspires the lay, Follow each change that wakes the strings, And act what thus the lyrist sings : — SONG. No life is like the mountaineer’s, His home is near the sky, Where, thron’d above this world, he hears Its strife at distance die. Or, should the sound of hostile drum Proclaim below, “ We come — we come,” Each crag that tow’rs in air Gives answer, “ Come who dare 1 ” While, like bees, from dell and dingle, Swift the swarming warriors mingle, And their cry “ Hurra 1 ” will be, “ Hurra, to victory l ” Then, when battle’s hour is over, See the happy mountain lover, With the nymph, who’ll soon be bride, Seated blushing by his side, — Every shadow of his lot In her sunny smile forgot. Oh, no life is like the mountaineer’s, His home is near the sky, Where, thron’d above this world, he hears Its strife at distance die. Nor only thus through summer suns His blithe existence cheerly runs — Ev’n winter, bleak and dim, Brings joyous hours to him ; When, his rifle behind him flinging, He watches the roe-buck springing, And away, o’er the hills away Re-echoes his glad “ hurra.’ ’ Then how blest, when night is closing, By the kindled hearth reposing, To his rebeck’s drowsy song, lie beguiles the hour along ; Or, provok’d by merry glances, To a brisker movement dances, Till, weary at last, in slumber’s chain ; He dreams o’er chase and dance again, Dreams, dreams them o’er again. As slow that minstrel, at the close, Sunk, while he sung, to feign’d repose, Aptly did they, whose mimic art Follow’d the changes of his lay, Portray the lull, the nod, the start, Through which, as faintly died away Ilis lute and voice, the minstrel pass’d, Till voice and lute lay hush’d at last. But now far other song came o’er Their startled ears — song that, at first, As solemnly the night- wind bore Across the wave its mournful burst, Seem’d to the fancy, like a dirge Of some lone Spirit of the Sea, Singing o’er Ilelle’s ancient surge The requiem of her Brave and Free. Sudden, amid their pastime, pause The wond’ring nymphs ; and, as the sound Of that strange music nearer draws, With mute inquiring eye look round, Asking each other what can be The source of this sad minstrelsy ? Nor longer can they doubt, the song Comes from some island-bark, which now Courses the bright waves swift along, And soon, perhaps, beneath the brow Of the Saint’s Rock will shoot its prow. Instantly all, with hearts that sigh’d ’Twixt fear’s and fancy’s influence, Flew to the rock, and saw from thence A red-sail’d pinnace tow’rds them glide, Whose shadow, as it swept the spray, Scatter’d the moonlight’s smiles away. Soon as the mariners saw that throng From the cliff gazing, young and old, Sudden they slack’d their sail and song, And, while their pinnace idly roll’d On the light surge, these tidings told : — ’Twas from an isle of mournful name, From Missolonghi, last they came — Sad Missolonghi, sorrowing yet O’er him, the noblest Star of Fame That e’er in life’s young glory set l — virginibus bacchata Laconis Taygeta. Vim 2 See, for an account of this dance, De Guy’s Travels, Q, 226 MOORE’S WORKS. And now were on their mournful way, Wafting the news through Ilelle’s isles ; — News that would cloud ev’n Freedom’s ray, And sadden Vict’ry ’mid her smiles. Their tale thus told, and heard, with pain, Out spread the galliot’s wings again ; And, as she sped her swift career, Again that Hymn rose on the car — “ Thou art not dead — thou art not dead 1 ” As oft ’twas sung, in ages flown, Of him, the Athenian, who, to shed A tyrant’s blood, pour’d out his own. SONG. Thou art not dead — thou art not dead 1 > No, dearest Harmodius, no. Thy 60 ul, to realms above us fled, Though, like a star, it dwells o’er head, Still lights this world below. Thou art not dead — thou art not dead ! No, dearest Harmodius, no. Through isles of light, where heroes tread And flow’rs ethereal blow, Thy god-like Spirit now is led, Thy lip, with life ambrosial fed, Forgets all taste of woe. Thou art not dead — thou art not dead 1 No, dearest Harmodius, no. The myrtle, round that falchion spread Which struck the immortal blow, Throughout all time, with leaves unshed — The patriot’s hope, the tyrant’s dread — Round Freedom’s shrine shall grow. Thou art not dead — thou art not dead ! No, dearest Harmodius, no. Where hearts like thine have broke or bled, Though quench’d the vital glow, Their mem’ry lights a flame, instead, Which, ev’n from out the narrow bed Of death its beams shall throw. Thou art not dead — thou art not dead 1 No, dearest Harmodius, no. Thy name, by myriads sung and said, From age to age shall go, Long as the oak and ivy wed, As bees shall haunt Hymettus’ head, Or Helle’s waters flow. Thou art not dead— thou art not dead ! No, dearest Harmodius, no. . ’Mong those who linger’d list’ning there, — List’ning, with ear and eye, as long As breath of night could tow’rds them bear A murmur of that mournful song, — A few there were, in whom the lay Had call’d up feelings far too sad To pass with the brief strain away, Or turn at once to theme more glad ; And who, in mood untun’d to meet Tile lignt laugh of the happier train, Wander’d to seek some moonlight seat 1 tiXrad 1 ‘A ovneo redvrjKac Where they might rest, in converse sweet, Till vanish’d smiles should come again. And seldom e’er hath noon of night To sadness lent more soothing light. On one side, in the dark blue sky, Lonely and radiant, was the eye Of Jove himself, while, on the other/ ’Mong tiny stars that round her gleam’d, The young moon, like the Roman mother, Among her living “jewels,” beam’d. Touch’d by the lovely scenes around, A pensive maid — one who, though young, Had known what ’twas to see unwound The ties by which her heart had clung — Waken’d her soft tamboura’s sound, And to its faint accords thus sung : — SONG. Calm as, beneath its mother’s eyes, In sleep the smiling infant lies, So, watch’d by all the stars of night, Yon landscape sleeps in light. And while the night-breeze dies away, Like relics of some faded strain, Lov’d voices, lost for many a day, Seem whisp’ring round again. Oh youth I oh Love ! ye dreams, that shed Such glory once— where are ye fled ? Pure ray of light that, down the sky, Art pointing, like an angel’s wand, As if to guide to realms that lie In that bright sea beyond : Who knows but, in some brighter deep Than ev’n that tranquil, moon-lit main, Some land may lie, where those who weep Shall wake to smile again ! With cheeks that had regain’d their power And play of smiles, — and each bright eye, Like violets after morning’s shower, The brighter for the tears gone by, Back to the scene such smiles should grace These wand’ring nymphs their path retrace, And reach the spot, with rapture new, Just as the veils asunder flew, And a fresh vision burst to view. There, by her own bright Attic flood, The blue-ey’d Queen of Wisdom stood ; — Not as she haunts the sage’s dreams, With brow unveil’d, divine, severe ; But soften’d, as on bards she beams, When fresh from Poesy’s high sphere, A music, not her own, she brings, And, through the veil which Fancy flings O’er her stern features, gently sings. But who is he — that urchin nigh, With quiver on the rose-trees hung, Who seems just dropp’d from yonder sky, And stands to watch that maid, with eye So full of thought, for one so young ? — That child — but, silence ! lend thine ear, And thus in song the tale thou’lt hear i EVENINGS IN GREECE. 227 SONG. As Love, one summer eve, was straying, Who should he see, at that soft hour, But young Minerva, gravely playing Tier flute within an olive bow’r. T need not say, ’tis Love’s opinion That, grave or merry, good or ill, The sex all bow to his dominion, As woman will be woman still. Though seldom yet the boy hath giv’n To learned dames his smiles or sighs, So handsome Pallas look’d, that ev’n, Love quite forgot the maid was wise. Besides, a youth of his discerning Knew well that, by a shady rill, At sunset hour, whate’er her learning, A woman will be woman still. Iler flute he prais’d in terms extatic, — Wishing it dumb, nor car’d how soon ; — For Wisdom’s notes, howe’er chromatic, To Love seem always out of tune. But long as he found face to flatter, The nymph found breath to shake and trill ; As, weak or wise — it doesn’t matter — Woman, at heart, is woman still. Love chang’d his plan, with warmth exclaiming, “ How rosy was her lip’s soft dye ! ” And much that flute, theflatt’rer, blaming, For twisting lips so sweet awry. The nymph look’d down, beheld her features Reflected in the passing rill, And started, shock’d — for, ah, ye creatures ! Ev’n when divine, you’re women still. Quick from the lips it made so odious, That graceless flute the Goddess took, And, while yet fill’d with breath melodious, Flung it into the glassy brook ; Where, as its vocal life was fleeting Adown the current, faint and shrill, ’Twas heard in plaintive tone repeating, “ Woman, alas, vain woman still ! ” An interval of dark repose — Such as the summer lightning knows, ’Twixt flash and flash, as still more bright The quick revealment comes and goes, Op’ning each time the veils of night, To show, within, a world of light — Such pause, so brief, now pass’d between This last gay vision and the scene, Which now its depth of light disclos’d. A bow’r it seem’d, an Indian bow’r, Within whose shade a nymph repos’d, Sleeping away noon’s sunny hour — Lovely as she, the Sprite, who weaves Her mansion of sweet Durva leaves, And there, as Indian legends say, Dreams the long summer hours away. And mark, how charm’d this sleeper seems With some hid fancy — she, too, dreams ! Oh for a wizard’s art to tell The wonders that now bless her sight 1 *Tis done — a truer, holier spell Than e’er from wizard’s lip yet fell Thus brings her vision all to light : - SONG. “ Who comes so gracefully “ Gliding along, “ While the blue rivulet “ Sleeps to her song ; “ Song, richly vying “ With the faint sighing “ Which swans, in dying,' “ Sweetly prolong ? ” So sung the sliepherd-boy By the stream’s side, Watching that fairy-boat Down the flood glide, Like a bird winging, Through the waves bringing That Syren, singing To the hush’d tide. “ Stay,” said the shepherd- boy, “ Fairy-boat, stay, “ Linger, sweet minstrelsy, “ Linger, a day.” But vain his pleading, Past him, unheeding, Song and boat, speeding, Glided away. So to our youthful eyes J oy and hope shone ; So, while we gaz’d on them, Fast they flew on ; — . Like flow’rs, declining Ev’n in the twining, One moment shining, And, the next, gone I Soon as the imagin’d dream went by, Uprose the nymph, with anxious eye Turn’d to the clouds, as though some boon She waited from that sun-briglxt dome, And marvell’d that it came not soon As her young thoughts would have it come. But joy is in her glance 1 — the wing Of a white bird is seen above ; And oh, if round his neck he bring The long-wish’d tidings from her love, Not half so precious in her eyes Ev’n that high-omen’d bird 1 would be, Who dooms the brow o’er which he flies To wear a crown of Royalty. She had, herself, last evening, sent A winged messenger, whose flight Through the clear, roseate element, She watch’d till, less’ning out of sight, Far to the golden West it went, Wafting to him, her distant love, A missive in that language wrought Which flow’rs can speak, when aptly wove, Each hue a word, each leaf a thought, 1 The ITuma. 228 MOORE’S WORKS. And now — oh speed of pinion, known To Love’s light messengers alone ! — Ere yet another ev’ning takes Its farewell of the goldon lakes, She sees another envoy fly, With the wish’d answer, through the sky. SONG. Welcome, sweet bird, through the sunny air winging, Swift hast thou come o’er the far-shining sea, Like Seba’s dove, on thy snowy neck bringing Love’s written vows from my lover to me. Oh, in thy absence, what hours did I number ! — Saying oft, “Idle bird, how could he rest ? ” But thou art come at last, take now thy slumber, And lull tliee in dreams of all thou lov’st best. Yet dost thou droop — even now while I utter Love’s happy welcome, thy pulse dies away ; Cheer thee, my bird — were it life’s ebbing flutter, This fondling bosom should woo it to stay. But no — tliou’rt dying — thy last task is over — Farewell, sweet martyr to Love and to me ! The smiles thou hast waken’d by news from my lover, Will now all be turn’d into weeping for thee. While thus the scene of song (their last For the sweet summer season) pass’d, A few presiding nymphs, wdiose care Watch’d over all, invisibly, As do those guardian sprites of air, Whose watch we feel, but cannot see, Had from the circle — scarcely miss’d, Ere they were sparkling there again — Glided, like fairies, to assist Their handmaids on the moonlight plain, Where, hid by intercepting shade From the stray glance of curious eyes, A feast of fruits and wines was laid — Soon to shine out, a glad surprise I And now the moon, her ark of light Steering through Heav’n, as though she bore In safety through that deep of night, Spirits of earth, the good, the bright, To some remote immortal shore, Had half-way sped her glorious way, When, round reclin’d on hillocks green, In groups, beneath that tranquil ray, The Zeans at their feast were seen. Gay was the picture — ev’ry maid Whom late the lighted scene display'd, Still in her fancy garb array’d ; — The Arabian pilgrim, smiling here Beside the nymph of India’s sky ; While there the Mainiote mountaineer Whisper’d in young Minerva’s ear, And urchin Love stood laughing by. Meantime the elders round the board, By mirth and wit themselves made young, High cups of juice Zacynthian pour’d, And, while the flask went round, thus sung : — SONG. TTr with the sparkling brimmer, Up to the crystal rim ; Let not a moon-beam glimmer 'Twixt the flood and brim. When hath the world set eyes on Aught to match this light, Which, o’er our cup’s horizon, Dawns in bumpers bright ? Truth in a deep well lieth — So the wise aver : But Truth the fact denieth — Water suits not her. No, her abode’s in brimmers, Like this mighty cup — Waiting till we, good swimmers, Dive to bring her up. Thus circled round the song of glee, And all was tuneful mirth the while, Save on the cheeks of some, whose smile, As fix’d they gaze upon the sea, Turns into paleness suddenly l What see they there ? a bright blue light That, like a meteor, gliding o’er The distant wave, grows on the sight As though ’twere wing’d to Zea’s shore. To some, ’mong those who came to gaze, It seem’d the night-light, far away, Of some lone fisher, by the blaze Of pine torch, luring on his prey ; While others, as, ’twixt awe and mirth, They breath’d the bless’d Pana 3 r a’s 1 name, Yow’d that such light was not of earth, But of that drear, ill-omen’d flame, Which mariners see on sail or mast, When Death is coming in the blast. While marv’lling thus they stood, a maid, Who sat apart, with downcast e} T e, Nor yet had, like the rest, survey’d That coming light which now was nigh, Soon as it met her sight, with cry Of pain-like joy, “ ’Tis he 1 ’tis he 1 ” Loud she exclaim’d, and, hurrying by The assembled throng, rush’d tow’rds the sea. At burst so wild, alarm’d, amaz’d, All stood, like statues, mute, and gaz’d Into each other’s eyes, to seek What meant such mood, in maid so meek ? Till now, the tale was known to few, But now from lip to lip it flew : — A youth, the flower of all the band, Who late had left this 6unny shore, When last he kiss’d that maiden’s hand, Ling’ring, to kiss it o’er and o’er, By his sad brow too plainly told Th’ ill-omen’d thought which cross’d him then, That once those hands should lose their hold, They ne’er would meet on earth again 1 In vain his mistress, sad as he, But with a heart from Self as free l The name which the Greeks give to the Virgin Mary. EVENINGS IN GREECE. 229 As generous woman’s only is, Veil’d her own fears to banish his : — With frank rebuke, but still more vain, Did a rough warrior, who stood by, Call to his mind this martial strain, Ilia favourite once, ere Beauty’s eye Had taught his soldier-heart to 6igh : — SONG. March ! nor heed those arms that hold thee, Though so fondly close they come ; Closer still will they enfold thee, When thou bring’st fresh laurels home. Dost thou dote on woman’s brow ? Dost thou live but in her breath ? March 1 — one hour of victory now Wins thee woman’s smile till death. Oh what bliss, when war is over, Beauty’s long-miss’d smile to meet, And, when wreaths our temples cover, Lay them shining at her feet I Who would not, that hour to reach, Breathe out life’s expiring sigh, — Froud as waves that on the beach Lay tlicir war-crests down, and die ! There ! I see thy soul is burning — She herself who clasps thee so, Paints, ev’n now, thy glad returning, And, while clasping, bids thee go. One deep sigh to passion given, One last glowing tear and then — March 1 — nor rest thy sword, till Heaven Brings thee to those arms again. Even then, e’er loth their hands could part, A promise the youth gave, which bore Some balm unto the maiden’s heart, That, soon as the fierce fight was o’er, To home he’d speed, if safe and free — Nay, ev’n if dying, still would come, So the blest word of “ Victory I ” Might be the last he’d breathe at home. “ By day,” he cried, “ thou’lt know my bark ; “ But, should I come through midnight dark, “ A blue light on the prow shall tell “ That Greece hath won, and all is well ! ” Fondly the maiden, every night, Had stolen to seek that promis’d light ; Nor long her eyes had now been turn’d From watching, when the signal burn’d. Signal of joy — for her, for all — Fleetly the boat now nears the land, While voices, from the shore-edge, call For tidings of the long-wish’d band. Oh the blest hour, when those wlio’ve been Through peril’s paths by land or sea, Lock’d in our arms again arc seen Smiling in glad -ecurily ; When heart to heart we fondly strain, Questioning quickly o’er and o’er — Then hold them off, to gaze again, And ask, though answer’d oft before, If they, indeed , tire ours once more ? Such is the scene, so full of joy, Which welcomes now this warrior-boy, A s fathers, sisters, friends all run Bounding to meet him — all but one, Who, slowest on his neck to fall, Is yet the happiest of them all. And now behold him, circled round With beaming faces at that board, While cups, with laurel foliage crown’d, Are to the coming warriors pour’d, — Coming, as he, their herald, told, With blades from vict’ry scarce yet cold, With hearts untouch’d by Moslem steel, And wounds that home’s sweet breath will heal. “Ere morn,” said he, — and, while he spoke, Turn’d to the east, where, clear, and pale, The star of dawn already broke — “ We’ll greet, on yonder wave, their sail I ” Then, wherefore part ? all, all agree 'To wait them here, beneath this bower ; And thus, while ev’n amidst their glee, Each eye is turn’d to watch the sea, With song they cheer the anxious hour. SONG. “ ’Tjs the Vine 1 ’tis the Vine 1 ” said the cup- loving boy, As he saw it spring bright from the earth, And call’d the young Genii of Wit, Love, and Joy To witness and hallow its birth. The fruit was full grown, like a ruby it flam’d Till the sun-beam that kiss’d it look’d pale : “ Tis the Vine 1 ’tis the Vine ! ” ev’ry Spirit exclaim’d, “Hail, hail to the Wine-tree, all hail ! ” First, fleet as a bird, to the summons Wit flew, While a light on the vine-leaves there broke, In flashes so quick and so brilliant, all knew ’Twas the light from his lips as he spoke. “Bright tree I let thy nectar but cheer me,” he cried, “ And the fount of Wit never can fail : ” “ ’Tis the Vine 1 ’tis the Vine I ” hills and valleys reply, “ Hail, hail to the Wine-tree, all hail 1 ” Next, Love, as he lean’d o’er the plant to admire Each tendril and cluster it wore, From his rosy mouth sent such a breath of desire, As made the tree tremble all o’er. Oh, never did flow’r of the earth, sea, or sky, Such a soul-giving odour inhale : “ ’Tis the Vine 1 ’tis the Vine 1 ” all re-echo the cry, “ Hail, hail to the Wine-tree, all hail I ” Last, Joy, without whom even Love and Wit die, Came to crown the bright hour with his ray ; And scarce had that mirth-waking tree met his eye, When a laugh spoke what Joy could not say: — A laugh of the heart, which was echoed around Till, like music, it swell’d on the gale ; “ ’Tis the Vine l ’tis the Vine 1 ” laughing myriads resound, “ Hail, hail to the Wipe-tree, all hail l ” 230 MOORE'S WORKS. LEGENDARY BALLADS, TO THE MISS FEILDINGS, THIS VOLUME IS INSCRIBED, BY TIIEIR FAITHFUL FRIEND AND SERVANT, THOMAS MOORE. TIIE VOICE. 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 whisper’d her name from the garden below. “Alas,” sigh’d 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 I ” She sunk on her pillow — but no, ’twas in vain To chase the illusion, that Voice came again I She flew to the casement — but, hush’d 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 1 ” And sleep came around her — but, starting, she woke, For still from the garden that spirit Voice spoke ! “ I come,” she exclaim’d, “ be thy home where it may, “ On earth or in heaven, that call I obey ; ” Then forth through 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 wander’d, 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 tow’r which o’ersliadows the flood, Saw dimly, ’tis said, o’er the moon-lighted spray, A youth on a steed bear the maiden away. CUPID AND PSYCHE. They told her that he, to whose vows she had listen’d Through night’s fleeting hours, was a Spirit unblest ; — Unholy the eyes, that beside her had glisten’d, And evil the lips she in darkness had prest. “ When next in thy chamber the bridegroom re- clineth, “ 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 linger’d its innocent ray; Though 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, Ilis sunny hair hung, and the flowers that crown’d it Seem’d fresh from the breeze of some garden divine. Entranc’d 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 spaHde flew from it and dropp’d on his brow. All’s losl?— with a start from his rosy sleep waking, The Spirit flash’d 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 : LEGENDARY BALLADS. 231 “ Farewell — what a dream thy suspicion hath broken ! “ Thus ever Affection’s fond vision is crost ; '* Dissolv’d are her spells when a doubt is but spoken, “ And love, once distrusted, for ever is lost! ” * HERO AND LEANDER. “ 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 through the deep of night, “ To lead me, sweet Hero, to thee I ” Thus saying, he plung’d 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 I ” 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 I ” “ 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 ; * “ Watch thou if pale or bright it grow, “ List thou, the while, that fountain’s flow, “ And thou’lt discover “ Whether thy lover, “ Lov’d as he is, loves thee or no, “ Lov’d 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 ask’d, with voice of woe — List’ning, the while, that fountain’s flow — “ Shall I recover “ My truant lover ?” The fountain seem’d to answer, “ No ; ” The fountain answer’d, “ No.” THE LEAF AND THE FOUNTAIN. “ 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 flow’rs 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, ^ “ Thi3 leaf I gather, 1 The ancients had a mode of divination somewhat similar to this ; and we find the Emperor Adrian, when CEPHALUS AND PROCRIS. A hunter once in that grove reclin’d, To shun the noon’s bright eye, And oft he woo’d the wandering wind, To cool his brow with its sigh. While mute lay ev’n the wild bee’s hum, Nor breath could stir the aspen’s hair, His song was still “ Sweet air, oh come ! ” While Echo answer’d, “ Come, sweet Air ! ” But, hark, what sounds from the thicket rise ! What meaneth that rustling spray ? “ ’Tis the white-horn’d 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 I ” he gaily sings, While Echo sighs forth “ Hilliho ! ” Alas, ’twas not the white-horn’d 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 murmur’d, “ I die, I die ” he went to consult the Fountain of Castalia, plucking a bay-leaf aud dipping it into the Bacred water. 232 MOORE’S WORKS. IOUTU AND AGE. 1 “ Tell me, what’s Love ? ” 6aid Youth, one day, To drooping Age, who crost his way. — “ It is a sunny hour of play, *• For which repentance dear doth pay ; “ Repentance ! Repentance 1 “ And this is Love, as wise men say.” “ Tell me, what’s Love ?” 6aid Youth once more, Fearful, yet fond, of Age’s lore “ Soft as a passing summer’s wind : “ Would’st know the blight it leaves behind ? “ Repentance I Repentance 1 “ And tlxis 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 1 Repentance I “ This, tills 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 1 Repentance 1 ” Youth laughing went with Love away. TIIE DYING WARRIOR. A wounded Chieftain, lying By the Danube’s leafy side, Thus faintly said, in dying, “ Oh I 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 1 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 ceas’d to beat ; The gloomy waves now cover That bridal-flower so sweet, And the scarf is her winding sheet ! 1 The air, to which I have adapted these words, was corr.posed by Mrs. Arkwright to some old verses, “ Tell me \> hat’s lore, kind shepherd, pray r ” and it has TIIE MAGIC MIRROR. “ Come, if thy magic Glass have pow’r “ To call up forms we sigh to see ; “ Show me my love, in that rosy bow’r, “ Where last she pledg’d her truth to me.” The Wizard show’d him his Lady bright, Where lone and pale in her bow’r she lay ; “ True-hearted maid,” said the happy Knight, “ She’s thinking of one, who is far away.” But, lo I a page, with looks of joy, Brings tidings to the Lady’s car ; “ ’Tis,” said the Knight, “ the same bright boy, “ Who used to guide me to my dear.” The Lady now, from her fav’rite tree, Hath, smiling, pluck’d a rosy flow’r ; “ Such,” lie exclaim’d, “was the gift that she “Each morning sent me from that bow’r I ” She gives her page the blooming rose, With looks that say, “ Like lightning, fly l ” “ Thus,” thought the Knight, “ she soothes her wmes, “ By fancying, still, her true love nigh.” But the page returns, and — oh, w r liat a sight, For trusting lover’s eyes to see ! — Leads to that bow’r another Knight, As young and, alas, as lov’d as he ! “Such,” quoth the Youth, “is Woman’s love ! ” Then, darting forth, with furious bound, Dash’d at the Mirror his iron glove, And strew’d it all in fragments round. MORAL. 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. TnE PILGRIM. Still thus, when twilight gleam’d, Far off his Castle seem’d, Trac’d on the sky ; And still, as fancy bore him To those dim tow’rs before him, lie gaz’d, with wishful eye, And thought his home was nigh. “ Hall of my Sires 1 ” he said, “ How long, with weary tread, “ Must I toil on ? “ Each eve, as thus I wander, “ Thy tow’rs seem rising yonder, “ But, scarce hath daylight shone, “ When, like a dream, thou’rt gone l ” been my object to retain as much of the structure and phraseology of the original words as possible. LEGENDARY BALLADS. 233 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 1 Where rests the Pilgrim now ? Here, by this cypress bough, Clos’d his career ; That dream, of Fancy’s weaving, No more his steps deceiving, Alike past hope and fear, The Pilgrim’s home is here. $ TIIE IIICII-BORN LAD YE. Iif vain all the Knights of the Undcrwald woo’d her, Though 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. “ Whomsoever I wed,” said this maid, so excelling, “ That Knight must the conqu’ror of conquerors be ; “lie must place me in halls fit for monarchs to dwell in ; — “None else shall be Lord of the high-born Ladye I ” 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 worshipp’d 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 vizor was down — but, with voice that thrill’d through her, He whisper’d his vows to the high-born Ladye. “ Proud maiden ! I come with high spousals to grace thee, “ In me the great conqu’ror of conquerors see ; “ Enthron’d in a hall fit for monarchs I’ll place thee, “ And mine thou’rt for ever, thou high-born Ladye l ” The maiden she smil’d, and in jewels array’d her, Of thrones and tiaras already dreamt she ; And proud was the step, as her bridegroom con- vey’d her In pomp to his home, of that high-born Ladye. “ But whither,” 6lic, starting, exclaims, “ have you led me ? “ Ilcrc’s nought 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 sec ; But she sunk on the ground— ’twas a skeleton’s features, And Death was the Lord of the high-born Ladye ! TIIE INDIAN BOAT. ’Twas midnight dark, The seaman’s bark, Swift o’er the waters L'OTe him, When through the night, He spied a light Shoot o’er the wave before him. “ A sail I a sail 1 ” he cries ; “ She comes from the Indian shore, “ And to-night shall be our prize, “ With her freight of golden ore : “ Sail on 1 sail on 1 ” When morning shone He saw the gold still clearer ; But, though so fast The waves he pass’d, 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 doated : “More sail I more sail I ” he cries, While the waves o’ertop the mast ; And his bounding galley flies, Like an arrow before the blast. Thus on, and on, Till day was gone, And the moon through heav’n did hie Her, lie swept the main, But all in vain, That boat seem’d never the nigher. And many a day To night gave way, And many a morn succeeded : While still his flight, Through day and night, That restless mariner speeded. Who knows — who knows what seas He is now eaieering o’er ? Behind, the eternal breeze, And that mocking bark, before I 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. 234 MOORE’S WORKS. THE STRANGER. Come list, while I tell of the heart- wounded Stranger Who sleeps her last slumber iu this haunted ground ; Where often, at midnight, the lonely wood-ianger Hears soft fairy music re-ccho around. None e’er knew the name of that heart-stricken lady, Her language, though sweet, none could e’er understand ; But her features so 6unn’d, 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 steep’d in her tears. We thought ’twas an anthem some angel had sung us ; — But, soon os the day-beams had gush’d from on high With wonder we saw this bright stranger among us, All lovely and lone, as if stray’d from the sky. Nor long did her life for this sphere seem in • tended, 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 pass’d like a day-dream, no skill could restore her — Wliate’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. Nor ev’n in the grave is her sad heart reposing — Still hovers the spirit of grief round her tomb ; F or oft, when the shadows of midnight are closing, The same strain of music is heard through the gloom. A MELOLOGUE UPON NATIONAL MUSIC. ADVERTISEMENT. These verses were written for a Benefit at the Dublin Theatre, and were spoken by Miss Smith, w T ith a degree of success, which they owed solely to her admirable manner 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 certainly should not have published 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 responsi- bility 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 out- landish term monopoly .” But the truth is, having w'ritten the Poem with the sole view of serving a Benefit, I thought that an unintelligible w r ord 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, how- ever, it may not be superfluous to say, that by “ Melologue,” I mean that mixture of recitation and music, which is frequently adopted in the per- formance of Collins’s Ode on the Passions, and of which the most striking example I can remem- ber is the prophetic speech of Joad in the Atlialie of Racine. T. M. MELOLOGUE. A short Strain of Music from the Orchestra. 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, A MELOLOGUE UPON NATIONAL MUSIC. 235 That, when she heard the lonely lay, Not worlds could keep her from his arms away, 1 To the bleak climes of polar night, Where blithe, beneath a sunless sky, The Lapland lover bids his rein-deer fly, And sings along the length’ning waste of snow, Gaily as if the blessed light Of vernal Phoebus burn’d upon his brow ; Oh Music I 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 I . Greek Aik. List l ’tis a Grecian maid that sings, While, from Ilissus’ 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, Dreams of bright days that never can return ; When Athens nurs’d her olive bough, With hands by tyrant pow’r unchain’d ; 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 I — Oh l many a mother folds her arm3 Hound her boy- soldier when that call she hears ; And, though her fond heart sink with fears, 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 Yes, Music, here, even here, Amid this thoughtless, vague career, Thy soul-felt charm asserts its wondrous pow’r. — There’s a wild air which oft, among the rocks Of his own loved land, at ev’ning hour, 1 “ A certain Spaniard, one night late, met an Indian woman in the streets of Cozco, and would have taken her to his home, hut. she cried out, ‘ For God’s sake, Sir let me go ; for that pipe, which you hear in yonder Is heard, when shepherds homeward pipe their flocks, Whose every note hath power to thrill his mind With tend’rest thoughts ; to bring around his 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. Yain, 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 des Vaches.” 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 labouring storm, ’Tis then thy vengeance takes a hallow’d form, And, like Heaven’s lightning, sacredly de- stroys. 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 breakiug. And the first hymn that man, awaking From Slavery’s slumber, breathes to Liberty. Spanish Chorus. Hark 1 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. Spaxisu Air — “Ya Desperto.” But ah ! 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 brave, In sweetest dirge at Memory’s shrine ? What harp shall 6igh o’er Freedom’s grave ? Oh Erin, Thine I 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.’ ” — Garcilusso de lo VCna-) jn sir Paul Ryeaut’s translation. 236 MOORE’S WORKS. SET OE GLEES, MUSIC BY MOORE. TIIE MEETING OF THE SHIPS. Wiie.v o’er the Bilent seas alone, For days and nights we’ve cheerless gone, Oh they who’ve felt it know how sweet, Some 6unny morn a sail to meet. Sparkling at once is ev’ry eye, “Ship ahoy ! ship ahoy I ” our joyful cry ; While answering back the sounds we hear “ Ship ahoy 1 ship ahoy 1 what cheer ? what cheer ? ” Then sails are back’d, wc 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. 1 HIP, HIP, HURRA 1 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, boys, nor let the full wine Leave a space in the brimmer, where daylight may shine ; ♦ “Here's the friends of our youth — though of some we’re bereft, “ May the links that are lost but endear what arc left I ” 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 pow’r. “ May our lives, tho’, alas I like the wine of to- night, “They must soon have an end, to the last flow as bright.” Charge ! (drinks) hip, hip, hurra, hurra 1 Quick, quick, now, I’ll give you, since Time's giass will run Ev’n 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 I ” Charge 1 (drinks) hip, hip, hurra, hurra l Come, once more, a bumper I — then drink at you please, Tlio’, 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 1 ♦ HUSH, IIUSII I “ IIusu, 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 silv’ry feet One dew-drop brush. Voices are heard in chorus sweet, Whisp’ring, “ Ilush, hush ! ” TIIE PARTING BEFORE THE BATTLE. HE. Ox to the field, our doom is seal’d, To conquer or be slaves : This sun shall see our nation free, Or set upon our graves. siie. Farewell, oh farewell, my love, May Ileav’n thy guardian be, And send bright angels from above To bring thee back to me. HE. On to the field, the battle-field, Where Freedom’s standard waves, This sun shall see our tyrant yield, Or shine upon our graves. SET OF GLEES. 237 THE WATCHMAN. A TRIO. watchman - . I’ast 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. WATCHMAN - . Past one o’clock —past one. Yet stay a moment longer — Alas ! why is it so, The wish to stay grows stronger, Tlxe more ’tis time to go ? WATCHMAN-. Past two o’clock — past two. Now wrap thy cloak about thee — The hours must sure go wrong, For when they’re pass’d without thee, They’re, oh, ten times as long. WATCHMAN - . Past three o’clock — past three. Again that dreadful warning I Had ever time such flight ? And see the sky, ’tis morning — So now, indeed , good night. WATCHMAN - . Past three o’clock — past three. Good night, good night. 1 SAY, WHAT SHALL WE DANCE ? Say, what shall we dance ? 8hall we bound along the moonlight plain, To music of Italy, Greece, or Spain ? Say, what shall we dance ? Shall we, like those who rove Through 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 ev’ry shore That music haunts, or young feet wander o’er. Ilark ! ’tis the light march, to whose measured time, The Polish lady, by her lover led, Delights through gay saloons with step untircd to tread, Or sweeter still, through moonlight walks, Whose shadows serve to hide The blush that’s rais’d by him 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 ? THE EVENING GUN. Rememb’rest thou that setting sun, The last I saw with thee, When loud we heard the ev’ning gun Peat o’er the twilight sea ? Boom 1 — the sounds appear’d to sweep F ar o’er the verge of day, Till, into realms beyond the deep, They seem’d to die away. Oft, when the toils of day are done, In pensive dreams of thee, I sit to hear that ev’ning gun, Peal o’er the stormy sea. Boom I — and while, o’er billows curl’d, The distant sounds decay, I weep and wish, from this rough world, Like them, to die away. MOORE’S WORKS. £88 BALLADS, SONGS, MISCELLANEOUS POEMS, ETC. TO-DAY, DEADEST 1 IS ODDS. 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 flow’rs 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 ? Though 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 TnE SIGH DELAYS. When on the lip the sigh delays, As if ’twouli linger there for ever ; When eyes would give the world to gaze, Yet still look down, and venture never ; When, though with fairest nymphs we rove, There’s one we dream of more than any — If all this is not real love, ’Tis something wond’rous 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 1 When Hope foretells the brightest, best, Though Deason on the darkest reckons ; When Passion drives us to the west, Though 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. Here, take my heart — ’twill be safe in thy keep- ing, While I go wand’ring 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 destin’d to run, love, They who have light hearts the happiest be, Then, happier still must be they who have none, love, And that will bo 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 sec ; 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 int’rest with thee. « OH, CALL IT BY SOME BETTER NAME. 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 ar?. 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 I POOR WOUNDED HEART. Poor wounded heart, farewell I Thy hour of rest is come ; Thou soon wilt reach thy home, Poor wounded heart, farewell I The pain tliou’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 mon? f Poor broken heart, farewell I BALLADS, SONGS, ETC. 239 No rest for thee but dying — Like waves, whose strife is past, On death’s cold shore thus lying, Thou sleep’st in peace at last — Poor broken heart, farewell l THE EAST INDIAN. Come, May, with all thy flowers, Thy sweetly-scented thorn, Thy cooling ev’ning showers, Thy 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 Through wat’ry 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 Through gardens always bright. Then now, sweet May I be sweeter Than e’er thou’st been before ; Let sighs from roses meet her When she comes near our shore. POOR BROKEN FLOWER. Poor broken flow’r I 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 lieav’n, 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 1 is gone to others now. THE PRETTY ROSE-TPEE. Being weary of love, I flew to the grove, And chose me a tree of the fairest ; Saying, “Pretty Rpse-tree, “ Thou my mistress shalt 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 witch’ries 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 through 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.” Although 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 ne’er again sigh to another. SHINE OUT, STARS ! Shine out, Stars ! let Heav’n assemble Round us ev’ry festal ray, Lights that move not, lights that tremble, All to grace this Eve of May. Q Let the flow’r-beds all lie waking, And the odours shut up there, From their downy prisons breaking, Fly abroad through sea and air. And would Love, too, bring his sweetness, With our other joys to weave, Oil, 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. THE YOUNG MULETEERS OF GRENADA On, the joys of our ev’ning 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, &c. Then as each to his loved sultana In sleep still breathes the sigh, The name of some blaclc-cyed 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 trie rough way on. . MO MOORE’S WORKS. Oh the joys of our merry posada, Where, resting nt close of daj% We, young Muleteers of Grenada, Thus sing the gay moments away. TELL HER, Oil, TELL ITER. Tell her, oh, tell her, the lute she left lying Beneath the green arbour, is still lying there ; And breezes, like lovers, around it arc sighing, But not a soft whisper replies to their pray’r. Tell her, oh, tell her, the tree that, in going, Beside the green arbour she playfully set, As lovely as ever is blushing and blowing, And not a bright leaflet has fall’n from it yet. So while away from that arbour forsaken, The maiden is wandering, still let her be As true as the lute, that no sighing can waken, And blooming for ever, unchang’d as the tree ! NIGHTS OF MUSIC, Nights of music, nights of loving, Lost too soon, remember’d 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 I Nights of song, and nights of splendour, Fill’d with joys too sweet to last — Joys that, like the star-light tender, While they shone, no shadow cast. Though all other happy hours From my fading mem’ry fly, Of that star-light, of those bowers, Not a beam, a leaf shall die 1 + OUR FIRST YOUNG LOVE. Omi first young love resembles That short but brilliant ray, Which smiles, and weeps, and trembles Through 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 heav’n, die calm away $ But, no — let life before us Bring all the life it may. ’Twill ne’er shed lustre o’er us Like that first youthful ray. 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 1 But 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 ! ” But the blue eye, half hid, Says, from under its lid, “ I love, and am yours, if you love me ! ” Yes, Fanny 1 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 1 Oh, why should you wear The only blue pair That ever said “ No ” to a lover ? DEAR FANNY. “ She has beauty, but still you must keep youi 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 advis’d me, and who will deny That Love reasons much better than Reason, Dear Fanny ? Love reasons much better than Reason. FROM LIFE WITHOUT FREEDOM. From life without freedom, say, who would not fly? For one day of freedom, oh I who would not die ! Hark l — hark l ’tis the trumpet 1 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. BALLADS, SONGS, ETC. 211 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 ! 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, &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 ; Ileav’n ne’er form’d a brighter maid, Nor pity wept a dearer 1 Here’s the bower, &c. I SAW THE MOON RISE CLEAR. A FINLAND LOVE 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. Yet quick he bounded forth ; For well my rein-deer 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 1 So dawn’d my love for you ; So, fix’d through joy and pain, Than Summer sun more true, ’Twill never set again. LOVE AND THE SUN-DIAL. Young Love found a Dial once in a dark shade, Where man ne’er had wander’d nor sunbeam 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 an! midnight to me, Love, arc 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, mark’d 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 number’d a few sunny hours, — Then left the remainder to darkness and show- ers l + 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 wing3 between ’em. In courtship’s first delicious hour, The boy full oft 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, 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 I 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 1 ♦ LOVE’S LIGHT SUMMER-CLOUD. Fain 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, i Then be happy, for thus I adore thee. Charms may wither, but feeling shall last : R 242 MOORE’S WORKS. All tlic shadow that e’er shall fall o’er thee, Love’s light summer-cloud sweetly shall cast. Rest, dear bosom, no sorrows shall pain tlicc, 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, 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, For, every ringlet was a tie — A chain by beauty twin’d. MERRILY EVERY BOSOM BOUNDETII. TILE TYROLESE SONG OF LIBERTY. Merrily every bosom boundeth, Merrily, oh I Where the song of Freedom soundeth, Merrily, oh 1 There the warrior’s arms Shed more splendour ; There the maiden’s charms Shine more tender ; Ev’ry joy the land surroundeth, Merrily, oh 1 merrily, oh ! Wearily every bosom pineth, Wearily, oh I Where the bond of slavery twineth Wearily, oh I There the warrior’s dart Hath no fleetness ; There the maiden’s heart Hath no sweetness — Ev’ry flower of life declineth, Wearily, oh 1 wearily, oh 1 Cheerily then from hill and valley, Cheerily, oh! Like your native fountains sally, Cheerily, oh 1 If a glorious death, Won by bravery, Sweeter be than breath Sigh’d in slavery, Round the flag of Freedom rally, Cheerily, oh ! cheerily, oh 1 REMEMBER THE TIME. THE CASTILIAN MAID. Remember the time, in La Mancha’s shades, When our moments so blissfully flew ; When you call’d me the flower of Castilian maids, And I blush’d to be call’d so by you ; When I taught you to warble the gay scguadille, 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 fbrget 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. , ♦ On, SOON RETURN. Our white sail caught the ev’ning ray, The wave beneath us seem’d to burn, When all the weeping maid could say Was, “ Oh, soon return l ” 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 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 l ” If ever yet my bosom found Its thoughts one moment turn’d from thee, ’Twas when the combat rag’d around, And brave men look’d to me. But though 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 vict’ry’s calm came o’er The hearts where rage had ceas’d to burn, Those parting words I heard once more, “ Oh, soon return ! — Oh, soon return I ” LOVE THEE? Love thee ? — 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, BALLADS, SONGS, ETC. 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, ev’n the humblest cot Were brighter than his throne. Those worlds, for which the conqu’ror sighs, For me w'ould have no charms ; My only world — thy gentle eyes — My throne thy circling arms I Oh, yes, so well, so tenderly Thou’rt lov’d, ador’d by me, Whole realms of light and liberty Were worthless without thee. + ONE DEAR SMILE. Couldst 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. 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. Yes, yes, when the bloom of Love’s boyhood is o’er, He’ll turn into friendship that feels no decay ; And, though 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 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 1 m 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 love 1 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 : # LUSITANIAN WAR-SONG. Tiie song of war shall echo through our moun- tains, 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 moun- tains, Till Victory’s self shall, smiling, say, “ Your cloud of foes hath pass’d 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 through her sunny mountains. THE YOUNG ROSE. The young rose 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. WHEN MIDST THE GAY I MEET Wiiex midst the gay I meet That gentle 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. MOORE'S WORKS. L'44 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 warm’d away, And, melting, turns to tears. Then still w'ith bright looks bless The gay, the cold, the free ; Giro smiles to those who love you less, But keep your tears for me. WHEN TWILIGHT DEWS. When twilight dews arc falling soft Upon the rosy sea, love, I w’atch 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, though 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 through here, May turn to smiles in heaven. YOUNG JESSICA. 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 nought to do, Is pleas’d to let the magnet wheedle ; Till closer, closer come the two, And — off, at length, elopes the needle. Now, had this needle turn’d its eye To some gay reticule’s construction, It ne’er had stray’d 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. How happy, once, though wing’d with sighs, My moments flew along, While looking on those smiling eyes, And list’ning to thy magic song ! But vanish’d 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 alter’d 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 wak’d to life again ; With thee it lost its vital part, And wither’d then I Cold its pulse lies, And mute are ev’n its sighs, All other grief it now defies. I LOVE BUT THEE. 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 ev’ry dream I have when thou’rt away, By ev’ry throb I feel when thou art near me, I love but thee — I love but thee I 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 I By that fair brow, where Innocence reposes, As pure as moonlight sleeping upon snow, And by that cheek, whose fleeting blush discloses A hue too bright to bless this world below, And only fit to dwell on Eden’s roses, I love but thee — I love but thee 1 LET JOY ALONE BE REMEMBER’D NOW , Let thy joys alone be remember’d now, Let thy sorrows go sleep awhile ; Or if thought’s dark cloud come o’er thy brow, Let Love light it up with his smile. For thus to meet, and thus to find, That Time, whose touch can chill Each flower of form, each grace of mind, Hath left thee blooming still, — Oli, joy alone should be thought of now, Let our sorrows go sleep awhile ; Or, should thought’s dark cloud come o’er thy brow, Let Love light it up with his smile, BALLADS, SONGS, ETC. 245 When the flowers of life’s sweet garden fade, If but one bright leaf remain, Of the many that once its glory made, It is not for us to complain. But thus to meet and thus to wake In all Love’s early bliss ; Oil, Time all other gifts may take, So he but leaves us this I Then let joy alone be remember’d now, Let our sorrows go sleep awhile ; Or if thought’s dark cloud come o’er thy brow, Let Love light it up with his smile ! LOVE THEE, DEAREST ? LOVE THEE ? Love thee, dearest ? love thee ? Yes, by yonder star I swear, Which through tears above thee Shines so sadly fair ; Though often dim, With tears, like him, Like him my truth will shine, And — love thee, dearest ? love thee ? Yes, till death I’m thine. Leave thee, dearest ? leave thee ? No, that star is not more true ; When my vows deceive thee, He will wander too. A cloud of night May veil his light, And death shall darken mine — But — leave thee, dearest ? leave thee ? No, till death I’m thine. MY HEART AND LUTE. I give thee all— I can no more — Though poor the off ’ring be ; My heart and lute are all the store That I can bring to thee. A lute whose gentle song reveals The soul of love full well ; And, better far, a heart that feels Much more than lute could tell. Though love and song may fail, alas ! To keep life’s clouds away, At least ’twill make them lighter pass, Or gild them if they stay. And ev’n if Care, at moments, flings A discord o’er life’s happy strain, I.et love but gently touch the strings, ’Twill all be sweet again I PEACE, PEACE TO HIM THAT’S GONE 1 When I am dead Then lay my head In some lone, distant dell, Where voices ne’er Shall stir the air, Or break its silent spell. If any sound Be heard around, Let the sweet bird alone, That weeps in song, Sing all night long, “ Peace, peace, to him that’s gone 1 ” Yet, oh, were mine One sigh of thine, One pitying word from thee, Like gleams of heav’n, To sinners giv’n, W r ould be that word to me. Ilowe’er unblest, My shade would rest While list’ning to that tone ; — Enough ’twould be To hear from thee, “ Peace, peace, to him that’s gone ! ” ROSE OF THE DESERT. Rose of the Desert 1 thou, whose blushing ray, Lonely and lovely, fleets unseen away ; No hand to cull thee, none to woo thy sigh, — In vestal silence left to live and die, — Rose of the Desert 1 thus should woman be, Shining uncourted, lone and safe, like thee. Rose of the Garden, how unlike thy doom I Destin’d for others, not thyself, to bloom ; Cull’d ere thy beauty lives through half its day ; A moment cherish’d, and then cast away ; Rose of the Garden ! such is woman’s lot, — Worshipp’d, while blooming — when she fades, forgot. ’TIS ALL FOR THEE. If life for me hath joy or light, ’Tis all from thee, My thoughts by day, my dreams by night, Are but of thee, of only thee. Whate’er of hope or peace I know, My zest in joy, my balm in woe, To those dear eyes of thine I owe, ’Tis all from thee. My heart, ev’n ere I saw those eyes, Seem’d doom’d to thee ; Kept pure till then from other ties, ’Twas all for thee, for only thee. Like plants that sleep, till sunny May Calls forth their life, my spirit lay, Till, touch’d by Love’s awak’ning ray, It liv’d for thee, it liv’d for thee. When Fame would call me to her heights, She speaks by thee ; And dim would shine her proudest lights, Unshar’d by thee, unshar’d by thee. Whene’er I seek the Muse’s shrine, Where Bards have hung their wreaths divine. And wish those wreaths of glory mine, ’Tis all for thee, for only thee. MOORE’S WORKS. TIIE SONG OF TIIE OLDEN TIME.* There’s a song of the olden time, Falling sad o’er the ear, Like the dream of some village chime, Which in youth we lov’d to hear. And ev’n amidst the grand and gay, When Music tries her gentlest art, I never hear so sweet a lay, Or one that hangs so round my heart, As that song of the olden time, Falling sad o’er the ear, Like the dream of some village chime, Which in youth we lov’d to hear. And when all of this life is gone, — Ev’n the hope, ling’ring now, Like the last of the leaves left on Autumn’s sere and faded bough, — ’Twill seem as still those friends were near, Who lov’d me in youth’s early day, If in that parting hour I hear The same sweet notes, and die away, To that song of the olden time, Breath’d, like Hope’s farewell strain, To say, in some brighter clime, Life and youth will shine again I WAKE THEE, MY DEAR. Wake thee, my dear — thy dreaming Till darker hours will keep ; While such a moon is beaming, ’Tis wrong tow’rds Heav’n to sleep. Moments there are we number, Moments of pain and care, Which to oblivious slumber Gladly the wretch would spare. But now — who’d think of dreaming When Love his watch should keep ? While such a moon is beaming, ’Tis wrong tow’rds Heav’n to sleep. If e’er the Fates should sever My life and hopes from thee, love, The sleep that lasts for ever Would then be sweet to me, love ; But now, — away with dreaming I Till darker hours ’twill keep ; While such a moon is beaming, ’Tis wrong tow’rds Heav’n to sleep. THE BOY OF THE ALFS.- Lioiitly, Alpine rover, Tread the mountains over ; Rude is the path thou’st yet to go ; Snow cliffs hanging o’er thee, Fields of ice before thee, While the hid torrent moans below. 1 In this song, which is one of the many set to music by myself, the occasional lawlessness of the metre arises, I need hardly say from the peculiar structure of the air. Hark, the deep thunder, Through the vales yonder 1 ’Tis the huge av’lanchc downward cast ; From rock to rock Rebounds the shock. But courage, boy I the danger’s past. Onward, youthful rover, Tread the glacier over, Safe shalt thou reach thy home at last. On, ere light forsake thee, Soon will dusk o’ertakc thee : O’er yon ice-bridge lies thy way 1 Now, for the risk prepare thee ; Safe it yet may bear thee, Though ’twill melt in morning’s ray. Hark, that dread howling 1 ’Tis the wolf prowling, — Scent of thy track the foe hath got ; And cliff and shore Resound his roar. But courage, boy, — the danger’s past ! Watching eyes have found thee, Loving arnu? are round thee, Safe hast thou reach’d thy father’s cot. ♦ FOR THEE ALONE. For thee alone I brave the boundless deep, Those eyes my light through ev’ry distant sea ; My waking thoughts, the dream that gilds my sleep, The noon-tide rev’rie, all are giv’n to thee, To thee alone, to thee alone. Though future scenes present to Fancy’s eye Fair forms of light that crowd the distant air, When nearer view’d, the fairy phantoms fly, The crowds dissolve, and thou alone art there, Thou, thou alone. To win thy smile, I speed from shore to shore, While Hope’s sweet voice is heard in every blast, Still whisp’ring on, that when some years are o’er, One bright reward shall crown my toil at last, Thy smile alone, thy smile alone. Oh place beside the transport of that hour All earth can boast of fair, of rich, and bright, Wealth’s radiant mines, the lofty thrones of power, — Then ask where first thy lover’s choice would light ? On thee alone, on thee alone. 2 This and the Songs that follow (as far as page 254.) have been published, with music, by Messrs. Addison and Beale, Regent Street. BALLADS, SONGS, ETC. 247 HER LAST WORDS, AT PARTING. Her last words, at parting, how can I forget ? Deep treasur’d through life, in my heart they shall stay ; Like music, whose charm in the soul lingers yet, When its sounds from the ear have long melted away. Let Fortune assail me, her threat’nings are vain; Those still-breathing words shall my talisman be, — “ Remember, in absence, in sorrow, and pain, “ There’s one heart, unchanging, that beats but for thee.” From the desert’s sweet well tho’ the pilgrim must hie, Never more of that fresh-springing fountain to taste, He hath still of its bright drops a treasur’d supply, Whose sweetness lends life to his lips through the waste. So, dark as my fate is still doom’d to remain, These words shall my well in the wilderness be,— “ Remember, in absence, in sorrow, and pain, “ There’s one heart, unchanging, that beats but for thee.” ♦ LET’S TAKE THIS WORLD AS SOME WIDE SCENE. Let’s take this world as some wide scene, Through which, in frail, but buoyant boat, With skies now dark and now serene, Together thou and I must float ; Beholding oft, on either shore, Bright spots where we should love to stay ; But Time plies swift his flying oar, And away we speed, away, away. Should chilling winds and rains come on, We’ll raise our awning ’gainst the show’r ; Sit closer till the storm is gone, And, smiling, wait a sunnier hour. And if that sunnier hour should shine, We’ll know its brightness cannot stay, But happy, while ’tis thine and mine, Complain not when it fades away. So shall we reach at last that Fall Down which life’s currents all must go, — The dark, the brilliant, destin’d all To 6ink into the void below. Nor ev’n that hour shall want its charms, If, side by side, still fond we keep, And calmly, in each other’s arms Together link’d go down the steep. ♦ LOVE’S VICTORY. Sino to Love — for, oh, ’twas he Who won the glorious day ; Strew the wreaths of victory Along the conqu’ror’s way. 1 Founded on the fable reported by Arrian (in Indicia) of Hercules having searched the Indian Ocean, Yoke the Muses to his car, Let them sing each trophy won ; While his mother’s joyous star Shall light the triumph on. nail to Love, to mighty Love, Let spirits sing around ; While the hill, the dale, and grove, With “ mighty Love ” resound ; Or should a sigh of sorrow steal Amid the sounds thus echo’d o’er, ’Twill but teach the god to feel His victories the more. See his wings, like amethyst Of sunny Ind their hue ; Bright as when, by Psyche kist, They trembled through and through. Flowers spring beneath his feet ; Angel forms beside him run ; While unnumber’d lips repeat “ Love’s victory is won ! ” Hail to Love, to mighty Love, &c + SONG OF HERCULES TO HIS DAUGHTER.! “ I’ve been, oh, sweet daughter, “ To fountain and sea, “ To seek in their water “ Some bright gem for thee. “ Where diamonds were sleeping, “ Their sparkle I sought, “ Where crystal was weeping, “ Its tears I have caught. “ The sea-nymph I’ve courted “ In rich coral halls ; “ With Naiads have sported “ By bright waterfalls. “ But sportive or tender, “ Still sought I, around, “ That gem, with whose splendour “ Thou yet shalt be crown’d. “ And see, while I’m speaking, “ Yon soft light afar ; — “ The pearl I’ve been seeking “ There floats like a star 1 “ In the deep Indian Ocean “ I see the gem shine, “ And quick as light’s motion “ Its wealth shall be thine.” Then eastward, like lightning, The hero-god flew, Ilis sunny looks bright’ning The air he went through. And sweet was the duty, And hallow’d the hour, Which saw thus young Beauty Embellish’d by Power. ♦ to find the pearl with which he adorned his daughter Pandoea. MOORE’S WORKS. 243 THE DREAM OF HOME. Chimed to her singing Light echoes of glee ; Who has not felt how sadly sweet The dream of home, the dream of home, Steals o’er the heart, too soon to fleet, When far o’er sea or land we roam ? Sunlight more soft may o’er us fall, To greener shores our bark may come ; But far more bright, more dear than nil, That dream of home, that dream of home. But in vain did she borrow Of mirth the gay tone, Her voice spoke of sorrow, And sorrow alone. Nor e’er while I live from my mem’ry shall fade The song, or the look, of that young Indian maid. Ask of the sailor youth when far Ills light bark bounds o’er ocean’s foam, What charms him most, when ev’ning’s star Smiles o’er the waves ? to dream of home. Fond thoughts of absent friends and loves At that sweet hour around him come ; ITis heart’s best joy where’er he roves, That dream of home, that dream of home. TIIE HOMEWARD MARCH. Be still, my heart : I hear them come : Those sounds announce my lover near : The march that brings our warriors home Proclaims he’ll soon be here. Hark, the distant tread, O’er the mountain’s head, While hills and dales repeat the sound ; And the forest deer Stand still to hear, THEY TELL ME TIIOU’RT THE FAVOUR’D GUEST. 1 As those echoing steps ring round. They tell me thou’rt the favour’d guest Of every fair and brilliant throng ; No wit like thine to wake the jest, No voice like thine to breathe tire song ; And none could guess, so gay thou art, That thou and I are far apart. Be still, my heart, I hear them come, Those sounds that speak my soldier near • Those joj T ous steps seem wing’d for home, — Rest, rest, he’ll soon be here. But hark, more faint the footsteps grow. And now they wind to distant glades ; Not here their home, — alas, they go Alas I alas I how difFrent flows With thee and me the time away 1 Not that I wish thee sad — heav’n knows — Still if thou can’st, be light and gay ; I only know, that without thee The sun himself is dark to me. To gladden happier maids I Like sounds in a dream, The footsteps seem, As down the hills they die away ; And the march, whose song Do I thus haste to hall and bower, Among the proud and gay to shine ? Or deck my hair with gem and flower, To flatter other eyes than thine ? Ah, no, with me love’s smiles are past, Thou hadst the first, thou hadst the last. * So peal’d along, Now fades like a funeral lay. ’Tis past, ’tis o’er, — hush, heart, thy pain I And though not here, alas, they come, Rejoice for those, to whom that strain Brings sons and lovers home. 4 TIIE YOUNG INDIAN MAID. WAKE UP, SWEET MELODY. There came a nymph dancing Gracefully, gracefully, Iler eye a light glancing Like the blue sea ; And while all this gladness Around her steps hung, Such sweet notes of sadness Her gentle lips sung, That ne’er while I live from my mem’ry shall fade The song, or the look, of that young Indian maid. Wake up, sweet melody 1 Now is the hour When young and loving hearts Feel most thy pow’r. One note of music, by moonlight’s soft ray — Oh, ’tis worth thousands heard coldly by day. Then wake up, sweet melody ! Now is the hour When young and loving hearts Feel most thy pow’r. Ask the fond nightingale, When his sweet flow’r Her zone of bells ringing Cheerily, cheerily, Loves most to hear his song. In her green bow’r ? 1 Part of a translation of some Latin verses, supposed to have been addressed by Hippolyta Taurella to her husband, during his absence at the gay court of Leo the Tenth. The versos may be found in (he Appendix to Roscoe’s Work. BALLADS, SONGS, ETC. 243 Oil, he will tell thee, through summer-nights long, Fondest she lends her whole soul to his song. Then wake up, sweet melody ! Now is the hour When young and loving hearts Feel most thy pow’r. CALM BE TIIY SLEEP. Calm be thy sleep as infants’ slumbers ! Pure as angel thoughts thy dreams ! May ev’ry joy this bright world numbers Shed o’er thee their mingled beams ! Or if, where Pleasure’s wing hath glided, There ever must some pang remain, Still be thy lot with me divided, — Thine all the bliss, and mine the pain ! Day and night my thoughts shall hover Round thy steps where’er they stray ; As, ev’n when clouds his idol cover, Fondly the Persian tracks its ray. If this be wrong, if Ileav’n offended By worship to its creature be, Then let my vows to both be blended, Half breath’d to Ileav’n and half to thee. THE EXILE. Night waneth fast, the morning star Saddens with light the glimm’ring sea, Whose waves shall soon to realms afar Waft me from hope, from love, and thee. Coldly the beam from yonder sky Looks o’er the waves that onward stray ; But colder still the stranger’s eye To him whose home is far away. Oh, not at hour so chill and bleak, Let thoughts of me come o’er thy breast ; But of the lost one think and speak, When summer suns sink calm to rest. So, as I wander, Fancy’s dream Shall bring me o’er the sunset seas, Thy look, in ev’ry melting beam, Thy whisper, in each dying breeze. ♦ THE FANCY FAIR. Come, maids and youths, for here we sell All wondrous things of earth and air : Whatever wild romancers tell, Or poets sing, or lovers swear, You’ll find at this our Fancy Fair. Here eyes are made like stars to shine, And kept, for years, in such repair. That ev’n when turn’d of thirty-nine, They’ll hardly look the worse for wear, If bought at this our Fancy Fair. We’ve lots of tears for bards to show’r, And hearts that such ill usage bear, That, though they’re broken ev’ry hour, They’ll still in rhyme fresh breaking bear, If purchas’d at our F ancy Fair. As fashions change in ev’ry thing, We’ve goods to suit each season’s air, Eternal friendships for the spring, And endless loves for summer wear, — All sold at this our Fancy Fair. ■We’ve reputations white as snow, That long will last, if us’d with care, Nay, safe through all life’s journey go, If pack’d and mark’d as “ brittle ware,” — Just purchas’d at the Fancy Fair. IF THOU WOULDST HAVE ME SING AND PLAY. If thou wouldst have me sing and play, As once I play’d and sung, First take this time-worn lute away, And bring one freshly strung. Call back the time when pleasure’s sigh First breath’d among the strings ; And Time himself, in flitting by, Made music with his wings. But how is this ? though new the lute, And shining fresh the chords, Beneath this hand they slumber mute. Or speak but dreamy words. In vain I seek the soul that dwelt Within that once sweet shell, Which told so warmly what it felt, And felt what nought could tell. Oh, ask not then for passion’s lay, From lyre so coldly strung ; With this I ne’er can sing or play, As once I play’d and sung. No, bring that long-lov’d lute again, — Though chill’d by years it be, If thou wilt call the slumb’ring strain, ’Twill wake again for thee. Though time have froz’n the tuneful stream Of thoughts that gush’d along, One look from thee, like summer’s beam, Will thaw them into song. Then give, oh give, that wak’ning ray, And once more blithe and young, Thy bard again will sing and play, As once he play’d and sung. STILL WHEN DAYLIGHT. Still when daylight o’er the wave Bright and soft its farewell gave, I us’d to hear, while light was falling. O’er the wave a sweet voice calling, Mournfully at distance calling. MOORE’S WORKS. 26 0 Ah ! once how blest that maid would come, To meet her sea-boy hast'ning home ; And through the night those sounds repeating, Ilail his bark with joyous greeting, Joyously his light bark greeting. But, one sad night, when winds were high, Nor earth, nor heaven, could hear her cry, She saw his boat come tossing over Midnight’s wave, — but not her lover 1 No, never more her lover. And still that sad dream loth to leave, She comes with wand’ring mind at eve, And oft we hear, when night is falling, Faint her voice through twilight calling, Mournfully at twilight calling. THE SUMMER WEBS. Tiie summer webs that float and shine, The summer dews that fall, Though light they be, this heart of mine Is lighter still than all. It tells me every cloud is past Which lately seem’d to lour ; That Hope hath wed young Joy at last, And now’s their nuptial hour I With light thus round, within, above, With nought to wake one sigh, Except the wish, that all we love Were at this moment nigh, — It seems as if life’s brilliant sun Had stopp’d in full career, To make this hour its brightest one, And rest in radiance here. MIND NOT THOUGH DAYLIGHT. Mind not though daylight around us is break- ing,— Who’d think now of sleeping when morn’s but just waking ? Sound the merry viol, and daylight or not, Be all for one hour in the gay dance forgot. See young Aurora, up heaven’s hill advancing, Though fresh from her pillow, ev’n she too is dancing ? While thus all creation, earth, heaven, and sea, Are dancing around us, oh, why should not we ? Who’ll say that moments we use thus are wasted ? Such sweet drops of time only flow to be tasted ; While hearts are high beating, and harps full in tune, The fault is all morning’s for coming so soon. THEY MET BUT ONCE. They met but once, in youth’s sweet hour, And never since that day Hath absence, time, or grief had pow’r To chase that dream away. They’ve seen the suns of other skies, On other shores have sought delight ; But never more, to bless their eyes, Can come a dream so bright l They met but once, — a day w r as all Of Love’s young hopes they knew ; And still their hearts that day recall, As fresh as then it flew. Sweet dream of youth ! oh, ne’er again Let either meet the brow They left so smooth and smiling then, Or see what it is now. For, Youth, the spell was only thine ; From thee alone th’ enchantment flows, That makes the world around thee shine With light thyself bestows. They met but once, — oh, ne’er again Let either meet the brow They left so smooth and smiling then, Or see what it is now. WITH MOONLIGHT BEAMING. With moonlight beaming Thus o’er the deep, Who’d linger dreaming In idle sleep ? Leave joyless souls to live by day, — Our life begins with yonder ray ; And while thus brightly The moments flee, Our barks skim lightly The shining sea.* To halls of splendour Let great ones hie ; Through light more tender Our pathways lie. While round, from banks of brook or lake, Our company blithe echoes make ; And, as we lend ’em Sweet word or strain, Still back they send ’em, ’ More sweet, again. CHILD’S SONG. FROM A MASQUE. I have a garden of my own, Shining with flowers of ev’ry hue ; I lov’d it dearly while alone, But I shall love it more with you : And there the golden bees shall come, In summer-time at break of morn, And wake us with their busy hum Around the Siha’s fragrant thorn. I have a fawn from Aden’s land, On leafy buds and berries nurst : And you shall feed him from your hand, Though he may start with fear at first. And I will lead you where he lies For shelter in the noontide heat ; And you may touch his sleeping eyes, And feel his little silv’ry feet. BALLADS, SONGS, ETC. 251 THE HALCYON HANGS O’ER OCEAN. The halcyon hangs o’er ocean, The sea-lark slcims the brine ; This bright world’s all in motion, No heart seems sad but mine. To walk through sun-bright places With heart all cold the while ; To look in smiling faces, When we no more can smile ; To feel, while earth and heaven Around thee shine with bliss, To thee no light is given — Oh, what a doom is this ! THE WORLD WAS HUSH’D. The world was hush’d, the moon above Sail’d through ether slowly, When, near the casement of my love, Thus I whisper’d lowly, — “ Awake, awake, how canst thou sleep ? “ The field I seek to-morrow “ Is one where man hath fame to reap, “ And woman gleans but sorrow.” “ Let battle’s fieid be what it may,” Thus spoke a voice replying, “ Think not thy love, while thou’rt away, “ Will here sit idly sighing. “ No — woman’s soul, if not for fame, “ For love can brave *ill danger ! ” Then forth from out the casement came A plum’d and armed stranger. A stranger ? No ; ’twas she, the maid, Herself before me beaming. With casque array’d, and falchion blade Beneath her girdle gleaming ! Close side by side, in Freedom’s fight, That blessed morning found us ; In Vict’ry’s light we stood ere night, And Love the morrow, crown’d us ! THE TWO LOVES. There are two Loves, the poet sings, Both born of Beauty at a birth : The one, akin to heaven, hath wings, The other, earthly, walks on earth. With this through bowers below we play, With that through clouds above we soar ; With both, perchance, may lose our way : — Then, tell me which, Tell me which shall we adore ? i The one, when tempted down from air, At Pleasure’s fount to lave his lip, Nor lingers long, nor oft will dare His wing within the wave to dip. While, plunging deep and long beneath, The other bathes him o’er and o’er In that sweet current, ev’n to death : — Then, tell me which, Tell me which shall we adore ? The boy of heav’n, ev’n while he lies In Beauty’s lap, recalls his home ; And when, most happy, inly sighs For something happier still to come. While he of earth, too fulty blest With this bright world to dream of more, Sees all his heav’n on Beauty’s breast : — Then, tell me which, Tell me which shall we adore ? The maid who heard the poet sing These twin-desires of earth and sky, And saw, while one inspir’d his string, The other glisten’d in his eye, — To name the earthlier boy asham’d, To choose the other fondly loath, At length, all blushing, she exclaim’d, — “ Ask not which, “ Oh, ask not which — we’ll worship both. “ Tli’ extremes of each thus taught to shun, “ With hearts and souls between them given, “ When weary of this earth with one, “ We’ll with the other wing to heaven.” Thus pledg’d the maid her vow of bliss ; And while one Love wrote down the oath, The other seal’d it with a kiss ; And Heav’n look’d on, Heav’n look’d on, and hallow’d both. ♦ THE LEGEND OF PUCK THE FAIRY. Wouldst know what tricks, by the pale moon- light, Are play’d by me, the merry little Sprite, Who wing through air from the camp to the court, From king to clown, and of all make sport ; Singing, I am the Sprite Of the merry midnight, Who laugh at weak mortals, and love the moon- light. To a miser’s bed, where he snoring slept And dreamt of his cash, I slily crept ; Chink, chink o’er his pillow like money I rang, And he waked to catch — but away I sprang, Singing, I am the Sprite, &c. I saw through the leaves, in a damsel’s bower, She was waiting her love at that starlight hour : “ Hist — hist I ” quoth I, with an amorous sigh, And she flew to the door, but away flew I, Singing, I am the Sprite, &c. While a bard sat inditing an ode to his love, Like a pair of blue meteors I star’d from above, And he swoon’d — for he thought ’twas the ghost, poor man I Of his lady’s eyes, while away I ran, Singing, I am the Sprite, &c, 2o2 MOORE’S WORKS. BEAUTY AND SONG. Down in yon summer vale, Where the Till flows, Tims said ft ’.Nightingale To his lov’d Rose : — “ Though rich the pleasures “ Of song’s sweet measures, “ Vain were its melody, “ Rose, without thee.” Then from the green recess Of her night-bow’r, Beaming with bashfulness, Spoke the bright flow’r : — “ Though morn should lend her “ Its sunniest splendour, “ What would the Rose be, “ Unsung by thee ? ” Thus still let Song attend Woman’s bright way ; Thus still let woman lend Light to the lay. Like stars, through heaven’s sea, Floating in harmony, Beauty shall glide along, Circled by Song. WIIEN TIIOU ART NIGII. When thou art nigh, it seems A new creation round ; The sun hath fairer beams, The lute a softer sound. Though thee alone I see, And hear alone thy sigh, ’Tis light, ’tis song to me, ’Tis all — when thou art nigh. When thou art nigh, no thought Of grief comes o’er my heart ; I only think — could aught But joy be where thou art ? Life seems a waste of breath, When far from thee I sigh ; And death — ay, even death Were sweet, if thou wert nigh. + SONG OF A HYPERBOREAN. I come from a land in the sun-bright deep, Where golden gardens grow ; Where the winds of the north, becalm’d in sleep, Their conch-shells never blow.i Haste to that holy Isle with me, Ilaste — haste I 1 On the Tower of the Winds, at Athens, there is a concli-shell placed in the hands of Boreas. — See Stuart's Antiquities. “ The north wind,” says Hero- dotus, in speaking of the Hyperboreans, “ never blows with them.” 'i “Sub ipso siderum cardine jacent. ” — rompon. Mela. So near the track of the stars are we , 1 * * - That oft, on night’s pale beams, The distant sounds of their harmony Come to our ears, like dreams. Then, haste to that holy Isle with me, &c. &c. The Moon, too, brings her world so nigh, 3 That when the night-seer looks To that shadowless orb, in a vernal sky, lie can number its hills and brooks. Then, haste, &c. &c. To the Sun-god all our hearts and lyres 4 By day, by night, belong ; And the breath we draw from his living fires, We give him back in song. Then, haste, &c. &c. From us descends the maid who brings To Delos gifts divine ; And our wild bees lend their rainbow wings To glitter on Delphi’s shrine. 5 Then, haste to that holy Isle with me, Haste — haste I ♦ TIIOU BIDST ME SING. Thou bidst me sing the lay I sung to thee In other days, ere joy had left this brow ; But think, though still unchang’d the notes may be, IIow diff’rent feels the heart that breathes them now I The rose thou wear’st to-night is still the same We saw this morning on its stem so gay ; But, ah l that dew of dawn, that breath which came Like life o’er all its leaves, hath pass'd away. Since first that music touch’d thy heart and mine, How many a joy and pain o’er both have past, — The joy, a light too precious long to shine, The pain, a cloud whose shadows always last. And though that lay would like the voice of home Breathe o’er our ear, ’twould waken now a sigh — Ah ! not, as then, for fancied woes to come, But, sadder far, for real bliss gone by. CUPID ARMED. Place the helm on thy brow, In thy hand take the spear ; Thou art arm’d, Cupid, now, And thy battle-hour is near. March on ! march on 1 thy shaft and bow Were weak against such charms ; 3 “They can shew the moon very near.” — Diodor. Sicul. 4 Hecatseus tells us, that this Hyperborean island was dedicated to Apollo; and most of the inhabitant* were either priests or songsters. 5 Pausan. BALLADS, SONGS, ETC. 2£8 March on ! march on ! so proud a foe Scorns all but martial arms. See the darts in her eyes, Tipt with scorn, how they shine I Ev’ry shaft, as it flies, Mocking proudly at thine. March on ! march on ! thy feather’d darts Soft bosoms soon might move ; But ruder arms to ruder hearts Must teach what ’tis to love. Place the helm on thy brow ; In thy hand take the spear, — Thou art arm’d, Cupid, now, And thy battle-hour is near. ROUND TIIE WORLD GOES. Round the world goes, by day and night, While with it also round go we ; And in the flight of one day’s light An image of all life’s course we see. Round, round, while thus we go round, The best thing a man can do, Is to make it, at least, a merry-go-round, By — sending the wine round too. Our first gay stage of life is when Youth, in its dawn, salutes the eye — Season of bliss ! Oh, who wouldn’t then Wish to cry, “Stop ! ” to earth and sky ? But, round, round, both boy and girl Are whisk’d through that sky of blue ; And much would their hearts enjoy the whirl, If — their heads didn’t whirl round too. Next, we enjoy our glorious noon, Thinking all life a life of light ; But shadows come on, ’tis evening soon, And, ere we can say,“ How short 1” — ’tis night. Round, round, still all goes round, Ev’n while I’m thus singing to you ; And the best way to make it a »?ierry-go-round, Is to — chorus my song round too. OH, DO NOT LOOK SO BRIGHT AND BLEST. Oir, do not look so bright and blest, For still there comes a fear, When brow like thine looks happiest, That grief is then most near. There lurks a dread in all delight, A shadow near each ray, That warns us then to fear their flight, When most we wish their stay. Then look not thou so bright and blest, For ah 1 there comes a fear, When brow like thine looks happiest, That grief is then most near. Why is it thus that fairest things The soonest fleet and die ? — That when most light is on their wings, They’re then but spread to fly 1 And, sadder still, the pain will stay — The bliss no more appears ; As rainbows take their light away, And leave us but the tears I Then look not thou so bright and blest-, For ah ! there comes a fear, When brow like thine looks happiest, That grief is then most near. THE MUSICAL BOX. « Look here,” said Rose, with laughing eyes, “ Within this box, by magic hid, “ A tuneful Sprite imprison’d lies, “ Who sings to me whene’er he’s bid. “ Though roving once his voice and wing, “ He’ll now lie still the whole day long ; “ Till thus I touch the magic spring — “ Then hark, how sweet and blithe his song ! ” (A symphony.') “ Ah, Rose,” I cried, “ the poet’s lay “ Must ne’er ev’n Beauty’s slave become ; “ Through earth and air his song may stray, “ If all the while his heart’s at home. “ And though in Freedom’s air he dwell, “ Nor bond nor chain his spirit knows, “ Touch but the spring thou know’st so well, “ And— hark, how sweet the love-song flows ” (A symphony.) Thus pleaded I for Freedom’s right ; But when young Beauty takes the field, And wise men seek defence in flight, The doom of poets is to yield. No more my heart th’ enchantress braves, I’m now in Beauty’s prison hid ; The Sprite and I are fellow-slaves, And I, too, sing whene’er I’m bid. ♦ WHEN TO SAD MUSIC SILENT YOU LISTEN. When to sad Music silent you listen, And tears on those eyelids tremble like dew, Oh, then there dwells in those eyes as they glisten A sweet holy charm that mirth never knew. But when some lively strain resounding Lights up the sunshine of joy on that brow, Then the young rein-deer o’er the hills bounding Was ne’er in its mirth so graceful as thou. When on the skies at midnight thou gazest, A lustre so pure thy features then wear, That, when to some star that bright eye thou raisest, We feel ’tis thy home thou’rt looking for there. But, when the word for the gay dance is given, So buoyant thy spirit, so heartfelt thy mirth, Oh then we exclaim, “Ne’er leave earth for heaven, “But linger still here, to make heaven of earth.” 254 MOORE’S WORKS. TIIE LANGUAGE OF FLOWERS. Fly swift, my light gazelle, To her who now lies waking, To hear thy silver bell The midnight silence breaking. And, when thou com’st, with gladsome feet, Beneath her lattice springing, Ah, well she’ll know how sweet The words of love tliou’rt bringing. Yet, no — not words, for they But half can tell love’s feeling ; Sweet flowers alone can say What passion fears revealing. A once bright rose’s wither’d leaf, A tow’ring lily broken, — Oh these may paint a grief No words could e’er have spoken. Not such, my gay gazelle, The wreath thou speedest over Yon moonlight dale, to tell My lady how I love her. And, what to her will sweeter be Than gems the richest, rarest, F rom Truth’s immortal tree 1 2 One fadeless leaf thou bearest. ♦ TIIE DAWN IS BREAKING O’ER US. The dawn is breaking o’er us, See, heaven hath caught its hue 1 We’ve day’s long light before U3, What sport shall we pursue ? The hunt o’er hill and lea lr The sail o’er summer sea ? Oh let not hour so sweet Unwing’d by pleasure fleet. The dawn is breaking o’er us, See, heaven hath caught its hue ! We’ve day’s long light before us, What sport shall we pursue ? But see, while we’re deciding, What morning sport to play, The dial’s hand is gliding, And morn hath pass’d away ! Ah, who’d have thought that noon Would o’er us steal so soon, — That morn’s sweet hour of prime Would last so short a time ? But come, we’ve day before us, Still heaven looks bright and blue ; Quick, quick, ere eve comes o’er us, What sport shall we pursue ? Alas ! why thus delaying ? We’re now at evening’s hour ; Its farewell beam is playing O’er hill and wave and bower. That light we thought would last, Behold, ev’n now, ’tis past ; And all our morning dreams Have vanish’d with its beams ! But come ! ’twere vain to borrow Sad lessons from this lay, For man will be to-morrow — Just what he’s been to-day, SONGS FROM THE GREEK ANTHOLOGY. HERE AT THY TOMB. 2 BY MELEAGER. Here, at thy tomb, these tears I shed, Tears, which though vainly now they roll, Are all love hath to give the dead, And wept o’er thee with all love’s soul ; — Wept in remembrance of that light, Which nought on earth, without thee, gives, Hope of my heart I now quench’d in night, But dearer, dead, than aught that lives. Where is she ? where the blooming bough That once my life’s sole lustre made ? Torn off by death, ’tis with’ring now, And all its flow’rs in dust are laid. 1 The tree called in the East Amrita, or the Im- mortal. 2 Aaxpva crot /cat vepde dia \6ovo<;, HAt oScopa. Ap. BRU-NCK. Oh earth 1 that to thy matron breast. Hast taken all those angel charms, Gently, I pray thee, let her rest, — Gently, as in a mother’s arms. ♦ SALE OF CUPID.3 BY MELEAGER. Who’ll buy a little boy ? Look, yonder is he, Fast asleep, sly rogue, on his mother’s knee ; So bold a young imp ’tisn’t safe to keep, So I’ll part with him now, while he’s sound asleep. See his arch little nose, how sharp ’tis curl’d, His wings, too, ev’n in sleep unfurl’d ; 3 TlooXetadco, /cat fxarpot er ev koXttokti xaGevicuv. Ap. BRUNCK. Analect. xcv. SONGS FROM THE GREEK ANTHOLOGY. 255 And those lingers, which still ever ready are found For mirth or for mischief, to tickle, or wound. He’ll try with his tears your heart to beguile, But never you mind— he’s laughing all the while; For little he cares, so he has his own whim, And weeping or laughing are all one to him. Ilis eye is as keen as the lightning’s flash, His tongue like the red bolt quick and rash ; And so savage is he, that his own dear mother Is scarce more safe in his hands than another. In short, to sum up this darling’s praise, He’s a downright pest in all sorts of ways ; And if any one wants such an imp to employ, lie shall have a dead bargain of this little boy. But see, the boy wakes — his bright tears flow — Ilis eyes seem to ask could I sell him ? oh no, Sw-eet child no, no — though so naughty you be, You shall live evermore with my Lesbia and me. 4 TO WEAVE A GARLAND FOR THE ROSE. 1 B Y PAUL, THE SILENTIARY. To weave a garland for the rose, And think thus crown’d ’twould lovelier be, Were far less vain than to suppose That silks and gems add grace to thee. Where is the pearl whose orient lustre Would not, beside thee, look less bright ? What gold could match the glossy cluster Of those young ringlets full of light ? Bring from the land, where fresh it gleams, The bright blue gem of India’s mine, And see how soon, though bright its beams, ’Twill pale before one glance of thine : Those lips, too, when their sounds have blest us With some divine, mellifluous air, Who would not say that Beauty’s cestus Had let loose all its witch’ries there ? 2 Here, to this conqu’ring host of charms I now give up my spell-bound heart, Nor blush to yield ev’n Reason’s arms, When thou her bright-ey’d conqu’ror art. Thus to the wind all fears are given ; Henceforth those eyes alone I see, Where Hope, as in her own blue heaven, Sits beck’ning me to bliss and thee 1 WHY DOES SHE SO LONG DELAY? 3 BY PAUL, TIIE SILENTIARY. Why does she so long delay ? Night is waning fast away ; Thrice have I my lamp renew’d, Watching here in solitude. 1 Ovre fioScov OTejavcov CTTiScveaai, ovre av neirXcov. Ap. Brunch, xvii. 2 .... xat ■}) f4.e\uf>vpTOt exeimj Hdeoi; app.ovi.ri, /cearoe e$v II afiijt. 3 A ijdvveo KAco^aiTt?. Ap. Brunch, xxviii. Where can she so long delay ? Where, so long delay ? Vainly now have two lamps shone ; See the third is nearly gone : 3 4 Oh that Love would, like the ray Of that weary lamp, decay ! But no, alas, it burns still on, Still, still, burns on. Gods, how oft the traitress dear Swore, by Venus, she’d be here I But to one so false as she What is man or deity ? Neither doth this proud one fear, — No, neither doth she fear. # TWIN’ST THOU WITH LOFTY WREATIl THY BROW? 5 BY PAUL, THE SILENTIARY. Twin’st thou with lofty wreath thy brow ? Such glory then thy beauty sheds, I almost think, while aw’d I bow, ’Tis Rhea’s self before me treads. Be what thou wilt, — this heart Adores whate’er thou art I Dost thou thy loosen’d ringlets leave, Like sunny waves to wander free ? Then such a chain of charms they weave, As draws my inmost soul from me. Do what thou wilt, — I must Be charm’d by all thou dost 1 Ev’n when, enwrapp’d in silv’ry veils/ 1 Those sunny locks elude the sight, — Oh, not ev’n then their glory fails To haunt me with its unseen light. Change as thy beauty may, It charms in every way. For, thee the Graces still attend, Presiding o’er each new attire, And lending ev’ry dart they send Some new, peculiar touch of fire. Be what thou wilt, — this heart Adores whate’er thou art I WHEN THE SAD WORD. 7 BY PAUL, THE SILENTIARY. When the sad word, “Adieu,” from my lip is nigh falling, And with it Hope passes away, Ere the tongue hath half breathed it, my fond heart recalling That fatal farewell, bids me stay. 4 6 Se rpiro c apteral tjSt Av\vo( {nroxXa^eiv. 5 K £KpvaXot ofyiyyovcn rerjv rpi\a ; Ap. BRUNCH, xxxiv. 6 A pyevveue odovrjai k arpopa fio9oyyov. 2 Zv S' e/MOi epct c. KfW-'o, to 2eLprjvcov yXvKvepcoTepov. 3 yuKKfj xai /xeXavevaa iiXivviov. Ap. BRUrtCK. X. As thy form first shone before me, So ’tis graven on this heart, Deep, deep ! Love, oh Love, whose bitter swcctncs3, Dooms me to this lasting pain, Thou who cam’st with so much ficctncss, Why 60 slow to go again ? 5 Why ? why ? -f UP, SAILOR BOY, ’TIS DAY. Ur, sailor boy, ’tis day ! The west wind blowing, The spring tide flowing, Summon thee hence away. Didst thou not hear yon soaring swrfllow sing ? Chirp, chirp, — in every note he seem’d to say ’Tis Spring, ’tis Spring. Up. boy, away, — Who’d stay on land to-day ? The very flowers Would from their bowers Delight to wing away I Leave languid youths to pine On silken pillows ; But be the billows Of the great deep thine. Hark, to the sail the breeze sings, “ Let us fly ; ” While soft the sail, replying to the breeze, Says, with a yielding sigh, “ Yes, where you please.” Up, boy ! the wind, the ray, The blue sky o’er thee, The deep before thee, All cry aloud, “ Away ! ” IN MYRTLE WREATHS. BY ALOEUS. Ix myrtle wreaths my votive sword I’ll cover, Like them of old whose one immortal blow Struck off the galling fetters that hung over Thei|fc>wn bright land, and laid her tyrant low. Yes, lov’d Harmodius, thou’rt undying ; Still midst the brave and free, In isles, o’er ocean lying, Thy home shall ever be. In myrtle leaves my sword shall hide its lightning, Like his, the youth, whose ever-glorious blade Leap’d forth like flame, the midnight banquet bright’ning, And in the dust a despot victim laid. Blest youths, how bright in Freedom’s story Your wedded names shall be ; A tyrant’s death your glory, Your meed, a nation free l 4 Aid uot. Swet, pev ev ovaatv rj\oi; Epairot;. Ap. 13KU2TCK. liii. 5 Cl TTTaVOL, p.T) Kat, 7 tot' e^LTTTaoOal p.tv, Epu/Tfi, OiSar*, ancnTTjvai 6’ ovS' Saov tcxvtre. UNPUBLISHED SONGS, ETC. 257 UNPUBLISHED SONGS, ETC. ASK NOT IF STILL I LOVE.’ Ask not if still I love, Too plain these eyes have told thee ; Too well their tears must prove IIow n MOORE’S WORKS. Or fragrant waters, gushing with cool sound From many a jasper fount, is heard around, Young Azm roams bewilder’d, — nor can guess What means this maze of light and loneliness. Here, the way leads, o’er tessclated 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 bow’rs 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 mi his sight, boundless and bright as noon : Where, in the midst, reflecting back the rays In broken rainbow^, a fresh fountain plays High as the’ enamell’d cupola, which tow’rs All rich with Arabesques of gold and flow’r3 : And the mosaic floor beneath shines through The sprinkling of that fountain’s silv’ry dew, Like the wet, glist’ning shells, of ev’ry dye, That on the margin of the Red 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 Comorix , l 2 Each brilliant bird that wings the air is seen ; — Gay, sparkling loories, such as gleam between The crimson blossoms of the coral tree 3 4 5 * In the warm isles of India’s sunny sea : Mecca’s blue sacred pigeon, 1 * and the thrush Of Hindostan,5 whose holy warblings gush, At evening, from the tall pagoda’s top ; — Those golden birds that, in the spice-time, drop About the gardens, drunk with that sweet food G Whose scent hath lur’d them o’er the summer flood ; 7 And those that under Araby’s soft sun Build their high nests of budding cinnamon ; 3 In short, all rare and beauteous things, that fly Through the pure element, here calmly lie Sleeping in light, like the green birds 3 that dwell In Eden’s radiant fields of asphodel 1 So on, through scenes past all imagining, More like the luxuries of that impious King, 13 Whom Death’s dark Angel, with his lightning torch, Struck down and blasted ev’n in Pleasure’s porch, l “ Cloves are a principal ingredient in the compo- sition of the perfumed rods, which men of rank keep constantly burning in their presence.” — Turner's Tibet. ~ “ C’est d’ou vient le bois d’aloes, que les Arabes appellent Oud Comari, et celui du sandal, qui s’y trouve en grande quantity.” — D'Hcrbclot. 3 “ Thousands of variegated loories visit the coral- trees.” — Barrow. 4 “ In Mecca there are quantities of blue pigeons, which none will affright or abuse, much less kill.” — Pitt's A ccount of the Mahometans. 5 “ The Pagoda Thrush is esteemed among the first choristers of India. It sits perched on the sacred pagodas, and from thence delivers its melodious song.” — Pennant's Hindcstan. Than the pure dwelling of a Trophet sent, Arm’d with Heaven’s sword for man’s enfran- chisement — 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 dead’ning sway “ Of worldly sloth, — to teach him while he lives, “ To know no bliss hut that which virtue gives, “ And when he dies, to leave his lofty name “ A light, a landmark on the cliff's 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, M Thy Freedom nurs’d her sacred energies ; “ Oh 1 not beneath the’ enfeebling, with’ring glow “ Of such dull lux’ry did those myrtles grow, “ With which she wreath’d her sword, when she would dare “ Immortal deeds 1 but in the bracing air “ Of toil, — of temperance, — of that high, rare, “ Ethereal virtue, which alone can breathe “ Life, health, and lustre into Freedom’s wreath. “ Who, that surveys this span of earth we press, — “ This speck of life in time’s great wilderness, “ This narrow isthmus ’twixt two boundless seas, “ The past, the future, two eternities ! — “ 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 Ileav’n, should thus profane its 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 1 ” So thought the youth:— but, ev’n while he defied* This witching scene, he felt its witch’ry glide Through ev’ry 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 6 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 is they are said to have no feet. 7 Birds of Paradise, which, at the nutmeg season, come in flights from the southern isles to India; and the “ strength of the nutmeg,” says Tavernier, “ so in- toxicates them that they fall deacf drunk to the earth.” 8 “ That bird which liveth in Arabia, and buildeth its nest with cinnamon.” — Brown's Vulgar Errors. 9 “ The spirits of the martyrs will be lodged in the crops of green birds.” — Gibbon , vol. ix. p. 421. 10 Shedad, who made the delicious gardens of Irim, in imitation of Paradise, and was destroyed by lightning the first time he attempted to enter them. LALLA ROOKH. 273 Around the fragrant Nilica, and deep In its blue blossoms hum themselves to sleep ; 1 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 ? lie 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 giv’n Nought else worth looking at on this side heav’n. “ Oh, my lov’d mistress, thou, whose spirit still “ Is 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 “ 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, unbreatli’d upon for years, “ I shall again kiss oft the soul-felt tears, “ And find those tears warm as when last they started, “ Those sacred kisses pure as when we parted. “ O 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 Day 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 da nee By fetters, forg’d in the green sunny bow’rs, As they were captives to the King of Flow’rs ; 2 And some disporting round, unlink’d and free, Who seem’d to mock their sisters’ slavery ; And round and round them still, in wheeling flight Went, like gay moths about a lamp at night ; While others wak’d, as gracefully along Their feet kept time, the very soul of song 1 “ My Pandits assure me that the plant before us (the Nilica) is their Sephalica, thus named because the bees are supposed to sleep on its blossoms.” — Sir W. Jones. 2 “ They deferred it till the King of Flowers should ascend his throne of enamelled foliage .” — The Bahar- danush. 3 ‘‘One of the head-dresses of the Persian women is composed of a light golden chain-work, set with small 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 cur.”— Manway's Travels. From psalt’ry, pipe, and lutes of lieav’nly thrill, Or their own youthful voices, heav’nlier still. And now they come, now pass before liis eye, Forms such as Nature moulds, when she would vie 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 leads To gardens, terraces, and moonlight mead$, 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 ; But a light golden chain-work round her hair, 3 Such as the maids of Yezd 4 and Siiiras 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’d her fear, And, like a half-tam’d antelope, more near, Though shrinking still, she came ; — then sat her down Upon a musnud’sS edge, and, bolder grown, In the pathetic mode of Isfahan 6 Touch’d a preluding strain, and thus began : — There’s a bower of roses by Bexdemeer’s t stream, And the nightingale sings round it all the day long ; In the time of my childhood ’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 Ben- dejieer ? No, the roses soon wither’d that hung o’er the wave, But some blossoms were gather’d, while freshly they shone, 4 ” 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 Yea- dccas, and drink the wine of Shiraz.” — Tavernier. 5 Musnuds are cushioned seats, usually reserved for persons of distinction. 6 The Persians, like the ancient Greeks, call their musical modes or Perdas by the names of different countries or cities, as the mode of Isfahan, the mode of Irak, &c. 7 A river which flows near the ruins of Chilminar. T 271 MOORE’S WORKS. Aud a dew was distill’d from their 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 ; Tlius bright to my soul, as ’twos then to my eyes, Is that bower on the banks of the calm Bex- DEMEKK l “ Foor maiden 1 ” thought the youth, “ if thou wert sent, “ With thy 6oft lute and beauty’s blandishment, “ To wake unholy wishes in this heart, “ Or tempt its troth, thou little know’st the art. “ For though thy lip should sweetly counsel wrong, “ Those vestal eyes would disavow its song. “ But thou hast breath’d such purity, thy lay “ Returns so fondly to youth’s virtuous day, “ And leads thy soul — if e’er it wander’d thence — “ So gently back to its first innocence, “ That I would sooner stop the unchain’d 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 ev’ning 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 : — While 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 Azm’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 I Around the white necks of the nymphs who danc’d Hung carcanets of orient gems, that glanc’d More brilliant than the sea-glass glitt’ring o’er The hills of crystal on the Caspian shore ; l While from their long, dark tresses, in a fall Of curls descending, bells as musical As those that, on the golden-shafted trees Of Edex, shake in the eternal breeze, 2 1 “ To the north of us (on the coast of the Caspian, near Badku) was a mountain, which sparkled like dia- monds, arising from the sea-glass and crystals with which it abounds.” — Journey of the Russian Ambas- sador to Persia , 1746. 2 “ To which will be added the sound of the bells, hanging on the trees, which will be put in motion by Rung round their steps, at cvTy bound more sweet, As ’twere the’ cxstatic language of their feet. At length the chase was o’er, and they stood wreath’d Within each other’s arms; while soft there breath’d Through the cool casement, mingled with the sighs Of moonlight flow’rs, music that seem’d to rise From some still lake, so liquidly it rose ; And, as it swell’d again at each faint close, The car 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 ! His breath is the soul of the flow’rs like these, And his floating eyes — oh 1 they resemble 1 2 3 Blue water-lilies, 4 when the breeze Is making the stream around them tremble. Hail to thee, hail to thee, kindling pow’r ! Spirit of Love, Spirit of Bliss ! Thy holiest time is the moonlight hour, And there never was moonlight so sweet as this. By the fair and brave Who blushing unite, Like the sun and wave, When they meet at night ; By the tear that show's When passion is nigh, As the rain-drop flow's From the heat of the 6ky ; 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, could it last, • This earth were heaven I We call thee hither, entrancing Power I Spirit of Love I Spirit of Bliss ! Thy holiest time is the moonlight hour, And there never was moonlight so sw r eet as this. Impatient of a scene, whose lux’ries stole, Spite of himself, too deep into his soul, And where, midst all that the young heart loves most, Flow’rs, music, smiles, to yield was to be lost, the wind proceeding from the throne of God, as often as the blessed wish for music.” — Sale. 3 “ Whose wanton eyes resemble blue water-lilies agitated by the breeze.” — Jayadeva . 4 The blue lotus, which grows in Cashmere and in Persia. LALLA KOOKH. 275 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, 1 2 3 — Bright images, that spoke without a sound, And views, like vistas into fairy ground. But here again new spells came o’er his sense : — All 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 er’n Beauty when half-veil’d is best, — Like her own radiant planet of the west, Whose orb when half-retir’d looks loveliest.2 There hung the history of the Genii- King, Trac’d through each gay, voluptuous wandering With her from Saba’s bowers, in whose bright eyes lie read that to be blest is to be wise ;3 — Here fond Zuleika 4 woos with open arms The Hebrew boy, who flies from her young charms, Yet, flying, turns to gaze, and, half undone, Wishes that Heav’n and she could loth 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. 5 * With rapid step, yet pleas’d and ling’ring 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 heav’nly 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 I 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 ; 1 It has been generally supposed that the Maho- metans 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 painting. 2 This is not quite astronomically true. “Dr. Iladley (says Keil) has shown that Venus is brightest when she is about forty degrees removed from the sun ; and that then but only a fourth part of her lucid disk is to be seen from the earth.” 3 For the loves of King Solomon (who was supposed to preside over the whole race of Genii) with Balkis, the Queen of Sheba or Saba, see D'Herbelot and the Notes on the Koran , chap. 2. “ In the palace which Solomon ordered to be built against the arrival of the Queen of Saba, the floor or pavement was of transparent glass, laid over running water, in which fish were swimming.” This led the Queen Into a very natural mistake, which the Koran has not thought beneath its dignity to commemorate. Recall her tears, to thee at parting giv’n, Pure as they weep, if angels weep, in Heav’n. ! Think, in her own still bower she waits thee now, With the same glow of heart and bloom of brow, Yet shrin’d in solitude — thine all, thine only, Like the one star above thee, bright and lonely. Oh I that a dream so sweet, so long enjoy’d. Should be so sadly, cruelly destroy’d ! The song io 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 glitt’ring o’er With gems and wreaths, such as the others wore, But in that deep-blue, melancholy dress, 6 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 — ev’n 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-flow’r, 7 When darkness brings its weeping glories out, And spreads its sighs like frankincense about. “ It was 6aid unto her, * Enter the palace.’ And when she saw it she imagined it to be a great water ; and she discovered her legs, by lifting up her robe to pass through it. Whereupon Solomon said to her. Ve- rily, this is the place evenly floored with glass.’” — Chap. 27. 4 The wife of Potiphar, thus named by the Orientals. 4 The passion which this frail beauty of antiquity con- ceived for her young Hebrew slave has given rise to a much-esteemed poem in the Persian language, entitled Yusef vau Zclikha , by Noureddin Jami; the manu- script copy of which, in the Bodleian Library at Oxford , is supposed to be the finest in the whole world.” — Note upon Nott's Translation of Hafez. 5 The particulars of Mahomet’s amour with Mary, the Coptic girl, in justification of which lie added a new chapter to the Koran, may he found in Gagnier's Notes upon Abulfeda, p. 151. 6 “ Deep blue is their mourning colour.” — Hanway. 7 The sorrowful nyctanthes, which begins to spread its rich odour after sunset. 276 MOORE’S WORKS. “ Look up, my Zelica — one moment show “ Those gentle eyes to me, that I may know ' 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 lieav’n I whatever chance “ Hath brought thee here, oh, ’twos a blessed one I “There — my lov’d lips — 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 pow’r, “ 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 1 ” It was indeed the touch of'those fond 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 flow’rs 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, Oli, ’twas too much — too dreadful to endure 1 ShuddTing she broke away from his embrace, And, hiding with both hands her guilty face, Said, in a tone whose anguish would have riv’n A heart of very marble, “Pure!— oh Heav’n! ”— 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 he thus met her by surprise, He would have 6een 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 lux’ry, as the viper weaves Its wily cov’ring of sweet balsam leaves, 1 — 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 6liame can mark — whate’er the hand, That could from Heav’n and him such brightness sever, *Tis done — to Heav’n and him she’s lost for ever ! It was a dreadful moment ; not the tears, The ling’ring, 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 desp rate hand tow’rds Ileav’n — “ though I am lost, “ 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 wo not, both of us, that instant die “ When we were parted ? oh I couldst 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 mem’ry, 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 wouldst 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 Heav’n — “ All wild — and even 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 dev’lish art, “ As would have ruin’d ev’n a holier heart — “ Of thee and of that ever radiant sphere, “ Where bless’d 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, “ 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 1 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 mem’ry till I die ; “ 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 I 1 “ Concerning the vipers, which Pliny says were frequent among the balsam-trees, I made very parti- cular inquiry ; several were brought me alive both to iTarabo and Jidda.” — Bruce. LALLA ROOKH. 277 “ but thou — yes, tliou 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 good, “ 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 ! ” “ Zelica, Zelica ! ” the youth exclaim’d, In all the tortures of a mind inflam’d Almost to madness — “ by that sacred Ileav’n, “ Where yet, if pray’rs can move, thou’lt be for- giv’n, “ 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 lienee — If thou hast yet one spark of innocence, “ Fly with me from this place ” “ With thee ! oh bliss 1 “ ’Tis worth whole years of torment to hear this. “ What 1 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 heav’nly dream I 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 sun, “ 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 dark’ning skies, “ And plead for me with Ileav’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 forgiv’n, “ And bid thee take thy weeping slave to Ileav’n ! “ Oh yes, I’ll fly with thee ” Scarce had she said These breathless words, when a voice deep and dread As that of Moxker, waking up the dead From their first sleep — so startling ’twas to both — Rung through the casement near, “ Thy oath 1 thy oath ! ” Oh Heav’n, the ghastliness of that Maid’s look ! — “ ’Tis he,” faintly she cried, while terror shook 1 “ In the territory of Istkaliar there is a kind of arple, half of which is sweet and half sour.” — Eln uaulail. Iler inmost core, nor durst she lift her eyes, Though through the casement, now, nought but the skies 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 Mokanxa’s bride — his, .Azim, his — “ The Dead stood round us, while I spoke that vow, “ Their blue lips echo’d 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 1 “ But I must hence — off, off — I am not thine, “ Nor Heav’n ’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 1 ” 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 wretoh 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 1 Lalla Rookii could think of nothing all day but the misery of these two young lovers. Her gaiety was gone, and she looked pensively even upon Fadladeex. She felt, too, without knowing why, a sort of uneasy pleasure in imagining that Azim must have been just such a youth as Fera- morz ; 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 Istka- har,i 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, 2 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 earthen dish, adorned with a wreath of flowers, had com- mitted it with a trembling hand to the stream y and wa3 now anxiously watching its progress down the current, heedless of the gay cavalcade which had drawn up beside her. Lalla Rookii 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, 2 For an account of this ceremony, see Grander The beauty of Ali’s eyes was so remarkable, that whenever the Persians would describe any thing as very lovely, they say it is Ayn Hall, or the Eyes of Ali.— Chardin. 7 We are not told more of this trick of the Impostor, than that it was" une machine, qu’il disoit Stre la Luuc.” “ Magnificent, o’er Ali’s beauteous cyes,« “ 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 ! “ Yict’ry’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 Neksueb’s Holy Well portentously shall rise ! “ Now turn and see ! ” They turn’d, and, as he spoke, A sudden splendour ali arouud them broke, And they beheld an orb, ample and bright, Rise from the Holy Well, 7 * and cast its light Round the rich city and the plain for miles, 8 — 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 1 divine 1 ” 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 lie of Moussa’s creed saw, in that raj r , The glorious Light which, in his freedom’s day, Had rested on the Ark, 9 and now again Shone out to bless the breaking of his chain. “ To victory 1 ” is at once the cry of all — Nor stands Mokanna loit’ring 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 Right 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 10 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, li “ Nor blunt your blades with massacre so mean ; “ There rests the Caliph — speed — one lucky lance “ May now achieve mankind’s deliverance.” According to Richardson, the miracle is perpetuated in Nckscheb.— “ Nakshab, the name of a city in Trans- oxiana, where they say there is a well, in which the appearance of the moon is to be seen night and day.” o “ II amusa pendant deux mois le peuple de la ville de Nekhsclieb, en faisant sortirtoutes les nuits du fond d’un puits un corps lumineux semblable a la Lune, qui portoit sa lumi&re jusqu’d. la distance de plusieurs millos.” — D'Herbelot. Hence he was called Sazen- dehmali, or the Moon-maker. 9 The Shechinah, called Sakinat in the Koran. — See Sale's Note , chap. ii. 1 0 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. — See Burder's Oriental Customs , vol. i. p. 119. 1 1 The Serrapurda, high screens of red cloth, stiffened with cane, used to enclose a considerable space round the royal tents. — Notes on the Baliardanush. The tents of Princes were generally illuminated. Nordcn tells us that the tent of the Bey of Girge was distinguished from the other tents by forty lanterns being suspended before it. — S ec llarmer's Observations on dob 282 MOORE’S WORKS. Desp'rntc 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 thro’ the glimm’ring shade, And, ns the clash is heard, new legions soon Pour to the spot, like bees of Kauzeroon > To the shrill timbrel’s summons, — till, at length, The mighty camp swarms out in all its strength, And back to Neksiieb’s gates, covering the plain With random slaughter, drives the adventurous train ; Among the last of whom the Silver Veil Is seen glitt’ring at times, like the white sail Of some toss’d vessel, on a stormy night, Catching the tempest’s momentary light 1 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 vict’ry, lie disgrac’d and dead, Yet morning hears him with unshrinking crest, Still vaunt of thrones, and vict’ry to the rest ; — And they believe him 1 — 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 ; But Faith, fanatic Faith, once wedded fast To some dear falsehood, hugs it to the last. And well the’ Impostor 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 Zeltca ! had reason been Awake, through half the horrors thou hast seen, Thou never could’st have borne it — Death had come At once, and taken thy wrung spirit home. But ’twas not so — a torpor, a suspense Of thought, almost of life, came o’er the intense And passionate struggles of that fearful night, When her last hope of peace and lieav’n took flight : And though, at times, a gleam of frenzy broke,— As through some dull volcano’s vale of smoke Ominous flashings now and then will start, Which show the lire’s still busy at its heart ; Yet was she mostly wrapp’d in solemn gloom, — Not such as Azm’s, brooding o’er its doom, And calm without, as is the brow of death, While busy worms arc 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 tort’rer’s will. Again, as in Meroit, he had her deck’d Gorgeously out, the Priestess of the sect ; And led her glitt’ring forth before the eyes Of his rude train, as to a sacrifice, — Pallid as she, the young devoted bride Of the fierce Niue, 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 Her ravings into oracles of fate, Would hail Ileav’n’s signals in her flashing eyes, And call her shrieks the language of the skies I But vain at length his arts — despair is seen Gath’ring 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 Hordes and Tartar mountaineers ; They come not — while his fierce beleaguerers pour Engines of havoc in, unknown before, 3 And horrible as new ;4 — javelins, that fly Enwreath’dwith smoky flames through the dark sky, And red-hot globes, that, opening as they mount, Discharge, as from a kindled Naphtha fount, 1 2 3 * 5 1 “ From the groves of orange trees at Kauzeroon the bees cull a celebrated honey.” — Morier's Travels. 2 “ 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 ; for they now make a 6tatue of earth in shape of a girl, to which they give the name of the Betrothed Bride, and throw it into the river.” — Savary. 3 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 arrived at Moultan, finding that the country of the Jits was de- fended by great rivers, he ordered fifteen hundred boats to be built, each of which he armed with six iron spikes, projecting from their prows and sides, to prevent their being boarded by the enemy, who were very expert in that kind of war. 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 naphtha 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 See Wilks’s South of India, voh l. p. 471. — And in the curious Javan poem, the Brnta Yvdka , given by Sir Stamford Raffles in his History of Java, we find, “ He aimed at the heart of Soeta with the sharp-pointed Weapon of Fire.” The mention of gunpowder as in use among the Arabians, long before its supposed discovery in Europe, is introduced by Ebn Fadlil, the Egyptian 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 Ben Abdalla, in speaking of the sieges 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.” — See the extracts from Casiri’s Biblioth. Arab. Hispan. in the Appendix to Berington’s Literary History of the Middle Ages. 4 The Greek fire, which was occasionally lent by the emperors to their allies. “ It was,” says Gibbon, “ either launched in red-hot balls of stone and iron, or darted in arrows and javelins, twisted round with flax and tow, which had deeply imbibed the inflammable oil.” 5 See Ilanway’s A ccount of the Springs of Naphtha at Baku (which is called by Lieutenant l’ottingcr Joala LALLA ROOKH. 283 Show’rs of consuming fire o’er all below ; Looking, as through the’ illumin’d night they go, Like those wild birds 1 that by the Magians oft, At festivals of fire, were sent aloft Into the air, with blazing faggots tied To their huge wings, scatt’ring 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 cloths of gold, Since the last peaceful pageant left unroll’d, — Its beauteous marble baths, whose idle jets Now gush with blood, — and its tall minarets, That late have stood up in the ev’ning glare Of the red sun, unhallow’d by a prayer ; — O’er each, in turn, the dreadful flame-bolts fall, And death and conflagration throughout all The desolate city hold high festival ! Mokanna sees the world is his no more ; — One sting at parting, and his grasp is o’er. “ What I — drooping now ? ” — thus, with un- blushing cheek, lie hails the few, who yet can hear him speak, Of all those famish’d slaves around him lying, And by the light of blazing temples dying ; — “ What ! — drooping now ? ” — now, when at length we press “ Home o’er the very threshold of success ; “ When Alla from our ranks hath thinn’d away “ Those grosser branches, that kept out his ray “ Of favour from us, and we stand at length “ Heirs 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 murm’rers as you are, “ All faith in him, who was your Light, your Star ? “ Have you forgot the eye of glory, hid “ Beneath this Yeil, 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 the’ unveiling of this brow ! “ To-night — yes, sainted men I 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 Heav’n’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, ^ — Mookee, or, the Flaming Mouth) taking lire and running into the sea. Dr. Cooke, in his Journal , mentions some wells in Circassia, strongly impregnated with this inflammable oil, from which issues boiling water. “ Though the weather,” he adds, “ was now very cold, the warmth of these wells of hot water produced near them the verdure and flowers of spring.” Major Scott Waring says, that naphtha is used by the Persians, as we are told it was in hell, for lamps. many a row Of starry lamp* and blazing cressets, fed With naphtha and asphaltus, yielding light As from a sky “ 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 treach’rous 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 I ” — “ To-night,” their Chief re-echoes in a voice Of fiend-like mock’ry 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 smould’ring fire, Danc’d, like wan ghosts about a funeral pyre, Among the dead and dying, strew’d around ; — While some pale wretch look’d on, and from his wound Plucking the fiery dart by 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 ev’ry horror doom’d to bear its part ! Was bidden to the banquet by a slave, Who, while his quiv’ring 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 ! Shudd’ring she went — a soul-felt pang of fear, A presage that her own dark doom was near, Rous’d ev’ry 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 lieav’ns look’d red, ’Twas but some distant conflagration’s spread. But hark — she stops — she listens — dreadful tone I ’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 Alla, what a sight Was there before her I By the glimm’ring light 1 “ At the great festival of fire, called the Sheb Sez£, they used to set fire to large bunches of dry combusti- bles, fastened round wild beasts and birds, which being then let loose, the air and earth appeared one great il- lumination ; and as these terrified creatures naturally fled to the woods for shelter, it is easy to conceive the conflagrations they produced.” — Richardson's Disser- tation. 2 “ The righteous shall be given to drink of pure wine sealed ; the seal whereof shall be musk.”— Koran, chap. lxxxiii._ 284 MOORE’S WORKS. Of the pnlc 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’u heads sunk black’ning on their breasts, Or looking pale to Ilcav’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 1 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 grasp’d ; — but, as they died, Look’d horrible vengeance with their eyes’ last strain, And clench’d tlieslack’niug hand at him in vain. 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 conqu’ring, all redeeming, Rut features horribler than Hell e’er trac’d On its own brood ; — no Demon of the Waste, 1 2 No church-yard Ghole, caught ling’ring in the light Of the blest sun, e’er blasted human-sight With lineaments so foul, so fierce as those The’ Impostor now, in grinning mock’ry, 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 Heav’n’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, the’ uncourteous souls arc fled. « Farewell, sweet spirits ! not in vain ye die, “ If Ecus love9 you half so well as I. — « 11a, my young bride ! — ’tis well — take thou thy seat ; “ Nay come — no shudd’ring — didst thou never meet “ The Dead before ? — they grac’d our wedding, sweet ; 1 “ The Afghauns believe each of the numerous soli- tudes and deserts of their country to be inhabited by a lonely demon, whom they call the Ghoolee Beeabau, or Spirit of the Waste. They often illustrate the \vildnes3 of any sequestered tribe, by saying, they are wild as the Demon of the Waste.” — £ Ip /tinstone's Caubul. “ 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 6tay — one precious drop remains, “ Enough to warm a gentle Priestess’ veins ; — “ Here, drink — and should thy lover’s conqu’r- ing 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 I “ For me — I too must die — but not like these “ Vile, rankling things, to fester in the breeze ; “ To have this brow in ruffian triumph shown, “ With all death’s grimness added to its own, “ And rot to dust beneath the taunting eyes “ Of slaves, exclaiming, ‘ There his Godslnp lies 1 ’ “ 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 dis- till’d : 2 — “ 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 Ileav’n took back the Saint it gave ; — “ That I’ve but vanish’d from this earth awhile, “ To come again, with bright, unshrouded smile 1 “ 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 Mokanxa’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 1 their batt’ring 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, commeuces Deity 1 ’’ 2 “II donna du poison dans levin & tous ses gens, ot se jetta lui-m6me ensuite dans une cuve pleine do drogues brulantes ct consumantes, afln qu’il ne restat rien de tous les membres de son corps, et que ceux qui restoient de sa secte puissent croire qu’il fetoit monte au ciel, ce qui ne manqua pas d’arriver.” — & Her helot. . LALLA KOOKH. 285 lie 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 1 More like some bloodless ghost — such as, they tell, In the Lone Cities of the Silent 1 dwell, And there, unseen of all but Alla, sit Each by its own' pale carcass, watching it. But morn is up, and a fresh warfare stirs Throughout the camp of the beleaguerers. Their globes of fire (the dread artill’ry lent By Gkeece to conqu’ring 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 the’ impatient Islamite’s intent To try, at length, if tower and battlement And bastion’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 The’ Impostor 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 pond’rous 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 “ Right on that spot, and Neksueb is our own ! ” ’Tis doue — 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 I 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 Iuthis blank stillness, checks the troops awhile, — Just then, a figure, with slow step, advanc’d Forth from the ruin’d walls, and, as there glanc’d A sunbeam over it, all eyes could see The well-known Silver Veil ! — “ ’Tis He, ’tis He, “ Mokanna, and alone 1 ” they shout around ; Young Azim from his steed springs to the ground — “ Mine, Holy Caliph 1 mine,” he cries, “ the task “ To crush yon daring wretch — ’tis all I ask.” Eager he darts to meet the demon foe, Who still across wide heaps of ruin slow And falteringly comes, till they are near ; Then, with a bound, rushes on Azim’s spear, And, casting off the Veil in falling, shows — Oh 1 — ’tis his Zelica’s life-blood that flows ! 1 “They have all a great reverence for burial-grounds, which they sometimes call by the poetical name of Cities of the Silent, and which they people with the ghosts of “ 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 quiv’ring flesh can bear — “ I meant not thou shouldst have the pain of this : — “ Though death, with thee thus tasted, is a bliss “ Thou wouldst not rob me of, didst theu 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 madd’ning — 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 I 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 forgiv’n, “ Angels will echo the blest words in Heav’n ! “ But live, my Azim ; — oh l 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 rememb’ring but her love to thee, “ Make her all thine, all His, eternally 1 44 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 flow’rs, M Will bring the sweetness of those innocent hours « Back to thy soul, and tho u may’st feel again “ For thy poor Zelica as thou didst then. “ So shall thy orisons, like dew that flics “ To Heav’n upon the morning’s sunshine, rise “ With all love’s earliest ardour to the skies I “ And should they — but, alas, my senses fail — “ Oh for one minute I — should thy prayers pre- vail — “ 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 Heav’n — I die — dear love 1 farewell, fare- well.” 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, the departed, who sit each at the head of his own gravo, invisible to mortal eyes.” — Elphinstonc, 286 MOORE’S WORKS. An aged man, w ho had grown aged there By that lono grave, morning and night in prayer, For the last time knelt down— and, though the shade Of death hung dark’niug 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, lie 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, ns in the reign of Shah Jehan, between Delhi and the Western coast of India, to secure 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, impossible. 1 2 In the next place, the elephant, laden with his fine antique porce- lain,? had, in an unusual fit of liveliness, shat- tered 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 Van and Chun, who reigned many ages before the dynasty of Tang. His Koran, too, sup- posed to be the identical copy between the leaves of which Mahomet’s favourite pigeon used to nestle, had been mislaid by his Koran- bearer three whole days ; not without much spiritual alarm to Fadladeex, who, though professing to hold, with other loyal and orthodox Mussulmans, that salvation could only be found in the Koran, was strongly suspected of believ- ing 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 sufficient degree of irritability for the purpose. 1 ** 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 sepoy3 ; and, in the reign of Shah Jehan, couriers were stationed between Delhi and the Mahratta coast, to secure an abundant and fresh supply of mangoes for the royal table.” — Mrs. Graham's Journal of a Residence in India. 2 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 iy- “ In ordeV,” said he, importantly swinging about his chaplet 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 I ” exclaimed the Princess, inter- rupting 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 every thing, but the subject im- mediately 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 personages 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 gentle- man 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 filberts of Berdaa, our friend in the veil jumps into a tub of aquafortis ; the young lady dies in a set speech, whose only re- commendation 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 ac- complishes, and expires. This, you will allow, is a fair summary of the story; and if Nasser, the Ara- bian merchant, told no better, our Holy Prophet (to whom be all honour and glory I) had no need to be jealous of his abilities for story-telling.” 3 With respect to the 6tyle, it was worthy of the matter ; — it had not even those politic contri- vances of structure, which make up for the commonness of the thoughts by the peculiarity of the manner, nor that stately poetical phraseology by which sentiments mean in themselves, like the blacksmith’s 4 apron converted into a banner, are so easily gilt and embroidered into conse- quence. Then, as to the versification, 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 uneasy heaviness of its movements, nasty of Tang, at which time porcelain began to be used by the Emperors” (about the year 442). — Bunn’s Collection of Curious Observations , #c. ; — a bad trans- lation of some parts of the Lettres Edifiantes et Curieuses of the Missionary Jesuits. 3 “ La lecture de ces Fables plaisoit si fort aux Arabcs, que, quand Mahomet les entretenoit de l’Histoire de l’Ancien Testament, ils les meprisoient, lui disant que celle3 que Nasser leur racontoient ttoient beaucoup plus belles. Cette preference attira & Nasser la male- diction de Mahomet et de tous ses disciples.” — B'Her- belot. 4 The blacksmith Gao, who successfully resisted the tyrant Zohak, and whose apron became the Royal Standard of Persia. LALLA ROOKH. 287 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 has his full complement of fingers to count withal, would tolerate for an instant such syllabic superfluities ? ” — He here looked round, and dis- covered 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 pre- sent, 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 Rookh 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 con- sent, avoided. Though none of the party had much respect for Fadladeen, yet his censures, thus magisterially delivered, evidently made an impression on them all. The Poet, himself, 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 Fadladeex said, from its having set them all so soundly to sleep while the self-complacent Chamberlain was left to triumph in the idea of having, for the hundred and fiftieth time in his life, extinguished a Poet. Lalla Rookh alone — and Love knew why — persisted in being de- lighted with all she had heard, and in resolving to hear more as speedily as possible. Her man- ner, however, of first returning to the subject was unlucky. It was while they rested during the 1 “ The Huma, a bird peculiar to the East. It is supposed to fly constantly in the air, and never touch the ground; it is looked upon as a bird of happy omen ; and that every head it oversliades will in time wear a crown.” — Richardson. Iu the terms of alliance made by Fuzzel Oola Khan with Hyder in 1760, one of the stipulations was, ‘‘that he should have the distinction of two honorary attend- ants standing behind him, holding fans composed of the feathers of the .humma, according to the practice of his family.” — Wilts's South of India. He adds in a note: — “The Ilumma is a fabulous bird. The head over which its shadow once passes will assuredly be circled with a crown. The splendid little bird sus- pended over the throne of Tippoo Sultaun, found at Seringapatam in 1799, wa3 intended to represent this poetical fancy.” 2 “ To the pilgrims to Mount Sinai we must attri- bute the inscriptions, figures, &c. 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 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 tlicir eyes are closed for ever ! ” — that she took occa- sion, 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 : 1 — it is only once in many ages a Genius appears, whose words, like those on the Written Mountain, last for ever ;2 — but still there are some, as delightful, 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, without calling upon them for a brightness and a durability beyond their nature. In short,” continued she, blushing, as if conscious of being caught in an oration, “ it is quite cruel that a poet cannot wander through his regions of enchantment, without having a critic for ever, like the old Man of the Sea, upon his back ! ”3 — Fadladeen, it was plain, took this last luckless allusion to himself, and would trea- sure 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, fra- grant airs, playing freshly over the current of youthful spirits, will soon heal even deeper wounds than the dull Fadladeens of this world can in- flict. In an evening or two after, they came to the small Valley of Gardens, which had been planted by order of the Emperor, for his favourite sister Rochinara, during their progress to Cash- mere, some years before ; and never was there a more sparkling assemblage of sweets, since the Gulzar-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 ,4 to the Cdmalatd , by whose rosy blossoms the heaven of Indra is scented.5 As they sat in the cool fragrance of this delicious spot, and Lalla Rookh remarked that she could fancy it the abode of that Flower-loving Nymph whom they worship in the temples of Kathay, 6 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.” — Niebuhr. 3 The story of Sinbad. 4 See Nott's Hafez , Ode v. 5 “ The C4malat& (called by Linnaeus, Ipomaea) is the most beautiful of its order, both in the colour and form of its leaves and flowers ; its elegant blossoms are * celestial rosy red, Love’s proper hue,’ and have justly procured it the name of Camalatd, 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 Ipomsea.” — lb. 6 “ According to Father Prcmare, in his tract on Chinese Mythology, the mother of Fo-hi was the daughter of heaven, surnamed Flower-loving; and as the nymph was walking alone on the bank of a river, she found herself encircled by a rainbow, after which she became pregnant, and, at the end of twelve years, was delivered of 'a son radiant as herself.” — Asiatic Res. 2S8 MOORE’S WORKS. ► cr of one of those Peris, those beautiful creatures « f the air, who live upon perfumes, and to whom a place like this might make some amends for the Paradise they have lost, — the young Poet, in whose eyes she appeared, while she spoke, to be one of the bright spiritual creatures 6hc 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 lie, with an appealing look to Fadladekn, “ in a lighter and humbler strain than the other : ” then, striking a few careless but melancholy chords on his kitar, he thus began : — PARADISE AND TIIE PERL One mom a Peri at the 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 1 “ IIow 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, 44 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, 1 “ And sweetly the founts of that Valley fall ; “ Though bright are the waters of Sing-su-iiay, “ And the golden floods that thitherward stray ,2 ” Yet — oh, ’tis only the Blest can say 44 How the waters of Heaven outshine them all ! “ Go, wing thy flight from star to star, ‘‘ From world to luminous world, as far 44 As the universe spreads its flaming wall : 44 Take all the pleasures of all the spheres, 44 And multiply each through endless years, 44 One minute of Heaven is worth them all 1 ” 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 On the blue flow’r, which — Bramins say — Blooms nowhere but in Paradise.* 44 Nymph of a fair but erring line 1 ” Gently he said — 44 One hope is thine. 44 ’Tis written in the Book of Fate, 44 The Peri yet may beforgiv'n “ Who brings to this Eternal gate 44 The Gift that is most dear to Ilcav'n ! 44 Go, seek it, and redeem thy sin — 44 ’Tis sweet to let the pardon’d in.” Rapidly as comets run To the’ embraces of the Sun ; — Fleeter than the starry brands Flung at night from angel hands 1 2 3 4 At those dark and daring sprites Who would climb the’ empyreal heights, Down the blue vault the Peri flies, And, lighted earthward by a glance That just then broke from morning’s eyes, Hung hov’ring o’er our world’s expanse. But whither 6liall the Spirit go To find this gift for Heav’n ? — “ I know 44 The wealth,” she cries, 44 of every urn, 44 In which unnumber’d rubies burn, 44 Beneath the pillars of Ciiilminar ; 5 44 I know where the Isles of Perfume aie, G 44 Many a fathom down in the sea, 44 To the south of sun-bright Arab* ; 7 “ I know, too, where the Genii hid 44 The jewell’d cup of their King Jamshid.s “ With Life’s elixir sparkling high — “ But gifts like these are not for the sky. 44 Where was there ever a gem that shone 44 Like the steps of Alla’s wonderful Throne ? “ And the Drops of Life — oh ! what would they be 44 In the boundless Deep of Eternity ? ” While thus she mus’d, her pinions fann’d The air of that sweet Indian land, Whose air is balm ; whose ocean spreads O’er coral rocks, and amber beds ; 9 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 ; 1 44 Numerous small islands emerge from the Lake of Cashmere. One is called Char Chenaur, from the plane trees upon it.” — Foster. 2 « The Altan Kol or Golden River of Tibet, which runs into the Lakes of Sing-su-hay, has abundance of gold in its sands, which employs the inhabitants all the summer in gathering it.” — Description of Tibet in Pinkerton. 3 “ The Brahmins of this province insist that the blue campac flowers only in Paradise.” — Sir W. Jones. It appears, however, from a curious letter of the Sultan of Menangcabo .v, given by Marsden, that one place on earth may lay claim to the possession of it. 44 This is the Sultan, who keeps the flower champaka that is blue, and to be found in no other country but his, being yellow elsewhere.” — Marsden's Sumatra. 4 “ The Mahometans suppose that falling stars are the fire-brands wherewith the good angels drive away of Persepolis. It is imagined by them that this palace and the edifices at Balbec were built by Genii, for the purpose of hiding in their subterraneous caverns im- mense treasures, which still remain there. — D'lier- belot, Volney. 0 Diodorus mentions the Isle of Panchaia, to the south of Arabia Felix, w r here there was a temple of Jupiter. This island, or rather cluster of isles, has disappeared, 44 sunk (says GrandprS) in the abyss made by the fire beneath their foundations.” — Voyage to the Indian Ocean. 7 The Isles of Panchaia. 8 “ The cup of Jamsliid, discovered, they say, when digging for the foundations of Persepolis.” — Kichard- son. 9 44 It is not like the Sea of India, whose bottom is rich with pearls and ambejgris, 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 Moham- medans. LALLA ROOKH. 289 Whose sandal groves and bow’rs of spice Might be a Peri’s Paradise 1 But crimson now her rivers ran With human blood — the smell of death Came reeking from these spicy bow’rs, And man, the sacrifice of man, Mingled his taint with ev’ry breath Upwafted from the’ innocent flow’rs. Land of the Sun ! what foot invades Thy Pagods and thy pillar’d shades 1 — Thy cavern shrines, and Idol stones, Thy Monarchs and their thousand Thrones ? 2 ’Tis He of Gazna 2 _ fierce in wrath He comes, and India’s diadems Lie scatter’d in his ruinous path. — His bloodhounds he adorns with gems, Torn from the violated necks Of many a young and lov’d Sultana -, 4 Maidens, within their pure Zenana, Priests in the very fane he slaughters, And clioaks up with the glitt’ring wrecks Of golden shrines the sacred waters 1 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 Conqu’ror, “ live to share “ The trophies and the crowns I bear 1 ” 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. False flew the shaft, thougn pointed well ; The Tyrant liv’d, the Hero fell I — 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 1 “ Be this,” she cried, as she wing’d her flight, “ My welcome gift at the Gates of Light. J in the ground The bended twigs take root, and daughters grow About the mother-tree, a pillar'd shade , High over-arcli’d, and echoing walks between. Milton. For a particular description and plate of the Banyan- tree, see Cordiner’s Ceylon. 2 “ 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, in a great plain without the city of Ghizni.” — Ferishta. 3 “ Mahmood of Gazna, or Ghizni, who conquered India in the beginning of the 11th century.” — See his History in Dow and Sir J. Malcolm. 4 “ It is reported that the hunting equipage of the Sultan Mahmood was so magnificent, that hekept 400 greyhounds and bloodhounds, each of which wore a collar set with jewels, and a covering edged with gold and pearls.” — Universal History , vol. iii. 5 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 noble sense which is so well understood at the present day, and, I grieve to say, so little acted upon, yet it is *■ Though foul are the drops that oft distil “ On the field of warfare, blood like this, “ For Liberty shed, so holy is, 5 “ It would not stain the purest rill, “ That sparkles among the Bowers of Bliss ! “ Oli, if there be, on this earthly sphere, “ A boon, an offering Heav’n holds dear, “ ’Tis the last libation Liberty draws “ From the heart that bleeds and breaks in her cause I ” “ 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 I — 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, 8 Far to the South, the Peri lighted ; And sleek’d her plumage at the fountains 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. 7 Thence over Egypt’s palmy groves, Her grots, and sepulchres of Kings, 8 The exil’d Spirit sighing roves ; And now hangs list’ning to the doves In warm Rosetta’s vale 9 — now loves To watch the moonlight on the wings Of the white pelicans that break The azure calm of Mceris’ Lake. 19 ’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 Ileav’n’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 ; 11 — no disparagement to the word to apply it to that national independence, that freedom from the inter- ference and dictation of foreigners, without which, indeed, no liberty of any kind can exist; and for which both Hindoos and Persians fought against their Mus- sulman invaders with, in many cases, a bravery that deserved much better success. 8 “ The Mountains of the Moon, or the Montes Lume of antiquity, at the foot of which the Nile is supposed to arise.” —Bruce. ‘‘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.” I “ The Nile, which the Abyssinians know by the names of Abey and Alawy, or the Giant.” — Asiat. Jlesearch. vol. i. p. 587. 8 Sec Perry’s View of the Levant for an account of the sepulchres in Upper Thebes, and the numberless grots, covered all over with hieroglyphics, in the moun- tains of Upper Egypt. 9 “The orchards of Rosetta are filled with turtle- doves. ’ ’ — Sonnini. 10 Savary mentions the pelicans upon Lake Mceris. I I “ The superb date-tree, whose head languidly re- clines, like that of a handsome woman overcome with sleep.” ~-Dafa,rd el Hadad. U 290 MOORE’S WORKS. Those virgin lilies, all the night Bathing their beauties in the lake, That they inay rise more fresh and bright, When their beloved Sun’s awake ; — Those ruin’d shrines and tow’rs 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 1 2 sitting Upon a column, motionless And glitt’ring 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 ev’ry living thing Of human shape, touch’d by his wing. Like plants, where the Simoon hath past, At once falls black and withering I The sun went down on many a brow, Which, full of bloom and freshness then, Is rankling in the pest-house now, And ne’er will feel that sun again. And, oh ! to see the’ unburied heaps On which the lonely moonlight sleeps — The very vultures turn away, And sicken at so foul a prey 1 Only the fierce hyaena stalks 2 Throughout the city’s desolate walks 3 At midnight, and his carnage plies : — Woe to the half-dead wretch, who meets The glaring of those large blue eyes 4 Amid the darkness of the streets I “ Poor race of men I ” 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 1 Just then bfeneath 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 1 1 “ That beautiful bird, with plumage of the finest shining blue, with purple beak and legs, the natural and living ornament of the temples and palaces of the Greeks and Romans, which, from the stateliness of its port, as well as the brilliancy of its colours, has ob- tained the title of Sultana.” — Sonnini. 2 Jackson, speaking of the plague that occurred in West Barbary, when he was there, says, “ The birds of the air fled away from the abodes of men. The hyaenas, on the contrary, visited the cemeteries,” &c. 3 “Gondar was full of hyaenas from the time it None to watch near him — none to slako 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 la6t, 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 deatli — That she, 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 airs from fountain 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, 5 This melancholy bow’r to seek, Like a young envoy, sent by Health, With rosy gifts upon her cheek ? ’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 I 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 1 And now he yields — now turns away, Shudd’ring 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. “ t 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 ? turned dark, till the dawn of day, seeking the dif- ferent pieces of slaughtered carcasses, 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. 4 Ibid. 5 This circumstance has been often introduced into LALLA ROOKH. 221 “ Think’st thou that she, whose only light, “ In this dim world, from thee hath shone, “ 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 1 “ 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 1 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 “ The’ enchanted pile of that lonely bird, “ Who sings at the last his own death-lay ,* “ And in music and perfume dies away I ” 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 beam’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. 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 off’ring in ; And she already hears the trees Of Eden, with their crystal bells Ringing in that ambrosial breeze That from the throne of Alla 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 ! 2 1 “ In the East, they suppose the Phoenix to have fifty orifices in his bill, which arc 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 which sets fire to the wood, and consumes himself.” — Richardson. 2 “ On the shores of a quadrangular lake stand a thousand goblets, made of stars, out of which souls pre- destined to enjoy felicity drink the crystal wave.” — From Ch&teaubriand's Description of the Mahometan Paradise, in his Beavties of Christianity. 3 Richardson thinks that Syria had its name from Suri, a beautiful and delicate species of rose, for which that country has been always famous ; — hence, Suristan, the Land of Roses. But, ah 1 even Peris’ hopes are vain — Again the Fates forbade, again The’ immortal barrier closed — “Not yet,” The Angel said, as, with regret, He shut from her that glimpse of glory — “ True wa3 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 Gate of Heav’n for thee.” Now, upon Syria’s land of roses 1 2 3 Softly the light of Eve reposes, And, like a glory, the broad sun Hangs over sainted Lebanon ; Whose head in wintry grandeur tow’rs, And whitens with eternal sleet, While summer, in a vale of flow’rs, 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, the sparkling from below 1 Fair gardens, shining streams, with ranks Of golden melons on their banks, More golden where the sun -light falls ; — Gay lizards, glitt’ring on the walls 4 * * 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 Peristal. And then the mingling sounds that come, ' Of shepherd’s ancient reed, 5 with hum Of the wild bees of Palestine, 6 Banqueting through the flow’ry 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 secs the Sun look down On that great Temple, once his own, 8 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 I 4 « The number of lizards I saw one day in the great court of the Temple of the Sun at Balbec amounted to many thousands ; the ground, the walls, and stones of the ruined buildings, wero covered with them.” — • Bruce. 5 “ The Syrinx or Pan’s pipe is still a pastoral instru- ment in Syria.” — Russel. 6 “ Wild bees, frequent in Palestine, in hollow trunks or branches of trees, and the clefts of rocks. Thus it is said (Psalm lxxxi.), ‘ honey out of the stony rock.' ” — Burdcr's Oriental Customs. 7 ‘‘The river Jordan is on both sides beset with little, thick, and pleasant woods, among which thou- sands of nightingales warble all together.” — Thevt - not. 8 Tho Temple of the Sun at Balbec. 292 MOORE'S WORKS. 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 Solomox, 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 60 60 on An erring Spirit to the skies. Cheer’d by this hope she bends her thither ; — Still laughs the radiant eye of Ilcavcn, Nor have the golden bowers of Even In the rich West begun to wither ; — When, o’er the vale of Balbkc winging Slowly, she sees a child at play, Among the rosy wild fiow’rs singing, As rosy and as wild ns they ; Chasing, with eager hands and eyes, The beautiful blue damsel-flies,' That flutter’d round the jasmine stems, Like winged flow’rs 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’d 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 profan’d — Oaths broken — and the threshold stain’d With blood of guests 1 — 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 burnt all night Through some impure and godless rite, Encounter morning’s glorious rays. But, hark I the vesper calls to pray ’r, As slow the orb of daylight sets, 1 “ You behold there a considerable number of a remarkable species of beautiful insects, the elegance of whose appearance and their attire j>rocured for them the name of Damsels.” — Sonnini. 2 Imaret, ‘‘hospice ou on loge et nourrit, gratis, les pclerins pendant trois jours.” — Toderini, trans- lated by the Abb4 dr Cournand. See also Castellan’s JUoeurs des Ottomans, tom. v. p. 145. 3 “ Such Turks as at the common hours of prayer are on the road, or so employed as not to find conve- nience to attend the mosques, are still obliged to exe- cute that duty ; nor are they ever known to fail, what- ever business they are then about, but pray immediately when the hour alarms them, whatever they are about, In that yery place they chance to stand on; insomuch Is rising sweetly on the air, From Syria’s thousand minarets ! The boy has started from the bed Of flow’rs, where he had laid his head, And down upon the fragrant sod Kneels ,3 with his forehead to the south, Lisping the’ eternal name of God From Furity’s own cherub mouth, And looking, while his hands and eyes Are lifted to the glowing 6kies, Like a stray babe of Paradise, Just lighted on that flow’ry plain, And seeking for its home again. 011 1 ’twas a sight — that Ileav’n — that child A scene, which might have well beguil’d Ev’n haughty Ep.lis of a sigh For glories lost and peace gone by 1 And how felt 7ie, 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 ivas a time,” he said, in mild, Ileart-liumbled tones — “thou blessed child 1 “ 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 moon “ Falls through the withering airs of June “ Upon Egypt’s land, 1 2 3 ' of so healing a pow’r, “ So balmy a virtue, that ev’n in the hour “ That drop descends, contagion dies, “ And health re-animates earth and skies l — ’ “ 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 By the child’s side, in humble pray’r, While the same sunbeam shines upon The guilty and the guiltless one, And hymns of joy proclaim through Heav’n The triumph of a Soul Forgiv’n I that when a janissary, whom you have to guard you up anil down the city, hears the notice which is given him from the steeples, he will turn about, stand still, and beckon with his hand, to tell his charge he must have patience for awhile ; when, taking out his hand- kerchief, he spreads it on the ground, sits cross-legged thereupon, and says his prayers, though in the open market, which, having ended, he leaps briskly up, salutes the person whom he undertook to convey, and renews his journey with the mild expression of 6 'hell gohnnum g/iell, or, Come, dear, follow me.” — • Aaron Hill’s Travels. 4 The Nucta, or Miraculous Drop, which falls in Egypt precisely on St. John’s day, in June, and is sup posed to have the effect of stopping the plague. LALLA ROOKH. 293 *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 check. To mortal eye this light might seem A northern dash or meteor beam — But well the’ enraptur’d Peki knew ’Twas a bright smile the Angel threw From Heaven’s gate, to hail that tear ller harbinger of glory near I “ Joy, joy for ever ! my task is done — “ The gates are pass’d, and Heav’n is won ! “ Oh ! am I not happy ? I am, I am — “ To thee, sweet Eden ! how dark and sad “ Are the diamond turrets of Siiadukiam, 1 “ And the fragrant bowers of Ambeuabad ! “ Farewell, ye odours of Earth, that die “ Passing away like a lover’s sigh ; — “ My feast is now of the Tooba Tree, 2 “ 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, springing by A el a’s throne, 3 “ 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 ! ” “ And this,” said the Great Chamberlain, “is roetry ! 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 more 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 1 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. 2 The tree Tooba, that stands in Paradise, in the palace of Mahomet. See Sale's Prelim. Disc. — Tooba, says D'JIerbelot , signifies beatitude, or eternal happi- ness. . 3 Mahomet is described, in the 53d 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 com- mentators, stands in the seventh Heaven, on the right hand of the Throne of God. 4 “ It is said that the rivers or streams of Basra were reckoned in the time of Pelal ben Abi Bordeli, and amounted to the number of one hundred and twenty thousand streams.” -J Kin Uaukal. 5 The name of the javelin with which the Easterns exercise. See Castellan, Mceurs des Othomans, tom. iii. p. 101. 6 “ This account excited a desire .of visiting the I Streams of Basra.4 They who succeeded in this style deserved chastisement for their very success ; — as warriors have been punished, even after gaining a victory, because they had taken the liberty of gaining it in an irregular or unesta- blished 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 negligence ; — who, like them, flung the jereed 5 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 allow themselves, like one of those young pagans that dance before the Princess, who is ingenious enough to move as if her limbs were fettered, in a pair of the lightest and loosest drawers of Masulipatam 1 ” 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 skies, — a drop of blood, forsooth, a sigh, and a tear 1 How the first of these articles was delivered into the Angel’s “radiant hand” he professed himself at a loss to discover ; 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 incur- ably frivolous, — puny even among its own puny race, and such as only the Banyan Hospital 1 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 be drawn forth, like that of the fragrant grass near the Ganges, by crushing and trampling upon them 7 ; — that severity often extinguished every chance of the perfection which it demanded ; and that, after all, per- fection was like the Mountain of the Talisman, — no one had ever yet reached its summit.** Banyan Hospital, as I had heard much of their bene- volence to all kinds of animals that were either sick- lame, or infirm, through age or accident. On rny arrival, there were presented to my view many horse;, cows, and oxen, in one apartment ; in another, dogr, sheep, goats, and monkej's, with clean straw for them to repose on. Above stairs were depositories for seeds of many sorts, and flat, broad dishes for water, for the use of birds and insects.” — Parson's Travels. It i3 said that all animals know the Banyans, that the most timid approach them, and that birds will fly nearer to them than to other people. — See Grand- pr£. 7 “A very fragrant grass from the banks of the Ganges, near Hcridwar, which in some places covers whole acres, and diffuses, when crushed, a strong odour.” — Sir W. Jones on the Spikenard of the An- cients. 8 “ Near this is a curious hill, called Koli Talism, the Mountain of the Talisman, because, according to the traditions of the country, no person ever succeeded in gaining its summit.” — hinneir. 204 MOORE’S WORKS. Neither these gentle axioms, nor the still gentler looks with which they were inculcated, could lower for oue instant the elevation of Fadla- i>KK 2 t's eyebrows, or charm him into any thing like encouragement, or even toleration, of her poet. Toleration, indeed, was not among the weaknesses of Fadladee.v : — lie carried the same spirit into matters of poetry and of re- ligion, and, though little versed in the beauties or sublimities of either, was a perfect master of the art of persecution in both. II is zeal was the same, too, in cither pursuit ; whether the game before him was pagans or poetasters, — wor- shippers of cows, or writers of epics. They had now arrived at the splendid city of Lahore, whose mausoleums and shrines, magni- ficent and numberless, where Death appeared to share equal honours with llcaven, would have powerfully affected the heart and imagination of Lalla ItooKii, 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 super- intending the sumptuous preparations that were then making in the Saloons of the Shalimar for her reception. The chill she felt on receiving this intelligence, — which to a bride whose heart was free and light would have brought only images of affection and pleasure, — convincedher that her peace was gone for ever, and that she was in love, irretrievably in love, with young Fera- mokz. The veil had fallen off in which this pas- sion at first disguises itself, and to know that she loved was now as painful as to love without know- ing it hadbeen delicious. Feramorz, too,— what misery would be his, if the sweet hours of inter- course 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 he should have yielded to the influence of those long and happy interviews, where music, poetry, the delightful scenes of nature, — all had 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 1 1 2 3 She saw but one way to preserve herself from being culpable as well as uu happy, and this, however painful, she was re- solved to adopt. Fekaxioez must no more be admitted to her presence. To have strayed 60 far into the dangerous labyrinth was wrong, but to linger in it, while the clue 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 endeavour to forget the short dream of hap • piness she had enjoyed, — like that Arabian shep- herd, who, in wandering into the wilderness, 1 “ The Arabians believe that the ostriches hatch their young by only looking at them.” — 2*. Van- tlcbe , Ktlat.d'Eyypte. 2 See Sale’s Koran, note, vol. ii. p. 4S4. 3 Oriental TaU-3. 4 Ferishta. “ Or rather,” says Scott, upon the pas- sage of Ferishta, from which this is takeu, “ small coins, stamped with the figure of a flower. They are still used in India to distribute in charity, and, on occa- caught a glimpse of the Gardens of Irim, and then lost them again for ever I 2 k The arrival of the young Bride at Lahore was celebrated in the most enthusiastic manner. The ltujas and Omras in her train, who had kept at a certain distance during the journey, and never encamped nearer to the Princess than was strictly necessary for her safeguard, here rode in splendid cavalcade through the city, and distri- buted the most costly presents to the crowd. Engines were erected in all the squares, which cast forth showers of confectionary among the people ; while the artisans in chariots 3 adorned with tinsel and flying streamers, exhibited the badges of their respective trades through the streets. Such brilliant displays of life and page- antry 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 Kookh set out again upon her journey, when she was accompanied to the gate by all the fairest and richest of the nobility, and rode along between ranks of beautiful boys and girls, who kept waving over their heads plates of gold and silver flowers, 4 and then threw them around to be gathered by the populace. For many days after their departure from Lahore, a considerable degree of gloom hung over the whole party. Lalla Rookii, who had intended to make illness her excuse for 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 memory !) for not having continued his delectable alley of trees, 5 at least as far as the mountains of Cashmere ; — while the Ladies, who had nothing now to do all day but to be fanned by peacocks’ feathers and listen to Fadladeex, seemed heartily weary of the life they led, and, in spite of all the Great Chamberlain’s criticisms, were so tasteless as to wish for the poet again. One evening, as they were proceeding 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 follow- ing 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 Ilouris’ eyes ; — Far from me their dangerous glow, If those looks that light the skies . Wound like some that burn below. sion, thrown by the pursebearers of the great among the populace.” 5 The fine road made by the Emperor Jehan-Guire from Agra to Lahore, planted with trees on each side. 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.” LALLA ROOKH. 295 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 Rookh’s heart ; — and, as she reluctantly rode on, she could not help feeling it to be a sad but still sweet certainty, that Feramorz was to the full as en- amoured 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 temples, 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. 1 In the middle of the lawn where the pavilion stood there was a tank surrounded by 6mall mangoe- trees, on the clear cold waters of which floated multitudes of the beautiful red lotus ; 2 3 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 Rookh guessed in vain, and the all-pretending Fadladeex, 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 approaching his native mountains, and this tower might perhaps be a relic of some of those dark superstitions, which had prevailed in tha country before the light of Islam dawned upon it. The Chamberlain, who usually preferred his owu 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 objection, but, before either of them could speak, a slave was despatched for Feramorz, who, in a very few minutes, made his appearance before them — looking so pale and unhappy in Lalla Rookh’s eyes, that she repented already of her cruelty iu having so long excluded him. 1 The Baya, or Indian Gross-beak. — Sir W. Jones. - “ Here is a large pagoda by a tank, on the water of which float multitudes of the beautiful red lotus : the flower is larger than that of the white water-lily, and is the most lovely of the nymphseas 1 have seen.” — Mrs. Graham's Journal of a Residence in India. 3 “ On les voit persecutes par les Klialifes se retirer dans les montagnes du Kerman: plusieurs choisirent ponr retraite la Tartarie et la Chine; d’autres s’arrd- terent sur les bords du Gange, a l’est de Delhi.” — M. AnquetU , Memoires do PAcademie, tom. xxxi. p. o46» 4 The u Ager ardens ” described by Kemp/cr, Amoe- nitat. Exot. That venerable tower, he told them, was the remains of an ancient Fire-Temple, built by those Ghebers or Persians of the old religion, w r ho, many hundred years since, had fled hither from their Arab conquerors, 3 preferring liberty and their altars in a foreign land to the alternative of apos- tasy or persecution in their own. It was impos- sible, 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 4 , when suppressed 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, 5 and seen her ancient shrines and native princes swept away before the march of her intolerant invaders, he felt a sym- pathy, he owned, with the sufferings of the per- secuted Ghebers, which every monument like this before 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, “Bigoted conquerors ! — sympathy with Fire-worshippers” 6 — 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 struggles of the brave Fire-worship- pers 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 Rookii to refuse ; — he had never before looked half so ani- mated ; 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 FADLADEENsat in unspeakable dismay, expecting treason and abomination in every line, the poet thus began his story of the Fire-worship- pers : — 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. 5 “ Cashmere (says its historians) had its own princes 4000 years before its conquest by Akbar in 1585. Akbar Mould have found some difficulty to reduce this para- dise of the Indies, situated as it is within such a fortress of mountains, but its monarch, Yusef-Khan, M as basely betrayed by his Omrahs.” — Pennant. 6 Voltaire tells us that in his Tragedy, “Les Gud- bres,” he was generally supposed to have alluded to the Jansenists. I should not be surprised if this story of the Fire-worshippers were found capable of a similar doubleness of application. 7 The Persian Gulf, sometimes so called, which se- parates the shores of Persia and Arabia. 29G MOORE’S WORKS. ’Tis moonlight in IIarmozia’s 1 2 walls, And through her Emir’s porphyry halls, Where, some hours 6ince, was heard the swell Of trumpet and the dash of zcl, 2 Bidding the bright-ey’d 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 leaf is stirr’d nor wave is driven ; — The wind-tower on the Emir’s dome 3 Can hardly win a breath from heaven. Ev’n he, 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 4 5 name. Hard, heartless Chief, unmov’d alike Mid eyes that weep, and swords that strike , — One of that saintly, murd’rous brood, To carnage and the Koran giv’n, Who think through unbelievers’ blood Lies their directest path to heav’n ; — 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 ; 3 — Nay, who can coolly note the line, The letter of those words divine, To which his blade, with searching art, Had sunk into its victim’s heart ! Just Alla ! 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 flow’rs that glad With their pure smile the gardens round, Draw venom forth that drives men mad. 6 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 tow’rs, where Mitiira once had burn’d, To Moslem 6hrines — oh shame ! — were turn’d, Where slaves, converted by the sword, 1 The present Gombaroon, a town on the Persian side of the Gulf. 2 A Moorish instrument of music. 3 “ At Gombaroon and other places in Persia, they have towers for the purpose of catching the wind, and cooling the houses.” — Le. Bruyn. 4 “ Iran is the true general name for the empire of Persia.” — Asiat. Res. Disc. 5. 5 ‘‘On the blades of their scimitars some verse from the Koran is usually inscribed.” — Russel. 6 “ There is a kind of Rhododendros about Tre- bizond, whose flowers the bee feeds upon, and the honey thence drives people mad.” . — Tourncfort. Their mean, apostate worship pour’d. 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 1 And swords she hath, nor weak nor 6low To second all such hearts can dare ; As he shall know, well, dearly know, Who sleeps in moonlight lux’ry there, Tranquil as if his spirit lay Becalm’d in Heav’n’s approving ray. 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 moonbeam’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, 7 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 radiant Fountain Springing in a desolate mountain 1 8 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 flow’r that blooms beneath the sea, Too deep for sunbeams, doth not lie Hid in more chaste obscurity. So, Hinda, have thy lace and mind, Like holy myst’ries, lain enshrin’d. And oh, what transport for a lover To lift the veil that shades them o’er ! — . 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 0 dales, And bright the glancing looks they hide Behind their litters’ roseate veils ; — And brides, as delicate and fair As the white jasmine flow’rs they wear, Hath Yemen in her blissful clime, AVho, lull’d in cool kiosk or bow’r, 1 ® 7 “ Their kings wear plumes of black heron’s fea- thers upon the right side, as a badge of sovereignty.” — • llanivay. 8 “ The Fountain of Youth, by a Mahometan tra- dition is situated in some dark region of the East.” — Richardson. 9 Arabia Felix. 10 “ In the midst of the garden is the chiosk, that is a large room, commonly beautified with a fine fountain in the midst of it. It is raised nine or ten steps, and in- closed with gilded lattices, round which vines, jessa- mines, and honey suckles, make a sort of green wall ; large trees arc planted round this place, which is the LALLA ROOKII. 29: Before their mirrors count the time, 1 And grow still lovelier ev’ry hour. But never yet hath bride or maid In Araby’s gay Haram 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 em’rald’s virgin blaze ; — 2 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 : 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 beautiful than light elsewhere. Such is the maid who, at this hour, Hath risen from her restless sleep, And sits alone in that high bow’r, Watching the still and shining deep. Ah 1 ’twas not thus, — with tearful eyes And beating heart, — she us’d 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 with’ring fire, 3 He built her bow’r of freshness there, And had it deck’d with costliest skill, And fondly thought it safe as fair : — scene of their greatest pleasures .” — Lady M. IF. Montagu. 1 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 miles 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 def’rence 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. 1! “ They say that if a snake or serpent fix his eyes on the lustre of those stones (emeralds), he imme- diately becomes blind.” — Ahmed, ben Abdalaziz, Trea- tise on Jewels. a At Gombaroon and the Isle of Ormus it is some- times so hot, that the people are obliged to lie all day ip the water.”— Marco Fob, Think, reverend dreamer ! think so still, Nor wake to learn what Love can dare ; — Love, all-defying Love, who secs 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 tow’r, that rock-way rude, There’s one who, but to kiss thy check, Would climb the’ untrodden solitude Of Ararat’s tremendous peak,* And think its steeps, though dark and dread, Heav’n’s pathways, 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 I Like her to whom, at dead of night, The bridegroom, with his locks of light, 5 Came, in the flush of love and pride, And scal’d the terrace of his bride ; — When, as she saw him rashly spring, And midway up in danger cling, She flung him down her long black hair, Exclaiming, breathless, “ There, love, there ! ’ 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 Hixda’s bower. See — light as up their granite steeps The rock-goats of Arabia clamber, 1 5 Fearless from crag to crag he leaps, And now is in 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 wond’ring eyes, and wing away I 4 This mountain is generally supposed to be inac- cessible. Strurj says, “ I can well assure the reader that their opinion is not true, who suppose this nioun- to be inaccessible.” He adds, that “ the lower part of the mountain is cloudy, misty, and dark, the middle- most part very cold, and like clouds of snow, but the upper regions perfectly calm.” — It was on this mountain that the Ark was supposed to have rested after the Deluge, and part of it, they say, exists there still, which Struy thus gravely accounts for : — “ Whereas none can remember that the air on the top of the hill did ever change or was subject either to wind or rain, which is presumed to be the reason that the Ark has endured so long without being rotten.” See Carreri’s Travels , where the doctor laughs at this whole account of Mount Ararat. 5 In one of the books of the Shah Nameli, when Zal (a celebrated hero of Persia, remarkable for his white hair,) comes to the terrace of his mistress Rod- ahver at night, she lets down her long tresses to assist him in his ascent : . he, however, manages it in a less romantic way by fixing his crook in a project- ing beam — See Champion's Ferdosi. 6 “ On the lofty hills of Arabia rctreca are reck goat*.”— Niebuhr, 2 08 MOORE’S WORKS. Will he thus fly — her nameless lover ? Alla forbid 1 ’twas by a moon As fair ns this, while singing over Some ditty to her soft Kanoon,! Alone, at this same witching hour, She first beheld his radiaut eyes Gleam through the lattice of the bow’r, 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 I 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, — Yet often since, w hen he hath spoken Strange, awful words, — and gleams have broken From his dark eyes, too bright to bear. Oh I she hath fear’d her soul was giv’n 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, Bewilder’d left the glorious skies, And lost their heav’n for woman’s eyes.) Fond girl 1 nor fiend nor angel lie Who woos thy young simplicity ; But one of earth’s impassion’d sons, As warm in love, as fierce in ire, As the best heart whose current runs Fnll 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. “ How sweetly,” said the trembling maid, Of her ow r n gentle voice afraid, So long had they in silence stood, Looking upon that tranquil flood — “ How 6w r eetly does the moon -beam smile “ To-night upon yon leafy isle I “ Oft, in my fancy’s wanderings, “ I’ve wish’d that little isle had wings, “ And we, within its fairy bow’rs, “ Were wafted .off to seas unknown, “ Where not a pulse should beat but ours, “ And we might live, love, die alone 1 “ 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 6he turn’d, that he might see The passing smile her cheek put on ; But when she mark’d how mournfully His eyes met hers, that smile was gone ; And, bursting into heart-felt tears, “ Yes, ye3,” she cried, “ my hourly fears, “ My dreams have boded all too right — “ We part — for ever part — to-night I “ I knew, I knew it could not last — “ ’Twas bright, ’twas heavenly, but ’tis past ’ “ Oh ! ever thus, from childhood’s hour, “ I’ve seen my fondest hopes decay ; “ I never lov’d a tree or flow’r, “ But ’twas the 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 sec thee, hear thee, call thee mine, — “ Oh misery ! must I lose that too ? “ Yet go — on peril’s brink we meet ; — “ Those frightful rocks — thattreach’rous sea — “ No, never come again — though sweet, “ Though heav’n, it may be death to thee. “ F arewell — and blessings ou thy way, “ Where’er thou goest, beloved stranger ! “ Better to sit and watch that ray, “ And think thee safe, though far away, “ Then 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 1 — ” “ Say on — thou fear’st not then, “ And we may meet — oft meet again ? ” “ Oh I 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, “ ’Tw r ould 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 Hcav’n “ Mingle two souls that earth has riv’n, “ Has rent asunder wide as ours ? “ Oh, Arab maid, as soon the Powers “ Of Light and Darkness may combine, “ As I be link’d with thee or thine 1 “ Thy Father — ” “ Holy Alla 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 6wear his lisping maid “ In time should be a warrior’s bride. “And still, whene’er at Ilaram hours, “ I take him cool sherbets and flow’rs, 1 “Canun, espece de psalterion, avec dos cordee do boyaux ; les dames cn touchent dans le serail, avec des decailles arruees de poinles de cooc.' Toderini, translated by De Cournand. LALLA ROOKH. 293 “ 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 1 “ Nay, turn not from me — thou alone “ Art form’d to make both hearts thy own. “ Go — join his sacred ranks — thou know’st “ The’ unholy strife these Persians wage : — “ Good Heav’n , that frown! —even now thou glow’st “ 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 vict’ry 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. — 1 “ Here, maiden, look — weep — blush to see “ All that thy sire abhors in me I “ Yes — I 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 : 2 “ Yes — I am of that outcast few, “ To Iran and to vengeance true, “ Who curse the hour your Arabs came To desolate cur 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 glimm’ring light, “ And up the rude rocks desp’rately “ Hush’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 hath made one thought his own, “ That Vengeance claims first — last — alone 1 “ Oh ! had we never, never met, “ Or could this heart ev’n now forget “ llow link’d, how bless’d we might have been, “ Had fate not frown’d so dark between I “ 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 awak’ning 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 thee, — “ God ! who could then this sword withstand ? “ Its very flash were victory l “ But now — estrang’d, divorc’d for ever, “ Far as the grasp of Fate can sever ; “ Our only ties what love has wove, — “ In faith, friends, 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 ! “ No — sacred to thy soul will be “ The land of him who could forget “ All but that bleeding land for thee. “ When other eyes shall see, unmov’d, “ Her widows mourn, her warriors fall, “ Tliou’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, 1 2 3 Flew up all sparkling from the main, As if each star that nightly falls, Were shooting back to heav’n 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 l ” 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. 1 “ They (the Ghebers) lay so much stress on their cushcc or girdle, as not to dare to be an instant with- out it.” — Grose's Voyage. — “Le jeune homme nia d’abord la chose; mais, ayant ete depouille de sa robe, et la large ceinture qu’il portoit comme Ghfcbre,” &c. &c — D'JIerbelot , art. Agduani. “Pour se distin- ,guer des Idol&tres de l’Inde, les Gufebres se ceignent tous d’un cordon de laine, ou do poil de chameau.” — EncyclopMie Franqoise. D’Hcrbelot says this belt was generally of leather. 2 “ They suppose the Throne of the Almighty is seated in the sun, and hence their worship of that luminary.” — Hanway. “ As to fire, the Ghebers place the spring-head of it in that globe of fire, the Sun, by them called Mytliras, or Mihtr, to which they pay the highest reverence, in gratitude for the manifold bene- fits flowing from its ministerial 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 go- verned by the immediate impression on it of the will of God ; but they do not even give that luminary, all-glo- rious as it is, more than the* second rank amongst his works, reserving the first for that stupendous pro- duction 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.” 3 “The Mamelukes that were in the other boat, when it was dark, used to shoot up a sort of fiery arrow 3 into the air, which in some measure resembled light- ning or falling stars.” — Baumgarte'*. 300 MOORE’S WORKS. “ 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 1 ” But no — their hour i9 not yet come — Again she sees his pinnace fly, Watting 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 pence within, Nor left one breaking heart behind 1 The Princess, whose heart was sad enough already, could have wish’d that Feramorz had chosen a less melancholy story ; as it is only to the happy that tears arc a luxury. Her Ladies, however, were by no means sorry that love was once more the Poet’s theme ; for, whenever 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.t Their road all the mGrning had lain through a very dreary country ; — through valleys, covered with a low bushy jungle, where in more than one place, the awful signal of the bamboo staff, 1 2 3 with the white flag on its top, reminded the traveller that, in that very spot, the tiger had made some human creature his victim. It was, therefore, with much pleasure 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 natural temples of religion. Beneath this spacious shade some pious hands had erected a row of pillars ornamented with the most beautiful porcelain, 3 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 criti- cism by her side, the young Poet, leaning against a branch of the tree, thus continued his story : — 1 “ Within the enclosure which surrounds this monu- ment (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.” — Narra- tive of a Journey from, Ayr a to Ouzein, by W. Hunter, Esq. 2 “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. It is com- mon for the passengers also to throw each a stone or brick near the spot, so that in the course of a little time a pile equal to a good waggon-load is collected. The tight of these flags and piles of stones imparts a certain melancholy, not" perhaps altogether void of apprehen- sion. ” — Oriental Field Sports, vol. ii. 3 “ The Ficus Indica is called the Pagod Tree and Tree of Councils ; the first, from the idols placed under its shade; the second, because meetings were held under its cool branches. In some places it is believed to be the haunt of spec tres, as the ancient spreading oaks of Wales have be*;n of fairies ; in others are erected The morn hath risen clear anti calm, And o’er the Green Sea 4 palely shines, Revealing Bahrein’s 5 * groves of palm, And lighting Kisiima’s 5 amber vines. Fresli smell the shores of Arabv, While breezes from the Indian Sea Blow round Selama’s fi sainted cape, And curl the shining flood beneath, — Whose waves are rich with many a grape, And cocoa-nut and flow’ry wreath, Which pious seamen, as they pass’d, Had tow’rd that holy headland cast — Oblations to the Genii there For gentle skies and breezes fair ! The nightingale now bends her flight 7 From the high trees, where all the night She sung so sweet, with none to listen ; 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 8 That ever youthful Sultan wore On the first morning of His reign. And see — the Sun himself 1 — on wings Of glory up the East he springs. Angel of Light 1 who from the time Those heavens began their march sublime, Hath 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-flow’r, turn’d To meet that eye where’er it burn’d ? — When, from the banks of Bexdemeei: 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’s 8 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, 10 Or on the snowy Mossian mountains, Far from his beauteous land of dates, Her jasmine bow’rs and sunny fountains ; beneath the shade pillars of stone, or posts, elegantly carved, and ornamented with the most beautiful porce- lain to supply the use of mirrors.” — Pennant. 4 The Persian Gulf. — “ To dive for pearls in the Green Sea or Persian G ulf. ” — Sir W. Jones. 5 Islands in the Gulf. 6 Or Selemeh, the genuine name of the headland at the entrance of the Gulf, commonly called Cape Mus- seldom. “ The Indians, when they pass the pro- montory, throw cocoa-nuts, fruits, or flowers into the sea, to secure a propitious voyage.” — Morier. 7 “ The nightingale sings from the pomegranate- groves in the day-time, and from the loftiest trees at night.” Russel's Aleppo. 8 In speaking of the climate of Shiraz, Francklin says, “ The dew is of such a pure nature, that if the brightest scimitar should be exposed to it all night, it would not receive the least rust.” 0 The place where the Persians were finally defeated by the Arabs, and their ancient monarchy destroyed. 10 Derbend — “ Les Turcs appelent cette ville Demir Capi, Porte de Fer ; ce sont les Caspiae Portae do3 aucieus.” — E'Hcrbeiot. LALLA ROOKH. 301 Yet happier so than it lie trod His own beiov’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 conqu’ror’s creed ! Is Iran’s pride then gone for ever, Quench’d with the flame in Mitiira’s caves? — No — she has sons, that never — never — Will stoop to be the Moslem’s slaves. While heav’n has 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 treaCh’rous 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 tow’r, And, had he reach’d thy slumb’ring breast, Had taught thee, in a Gheber’s pow’r 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, ev'n here, a sacred band Ay, 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 — Rebellion 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, Hath sunk beneath that with’ring 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, Darken to fogs and sink again ; — 1 The Talpot or Talipot tree. “ This beautiful palm- tree, which grows in the heart of the forests, may be classed among the loftiest trees, and becomes still higher when on the point of bursting forth from its leafy sum- mit. The sheath which then envelopes the flower is very large, and, when it bursts, makes an explosion like the report of a cannon.” — Thunberg. 2 ’When the bright cimitars make the eyes of our heroes wink.” — The Moallakat, Poem of A mini. 3 Tahmuras, and other ancient Kings of Persia, whose adventures in Fairy-land among the Peris and Dives may be found in Richardson’s curious Disser- tation. The griflin Simoorgh, they say, took some 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 I And who is he, that wields the might Of Freedom on the Green Sea brink, Before whose sabre’s dazzling light 2 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 IIafed — name of fear, whose sound Chills like the mutt’ring of a charm ! — Shout but that awful name around, And palsy shakes the manliest arm. ’Tis IIafed, most accurs’d and dire (So rank’d by Moslem hate and ire) Of all the rebel Sons of Fire ; Of whose malign, tremendous power The Arabs, at their mid- watch hour, Such tales of fearful wonder tell, That each alfrighted 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 2 3 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 I Such were the tales, that won belief, And such the colouring Fan.cy 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 1 As Lebanon’s small mountain-flood Is render’d holy by the ranks Of sainted cedars on its banks. 4 ’Twas not for him to crouch the knee Tamely to Moslem tyranny ; feathers from her breast for Tahmuras, with which he adorned his helmet, and transmitted them after- wards to his descendants. 4 This rivulet, says Dandini, is called the Holy River from the “ cedar-saints ” among which it rises. In the Lettres 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” — Chateaubriand's Beauties of Chris- tianity. SO! MOORE’S WORKS. 'Twas not for him, whose soul was cast In the bright mould of agC3 past, Whose melancholy spirit, ffcd 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, ns lie 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 1 But vain was valour — vain the flow’r Of Kerman, in that deathful hour. Against Al Hassan’s whelming pow’r,— 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 lin’d their shore, Myriads of slaves were wafted o’er, — A bloody, bold, and countless crowd, Before whose swarm as fast they bow’d As dates beneath the locust cloud. There stood — hut one short league away From old IIakmozia’s sultry bay — A rocky mountain, o’er the Sea Of Oman beetling awfully ; 1 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, Bike 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 1 2 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 1 Beneath, terrific caverns gave Dark welcome to each stormy wave 1 This mountain is my own creation, as the “stu- pendous chain,” of which I suppose it a link, does not extend quite so far as the shores of the Persian Gulf. “ This long and lofty range of mountains formerly divided Media from Assyria, and now forms the bound- ary of the Persian and Turkish empires. It runs parallel with the river Tigris and Persian Gulf, and almost dis- appearing in the vicinity of Gomberoon (Harmozia), seems once more to rise in the southern districts of Kerman, and following an easterly course through the centre of Meckraun and Balouchistan, is entirely lost in the deserts of Sinde.” — Kinnier's Persian Empire. 2 These birds sleep in the air. They are most common about the Cape of Good Hope. 3 “ There i3 an extraordinary hill in this neighbour- hood, called Kohe Gubr, or the Guebre’s mountain. It rises in the form of a lofty cupola, and on the sum- mit of it they say, are the remains of an Atush Kudu or That dash'd, like midnight revellers, iu — 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. 3 On the land side, those tow’rs 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 imprison’d flow, Or floods of ever-restless flame. For, each ravine, each rocky spire Of that vast mountain stood on fire ; 4 And, though for ever past the days When God was worshipp’d in the blaze That from its lofty altar shone, — Though fled the priests, the vot’ries gone, Still did the mighty flame burn on, 5 Through chance andchange, through good and ill Like its own God’s eternal will, Deep, constant, bright, unquenchable I Thither the vanquish’d IIafed 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 tow’rs, — “ 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 1 ” — ’Twas night when to those towers they came, And gloomily the fitful flame, Fire Temple. It is superstitiously held to be the resi- dence 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.” — Pottinger's Eeloochistan. 4 The Ghebers generally built their temples over subterraneous fires. 5 “ At the city of Yezd, in Persia, which is distin- guished 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 in- dulgence they are indebted to the avarice, not the toler- ance, of the Persian government, which taxes them at twenty-five rupees each man,” — Pottinger's Bcloo- chistan. LALLA HOOIOi. 803 That from the ruin’d altar broke, Glared 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 driv’n “ Before a sensual bigot’s nod, “ A wretch who shrines his lust in heav'n, “ 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 Rustam * rolls,— “ If they will court this upstart race, “ And turn from Mithra’s ancient ray, “ To kneel at shrines of yesterday ; “ If they will crouch to Iran’s foes, “ Why, let them — till the land’s despair “ Cries out to Heav’n, 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 profaned ; “ And though but few— though fast the wave “ Of life is ebbing from our veins, “ Enough for vengeance still remains. “ As panthers, after set of sun, “ Rush from the foots of Lebanon “ Across the dark-sea robber’s way, 2 “ 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 ” Ilis 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 mould’ring tow’rs Was seen the feast of fruits and flow’rs, With which of old the Magi fed The wand’ring Spirits of their dead ; 1 2 3 4 Though neither priest nor rites were there, Nor charmed leaf of pure pomegranate ; •* Nor hymn, nor censer’s fragrant air, Nor symbol of their worshipp’d planet ; 5 Yet the same God that heard their sires Heard them , vfliile on that altar’s fires Thof r swore 6 the latest, holiest deed Of the few hearts, still left to bleed, 1 Ancient heroes of Persia. “ Among the Guebres there are some, who boast their descent from Rustam.” — Stephen's Persia. 2 See Russel’s account of the panther’s attacking travellers in the night on the sea-shore about the roots of Lebanon. 3 “ Among other ceremonies the Magi used to place upon the tops of high towers various kinds of rich viands, upon which rt was supposed the Peris and the spirits of their departed heroes regaled themselves.” — Richardson. 4 “ In rhe ceremonies of tho Ghebers round their Fire, as described by Lord, “ the Daroo,” he says, “ giveth them water to drink, and a pomegranate leaf to chew in tho mouth, to cleanse them from inward uncleanness.” ; Should be, in Iran’s injur’d name, To die upon that Mount of Flame — The last of all her patriot line. Before her last untrampled Shrine ! Brave, suffering souls 1 they little knew How many a tear their injuries drew From one meek maid, 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 Ilis talisman, and woke the tide, And spread its trembling circles wide. 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 tow’rs, 7 Before the combat’s redd’ning stain Hath fhll’n upon her golden flow’rs. Light-hearted maid, unaw’d, unmov’d, While Heaven but spar’d the sire she lov’d, Once at thy evening tales of blood Unlist’ning 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 hath 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 ! Oft doth her sinking heart recall 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 ev’ry Gheber wretch that bleeds. There’s not a sabre meets her eye, But with his life-blood seems to swim ; 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 shudd ring frame, When from the field of blood he came, The falt’ring speech — the look estrang’d — Voice, step, and life, and beauty chang’d — He would have mark’d all this, and known Such change is wrought by Love alone 1 5 “Early in the morning, they (the Parsecs or Ghebers at Oulam) go in crowds to pay their devotions to the Sun, to whom upon all the altars there are spheres consecrated, mado 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 their hands, and offer incense to the sun.” — Rabbi Benjamin. G “Nul d’entreeux oseroit sc parjurer, quand il a pris d temoin cet Element terrible et veugeur.” — Encyclop. Franqoise. 7 “A vivid verdnre succeeds the autumnal rains, and the ploughed fields are covered with the Persian lily, of a resplendent yellow colour.” — Russel’s Aleppo* 304 MOORE’S WORKS Ah ! not the Love, that should have blcss’d So young, so Innocent a breast ; Not the pure, open, prosp’rous Lore, That, pledg’d on earth and scal’d above, Grows in the world’s approving eyes, In friendship’s smile and home’s caress, Collecting nil the heart’s sweet ties Into one knot of happiness ! No, IIixda, 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 vot’ries keep Unholy watch, while others sleep. Seven nights have darken’d Oman’s 6en, Since lost, 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 bow’r, And watch, and look along the deep For him whose smiles first made her weep ; — But watching, weeping, all was vain, She never saw his 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, Which reek’d with that day’s banqueting — Was all she saw, was all she heard. ’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 IIericend’s Sea, When toss’d at midnight furiously,! . Tells not of wreck and ruin nigh, More surely than that smiling eye ! “ Up, daughter, up — the Kerxa’s '■* breath “ nas blown a blast would waken death, “ And yet thou sleep’st — up, child, and see “ This blessed day for Ileav’n 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 tow’rs, “ Hafed, my child, this night is ours. “ Thanks to all-conqu’ring treachery, “ Without whose aid the links accurst, “ That bind these impious slaves, would be “ Too strong for Alla’s self to burst I 1 “ Tils observed, with respect to the Sea of Herkend, that when it is tossed by tempestuous winds it sparkles like fire.” — Travels of Two Mohammedans. 2 A kind of trumpet; — it “was that used by Tamerlane, the sound of which is described as uncom- monly dreadful, and so loud as to be heard at the distance of several miles.” — Richardson. 3 “Mohammed had two helmets, an interior and exterior one; the latter of M-hich, called Al Mawashah, the fillet, wreath, or wreathed garland, lie wore at the battle of Ohod.” — Universal History. “ That rebel fiend, whose blade lias spread “ My path with piles of Moslem dead, “ Whose baffling spells had almost driv’n “ Back from their course the Swords of Heav’n “ 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 1 by that holy wreath “ Thou wor’st on Ohod’s field of death,* “ I swear, for cv’ry sob that parts “ In anguish from these 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, “ This life of blood befits not thee, “ And thou must back to Arary. “ Ne’er had I risk’d thy timid 6ex “ In scenes that man himself might dread, “ Had I not hop’d our ev’ry 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 tow’rs, “ Thou’lt see thy own sweet Arab bow’rs ! ” Jlis 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 pathway through the valley’s shade To those high tow’rs, where Freedom stood In her last hold of flame 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 Heav’n 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 treach’ries to the brim,— With hopes, that but allure to fly, With joys, that vanish while lie sips, Like Dead Sea fruits, that tempt the eye, But turn to ashes on the lips I 1 2 3 4 4 “ They say that there are apple-trees upon the sides of this sea, which bear very lovely fruit, but within are all full of ashes.” — Thevenot. 'The same ia asserted of the oranges there ; vide Witman's Tra- vels in Asiatic Turkey. “ The Asphalt Lake, known by the name of the Dead Sea, is very remarkable on account of the consi- derable proportion of salt which it contains. In this respect it surpasses every other known water on the surface of the earth. This great proportion of bitter- tasted salts is the reason why neither animal not LALLA ROOKH. 305 His country’s curse, his children’s shame, Outcast of virtue, peace and fame, May he, at last, with lips of flame On the parch’d desert thirsting die, — While lakes, that shone in mockery nigh,' Are fading off, 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 heav’n, and feeling hell 1 L illa Rookh had, the night before, been visited by a dream which, in spite of the impending fate of poor IIafed, 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 pass’d over. 2 She fancied that she was sailing on that Eastern Ocean, where the sea-gipsies, who live for ever on the water 3, 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 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, every thing else was forgotten, and the continu- ance of the story was instantly requested by all. Fresh wood of aloes was set to burn in the casso- lets ; — the violet sherbets 4 were hastily handed round, and after a short prelude on his lute, in the pathetic measure of Nava 5 , which is always used to express the lamentations of absent lovers, the Poet thus continued : — plant can live in this water.” — Klaproth's Chemical Analysis of the Water of the Dead Sea, Annals of Phi- losophy, January, 1813. Hasselquist, however, doubts the truth of this last assertion, as there are shell-fish to be found in the lake. 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, — magnificent beyond any thing, perhaps, that even he has ever written. 1 “ The Suhrab or Water of the Desert is said to be caused by the rarefaction of the atmosphere from ex- treme heat ; and, which augments the delusion, it is most frequent in hollows, where water might be ex- pected to lodge. I have seen bushes and trees reflected in it, with as much accuracy as though it had been the face of a clear and still lake.” — Pottinger. “ As to the unbelievers, their works are like a va- pour in a plain, which the thirsty traveller thinketh to be M ater, until when he cometh thereto he findeth it to be nothing.” — Koran, chap. 24. 2 “ A wind which prevails in February, called Bid- musk, from a small and odoriferous flower of that name.” — “The wind which blows these flowers com- monly lasts till the end of the month .” — Le Bruyn. 3 “The Biajiis are of two races: the one is set- tled on Borneo, and are a rude but M-arlike and in- dustrious nation, who reckon themselves the original 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 perpetual summer on the eastern ocean, shifting to leeMard from island to island, with the variations of the monsoon. In some of their customs this singular race resemble the natives Tiie day is low’ring — stilly black Sleeps the grim wave, while heav’n’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 I While some, already burst and riv’n, Seem melting down the verge of heav’n ; As though the infant 6torm had rent The mighty womb that gave him birth, 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 Ormus’ bowers, And moor’d his skiff till calmer hours ; The sea-birds, with portentous screech, Flew fast to land ; — upon the beach 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 Hilda’s bark Went slowly from the Persian shore. — No music tim’d her parting oar, 6 Nor friends upon the less’ning 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. 7 And where was stern Al IIassan then ? Could not that saintly scourge of men From bloodshed and devotion spare One minute for a farewell there ? of the Maldivia islands The Maldivians annually launch a small bark, loaded with perfumes, gums, flowers, and odoriferous wood, and turn it adrift at the mercy of wind and M aves, as an offering to the Spirit of the Winds; and sometimes similar offer- ings are made to the spirit whom they term the King of the Sea. In like manner the Biajiis perform their offering to the god of evil, launching a small bark, loaded with all the sins and misfortunes of the nation, which are imagined to fall on the unhappy crew that may be so unlucky as first to meet with it.” — Dr. Leyden on the Language and Literature of the Indo- Chinese Nations. 4 “ The sweet-scented violet is one of the plants most esteemed, particularly for its great use in Sorbet, which they make of violet sugar.” — Hasselquist. “ The sherbet they most esteem, and which is drunk by the Grand Signor himself, is made of violets and sugar.” — Tavernier. 5 “ 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.” — Per- sian Tales. 6 “ The Easterns used to set out on their longer voyages with music.” — Harmer. 7 “ The Gate of Tears, the straits or passage into the Red Sea, commonly called Babelmandcl. It re- ceived this name from the old Arabians, on account of the danger of the navigation, and the number of shipwrecks by which it was distinguished ; which in- duced them to consider as dead, and to wear mourn- ing for all who had tho boldness to hazard the pas. sage through it into the Ethiopic ocean.” — Richardson. m MOORE’S WORKS. No — close within, in changeful fits Of cursing and of pray’r, he sits In savage loneliness to brood Upon the coming night of blood, — With that keen, second-scent of death, By which the vulture snuffs his food In the still warm and living breath ! 1 While o’er the wave his weeping daughter Is wafted from these scenes of slaughter,— As a young bird of Babylox,— 2 Let loose to tell of vict’ry won, Flies home, with wing, ah 1 not unstain’d By the red hands that held her chain’d. And does the long-left home she seeks Light up no gladness on her cheeks ? The flow’rs 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 filleted with gold, Shooting around their jasper fount ; 3 Her little garden mosque to see, And once again, at evening hour, To tell her ruby rosary 4 In her own sweet acacia bow’r. — Can these delights, that wait her now, Call up no sunshine on her brow ? No, — silent, from her train apart, — As 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 tow’rs, Where, in a few short awful hours, Blood, blood, in streaming tides shall run, Foul incense for to-morrow’s sun ! “ Where art thou, glorious stranger ! thou, “ So lov’d, so lost, where art thou now ? “ Foe — Gheber — infidel — whate’er “ The’ unhallow’d name thou’rt doom’d to bear, “ Still glorious — still to this fond heart “ Dear as its blood, whate’er thou art ! “ Yes — Alla, dreadful Alla ! 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 I ” ner hands were clasp’d — her eyes upturn’d. Dropping their tears like moonlight rain ; And, though her lip, fond raver I burn’d With words of passion, bold, profane, Yet was there light around her brow, A holiness in those dark eyes, 1 “ I have been told that whensoever an animal falls down dead, one or more vultures, unseen before, in- stantly appear.” — Pennant. 2 “ They fasten some writing to the wings of a Bagdat or Babylonian pigeon.” — Travels of certain English, men. 3 “ The Empress of Jehan-Guire used to divert her- self with feeding tame fish in her canals, some of which Which show’d, — though wnnd'ring 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 ; J 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 gath’ring 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, Mast, sails, and all, were gone to wreck, Mid yells and stampings of despair I Merciful Heaven ! what can it be ? ’Tis not the storm, though fearfully The ship has shudder’d 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 stirr’d — 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 mix’d together through the chasm, — Some wretches in their dying spasm Still fighting on — and some that call “ For God and Irax I ’’ as they fall I Whose was the hand that turn’d away The perils of the’ 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 Amid the ruins of that hour Lay, like a pale and scorched flow’r, Beneath the red volcano’s shower. But, oh ! the sights and sounds of dread That shock’d her ere her senses fled 1 The yawning deck — the crowd that strove Upon the tott’ring planks above — The sail, whose fragments, shiv’ring 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 5 — as if throughout The elements one fury ran, One gen’ral rage, that left a doubt Which was the fiercer, Heav’n or Man ! were many years afterwards known by fillets of gold, which she caused to be put round them.” — Hams. 4 “Le Tespih, qui est un chapelet, compose de 99 petites boules d’agathe, de jaspe, d’ambre, de corail, ou rl’autre matidre precieuse. J’en ai vu un superbe au Seigneur Jerpos ; il etoit de belles et grosses perles par- faites et fcgales, estime trente mille piastres.” — Tode- rini. 5 The meteors that Pliny calls “ faces.” LALLA EOOKII. 307 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 1 1 whose proud light Never hath beam’d on those who rest In the White Islands of the West, 2 3 Burns through the storm with looks of flame That put Heav’n’s cloudier eyes to shame. 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 oft', and leave the land and sea Sleeping in bright tranquillity, — Fresh a3 if Day again were born, Again upon the lap of Morn 1 — 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-show’rs Have left upon the grass and flow’rs Sparkles, as ’twere that lightning-gem 2 Whose liquid flame is born of them ! When, ’stead of one unchanging breeze, There blow a thousand gentle airs, And each a diff ’rent 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 Hakmozia’s bay Bore her at morn — whose bloody way 1 “The brilliant Canopus, ungeen in European climates. ” — B ro wn. 2 See Wilford’s learned Essays on the Sacred Isles in the West. 3 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 glit- Tlie sea-dog track’d ? — no — strange and new Is all that meets her wond’ring 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. Shudd’ring she look’d around — there lay 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 Alla 1 who shall save her now ? There’s not in all that warrior band One Arab sword, one tur.ban’d brow From her own Faithful Moslem land. Their garb — the leathern belt 4 that wraps Each yellow vest 5 — that rebel hue — The Tartar fleece upon their caps — 6 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 I — 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 its 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 1 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 — 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, tering appearance, as if there had been lire in it ; and the author of the Dissertation in Harris’s Voyages supposes it to be the opal. 4 D'Herbelot, art. Agduani. 5 “ The Guebres are known by a dark yellow colour, which the men affect in their clothes.” — Thevenot. ti “ The Kolah, or cap, worn by the Persians, is made of tho skin of the sheep of Tartary.” — Waring. 308 MOORE’S WORKS. The oars are out, anil with light sound Break the bright mirror of the ocean, Scatt’ring its brilliant fragments round. And now she sees — with horror sees Their course is tow’rdthat mountain-hold,— Those tow’rs, that make her life-blood freeze, Where Mecca’s godless enemies Lie, like beleaguer’d scorpions, roll’d In their last deadly, venomous fold I Amid the’ 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 llung out to mark where death would be I Had her bewilder’d mind the pow’r 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 was 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 low’r the mast and light the brands ! — Instantly o’er the dashing tide AVithin 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 flick’ring 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 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 oars’ redoubled force Can stem the eddy’s whirling force ; AVhen.hark ! — some desp’rate 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 shudd’ring feels A viewless hand, that promptly ties A bandage round her burning eyes ; AYliile 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 I To feel thee is such real bliss, That had the world no joy but this, To sit in sunshine calm anil sweet, — It were a world too exquisite For man to leave it for the gloom, The deep, cold shadow of the tomb. Ev’n IIinda, though she saw not where Or whither wound the perilous road, Yet knew by that awak’ning air, Which suddenly around her glow’d, That they had ris’n from darkness then, And breath’d the sunny world again 1 But soon this balmy freshness fled — For now the steepy labyrinth led Through damp and gloom — ’mid crash of boughs, And fall of loosen’d crags that rouse The leopard from his hungry sleep, AVho, starting, thinks each crag a prey, And long is heard, from steep to steep, Chasing them down their thund’ring way ! The jackal’s cry — the distant moan Of the hyaena, fierce and lone — And that eternal sadd’ning 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 Relief 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 whisp’ring 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, 1 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, Hath power to make even ruin dear, — Yet soon this gleam of rapture, crost By fears for him, is chill’d and lost. How shall the ruthless Ha fed brook That one of Gheber blood should look, AVitli aught but curses in his eye, On her a maid of Araby — A Modem maid — the child of him, AVhose bloody banner’s dire success Hath left their altars cold and dim, And their fair land a wilderness ! 1 A frequent image among the Oriental poets. “ 'I he nightingales warbled their enchanting notes, and rent the thin vei!s of the rose-bud and the rose.” — Jami. LALLA ROOKIL 309 And, worse than all, that night of blood Which comes so fast — Oh 1 who shall stay The sword that once hath 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 1 ” 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 quiv’ring 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 “ Ere bless my lips, but when I pray “ For his dear spirit, that away “ Casting from its angelic ray “ The’ eclipse of earth, he, too, may shine “ Redeem’d, all glorious and all Thine I “ Think — think what victory to win “ One radiant soul like his from sin, — “ One wand’ring star of virtue back “ To its own native, heaven-ward track I “ 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 1 ” The next evening Lalla Rookii was entreated by her 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.i Fadladeen, whose indigation had more than once broken out during the recital of some parts of this 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 resumed his profane and seditious 6tory as follows : — 1 “ Blossoms of the sorrowful Nyctanthes give a durable colour to silk.” — Remarks on the lhisbandry of Bengal, p. 200. Nilica is one of the Indian names of this flower . — Sir 1 V. Jones. The Persians call it Gul. — Carreri. - “ In parts of Kerman, whatever dates are shaken from the trees by the wind they do not touch, but 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 bowrers 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 forgiv’n, Shine, as they fall, w T ith light from heav’n l ’Twas stillness all — the winds that late Had rush’d through Kerman’s almond groves, And shaken from her bow’rs of date That cooling feast the traveller loves,' 2 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 Peki 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 3 appear, — She shudd’ring turn’d to read her fate In the fierce eyes that flash’d around ; And saw those towers all desolate, That o’er her head terrific frown’d, As if defying ev’n the smile Of that soft heav’n 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 “ IIafed, the Chief” — and, one by one, The warriors shout that fearful name ! He comes — the rock resounds his tread — i 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 team, 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, leave them for those who have not any, or for travel- lers.” — Ebn Haukal. 3 The two terrible angels, Monkir and Nakir, who are called “the Searchers of the Grave” in the “Creed of the orthodox Mahometans” given by Ockley, vol. ii. 4 “ The Arabians call the mandrake the Devil’s candle, on account of its shining appearance in the night.” — Richardson. 810 MOORE’S WORKS. When, stretch’d at evening round the well, They hear the thirsting tiger’s yell. Breathless she stands, with ej'es cast down, Shrinking beneath the fiery frown, Which, fancy tells her, from that brow Is flashing o’er her fiercely now : And shudd’ring 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, “ IIixda ; ” — that word was all he spoke, And ’twas enough — the shriek that broke From her full bosom, told the rest. — Panting with terror, joy, surprise, The maid but lifts her wond’ring eyes, To hide them on her Gheber’s breast I ’Tis he, ’tis he — the man of blood, The fellest of the Fire-fiend’s brood, IIafed, the demon of the fight, Whose voice unnerves, whose glances blight, — Is her own loved Gheber, mild And glorious as when first he smil’d In her lone tow’r, and left such beams Of his pure eye to light her dreams, That she believ’d her bower had giv’n Rest to some wanderer from lieav’n ’ Moments there are, and this was one Snatch’d like a minute’s gleam of sun Amid the black Simoom’s eclipse — Or, like those verdant spots that bloom Around the crater’s burning lips, Sweet’ning the very edge of doom ! The past — the future — all that F ate Can bring of dark or desperate Around such hours, but makes them cast Intenser radiance while they last l 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 carcasses and slaves, One dreary waste of chains and graves ! — Himself but ling’ring, dead at heart, To sec 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 gath’ring 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 I 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 bliss, thus sparkling to the top Of mis’ry’s cup — how keenly quaff'd, Though death must follow on the draught ! She, too, while gazing on those eyes That sink into her 60ul so deep, Forgets all fears, all miseries, Or feels them like the wretch in sleep, Whom fancy cheats into a smile, 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 the illumin’d surge Many a fair bark that, all the day, Had lurk’d in 6helt’ring creek or bay, Now bounded on, and gave their sails, Yet dripping, to the ev’ning gales ; Like eagles, when the storm is done, Spreading their wet wings in the sun. The beauteous clouds, though daylight’s 1 Star Had sunk behind the hills of Lar, Were still with ling’ring 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 giv’n, Swell like the wave, and glow like Heav’n. But ah I too soon that dream is past — Again, again her fear returns ; — Night, dreadful night, is gath’ring fast, More faintly the horizon burns, And every rosy tint that lay On the smooth sea hath died away. Hastily to the dark’ning 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 murd’rous band be here, “ And I shall see thee bleed and die. — “ Hush I heardst 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 1 ” In terrors ev’n to agony She clings around the wond’ring Chief ; — “ Alas, poor wilder’d maid ! to me “ Thou ow’st this raving trance of grief. “ Lost as I am, nought ever grew “ Beneath my shade but perish’d too — “ My doom is like the Dead Sea air, “ And nothing lives that enters there I “ Why were our barks together driv’n “ Beneath this morning’s furious heav’n ? “ Why, when I saw the prize that chance “ Had thrown into my desp’rate arms, — “ When, casting but a single glance “ Upon thy pale and prostrate charms, “ I 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-wrung 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 ! LALLA ROOKH. 311 “ Or, could ev’n earth and hell unite “ In league to storm this Sacred Height, “ Fear nothing thou — myself, to-night, “ And each c’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 I “ 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 heav’n ’tis truth ! ” Oh I colder than the wind that freezes Founts, that but now in sunshine play’d, 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 I i 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 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 : ’Tis come — his hour of martyrdom In Iran’s sacred cause is come * And, though his life hath 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 suff ’ring brave, shall long look back • With proud regret, — and by its light Watch through the hours of slav’ry’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, 1 For an account of Ishmonie, the petrified city in Upper Egypt, where it is said there are many statues of men, women, &c. to be seen to this day, see Perry's View of the Levant. 2 Jesus. 3 The Ghebers say that when Abraham, their great Prophet, was thrown into the fire by order of Nimrod, the flame turned instantly Into “ a bed of roses, •where the child sweetly reposed.” — Tavernier. And bring their warrior sons, and tell The wond’ring 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 Hath left on Iran’s neck a stain Blood, blood alone can cleanse again I Such are the swelling thoughts that now 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 ev’ry wood of odorous breath, There, by the Fire-God’s shrine it stands, Ready 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 I 1 2 3 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 1 why stands he musing here, When ev’ry moment teems with fear 1 “ 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 dark’ning sea, “ East — west — alas, I care not whither, “ So tliou 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 shine, “ The world’s a world of love for us 1 “ On some calm, blessed shore we’ll dwell, “ Where ’tis no crime to love too well ; — “ 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 1 ” Of their other Prophet, Zoroaster, there is a story told in Dion Prusceus, Orat. 56., that the love of wisdom and virtue leading him to a solitary life upon a moun- tain, he found it one day all in a flame, shining with celestial fire, out of which he came without any harm, and instituted certain sacrifices to God, who, he declared, then appeared to him. — Vide Patrick on ExocTus, iii. 2. MOORE’S WORKS. U12 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 1 wonder not If, for a moment, pride and fame, II is 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 dang’rous 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 dews of night, That had but dimm’d, not stain’d its light. Yet, though subdued the’ unnerving thrill, Its warmth, its weakness, linger’d still So touching in its 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 I ” Scarce had she time to ask her heart If good or ill these words impart, When the rous’d youth impatient flew To the tow’r-wall, where, high in view, A pond’rous sea-horn 1 2 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 the appointed warning blast, The’ alarm, to tell when hope was past, And the tremendous death-die cast 1 And there, upon the mould’ring tow’r, Hath hung this 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, 1 “The shell called Siiankos, common to India, Africa, and the Mediterranean, and still used in many parts as a trumpet for blowing alarms or giving signals ; it sends forth a deep and hollow sound.” — Pennant. 2 “ The finest ornament for the horses is made of six 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 behind, 2 Looking as if the steeds they rode Were wing’d, and every Chief a God 1 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 w r as the glare it cast. As mute they paus’d before the flame To light their torches as they pass’d 1 ’Twas silence all — the youth had plann’d The duties of his soldier-hand ; And each determin’d brow declares Ilis 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 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 Hath plac’d her in the shelter’d seat, And press’d her hand — that ling’ring 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 any thing but leaving her. “ Haste, haste!” she cried, “the clouds grow da?k. “ But still, ere night, we’ll reach the bark ; “ And by to-morrow’s dawn — oh bliss ! “ With thee upon the sun-bright deep, “ Far off, I’ll but remember this, “ As some dark vanish’d dream of sleep ; “ And thou ” but ah I — 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 soothe her fears and ills, Sweet as the angel Israfil’s , 3 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 ! 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 thousand deaths I “ You too, who hurry me away “ So cruelly, one moment stay — large flying tassels of long white hair, taken out of the tails of wild oxen, that are to be found in some places of the Indies.” — Thevenot. 3 “ The angel Israfil, who has the most melodious voice of all God’s creatures.” — Sale. LALLA ROOKH. S13 “ Oh ! stay — one moment is not much — “ He yet may come — for him I pray — “ Hafed I dear Hafed l ” — all the way In wild lamentings, that would touch A heart of stone, she shriek’d his name To the dark woods — no Hafed came : — No — hapless pair — you’ve look’d 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 I Alas for him, who hears her cries I 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 lie loves on earth away I 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 ling’ring 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 dreadful shout ! — across the glen From the land-side it comes, 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 1 “ They come — the Moslems come ! ” — he cries, Ilis proud soul mounting to his eyes, — “ Now, Spirits of the Brave, who roam “ Enfranchis’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, reclimb’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 1 who that then Had seen those list’ning warrior-men, With their swords grasp’d, their eyes of flame Turn’d on their Chief — could doubt the shame, The’ 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 1 “ Thou scorn’st the’ 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 Gheber’s 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 1 ” Down the precipitous rocks they sprung, While vigour, more than human, strung Each arm and heart. — The’ exulting foe Still through the dark defiles below, Track’d by his torches’ lurid fire, Wound slow, as through Golconda’s vale 1 The mighty serpent, in his ire, Glides on with glitt’ring, deadly trail. No torch the Ghebers need — so well They know each myst’ry 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, Huge cliffs and toppling crags were pil’d,— 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 1 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 1 All up the dreary, long ravine, By the red, murky glimmer seen Of lialf-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, quiv’ring 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, . See 1-Ioole upon the Story of Sinbnd. 314 MOORE’S WORKS. *Twixt flood and flame in shrieks expire ; — And some who, grasp’d by those that die, Sink woundlcss with them, smother'd o’er In their dead brethren’s gushing gore ! But vainly hundreds, thousands bleed, Still hundreds, thousands more succeed ; Countless ns tow’rds some flame at night The North’s dark insects wing their flight, And quench or perish in its light, To this terrific spot they pour — Till, bridg’d with Moslem bodies o’er, It bears aloft their slipp’ry tread, And o’er the dying and the dead, Tremendous causeway 1 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 hardier 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,l Long battles with the 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,” They panting cry, “ so far behind ; “ Oh for a bloodhound’s precious scent, “ To track the way the Gheber went ! Tain wish — confusedly along They rush, more desp’rate as more wrong : Till, wilder’d by the far-off lights, Yet glitt’ring 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 rav’ning vultures, — while the dell Re-echoes with each horrible yell. Those sounds — the last, to vengeance dear, That e’er shall ring in Hated's ear, — Now reach’d him, as aloft, alone, Upon the steep way breathless thrown, He lay beside his reeking blade, Resign’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 ling’ring beam Now broke across his dizzy dream 1 "In this thicket upon the hanks of the Jordan several sorts of wild beasts are wont to harbour them- selves, whose being washed out of the covert by the Of pain and weariness — ’twos 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 radiance cast ; — As if to charms, before so bright, New grace from other worlds was giv’n, And his soul saw her by the light Now breaking o’er itself from heav’n l 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 I 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 lie treads. Speed them, thou God, who heard’st their vow I 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, Hafed, false at length. Now breaks beneath thy tott’ring strength ! Haste, haste — the voices of the Foe 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 I — his weak, worn comrade falls Dead on the threshold of the shrine. “ Alas, brave soul, too quickly fled 1 “ And must I leave thee with’ring here, “ The sport of ev’ry ruffian’s tread, “ The mark for ev’ry 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 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, overflowings of the river, gave occasion to that allusion of Jeremiah, he shall come up like a lion from the smil- ing of Jordan.''* —Maundrell's Aleppo. LALLA ROOKH. 315 That just hath caught upon her side The dead-light — and again is dark. It is the boat — ah, why delay’d ? — That bears the wretched Moslem maid : Confided to the watchful care Of a small veteran band, with whom Their gen’rous 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 IIafed’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, And, driving at the current’s will, They rock’d along the whisp’ring tide ; While every eye, in mute dismay, Was tow’rd that fatal mountain turn’d, Where the dim altar’s quiv’ring ray As yet all lone and tranquil burn’d. Oh 1 ’tis not, Hinda, in the pow’r 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 I ’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 mould’ring 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, agonis’d suspense, From whose hot throb, whose deadly aching, The heart hath no relief but breaking ! Calm is the wave — heav’n’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, Which bounds in youth’s yet careless breast, — Itself a star, not borrowing light, But in its own glad essence bright. 1 “ This wind (the Samoor) so softens the strings of lutes, that they can never bo tuned whilo it lasts.” — Stephen's Persia. How different now ! — but, hark, again The yell of havoc rings — brave men ! In vain, with beating hearts, ye stand 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, thi3 night, himself must die I Well may ye look to yon dim tower, And ask, and wond’ring guess what means The battle-cry at this dead hour — Ah 1 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 murd’rous 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 fading 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 Reveal’d before the burning pyre, Tall, shadowy, like a Spirit of Fire Shrin’d in its own grand element 1 “ ’Tis he ! ” — the shudd’ring maid exclaims, — But, while she speaks, he’s seen no more ; High burst in air the funeral flames, And Iran’s hopes and hers are o’er I 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 I 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. Oh 1 fair as the sea-flow’r close to thee growing, How light was thy heart till Love’s witchery came, Like the wind of the south 1 o’er a summer lute blowing, And hush’d all its music, and wither’d its frame 1 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-star 2 to light up her tomb. 2 “ One of the greatest curiosities found in the Persian Gulf is a fish which the English call Star-fish. It is circular, and at night very luminous, resembling the full moon surrounded by rays.”— Mirza Abv, Taleb. MOORE’S WORKS. T.1G And still, when the merry date-season is burning,! And calls to tho 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 ilow’rs she dresses 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, bclov’d of her Ilero 1 forget thee — Though tyrants watch over her tears as they start, Close, close by the side of that Ilero she’ll set thee, Embalm’d in the innermost shrine of her heart. Farewell — be it ours to embellish thy pillow With ev’ry thing beauteous that grows in the deep ; Each flow’r 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 ; 2 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 2 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 for the Maiden who sleeps in this wave. The singular placidity with which Fadladeen had listened, during the latter part of this obnox- ious 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 mar- vellous. The truth was, he had been organizing, for the last few days, a most notable plan of per- secution against the poet, in consequence of some passages that had fallen from him on the second evening of recital, — which appeared to this wor- thy Chamberlain to contain language and prin- ciples, for which nothing short of the summary criticism of the Chabuk 1 2 3 4 would be advisable. It 1 For a description of the merriment of the date- time, of their work, their dances, and their return home from the palm-groves at the end of autumn with the fruits, see Kempfer, Amcenitat. Exot. 2 Some naturalists have imagined that amber is a concretion of the tears of birds. — See Trevoux,C/icimbers. 3 “ The bay Kieselarke, which is otherwise called the Golden Bay, the sand whereof shines as fire.” — Struy. 4 “ The application of whips or rods.” —Dubois. 5 Kempfer mentions such an officer among the at- tendants of the King of Persia, and calls him “forma was his intention, therefore, immediately on their arrival at Cashmere, to give information to the King of Bucharia of the very dangerous sen- timents 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 Fadla- dken,) there would be an end, he feared, of all legitimate government in Bucharia. He could not help, however, auguring better both for him- self and the cause of potentates in general ; and it was the pleasure arising from these mingled anticipations that diffused such unusual satis- faction through his features, 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 manner, he thought it but humanity to spare him the minor tortures of criticism. Ac- cordingly, when they assembled the following evening in the pavilion, and Lalla Rookii was expecting 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 Egyptian queen, — he agreeably disappointed her, by merely saying, with an ironical sfnile, that the merits of such a poem deserved to be tried at a much higher tri- bunal ; and then suddenly passed off into a panegyric upon all Mussulman sovereigns, more particularly his august and Imperial master, Aurungzebe, — the wisest and best of the de- scendants 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 Emperor, Chief Holder of the Girdle of Beau- tiful Forms, 5 and Grand Nazir, or Chamberlain of the Haram. They were now not far from that Forbidden River,® beyond which no pure Hindoo can pass ; and were reposing for a time in the rich valley of Hussun Abdaul, whieh had 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, been known to wander with his beloved and beautiful Nour- malial ; 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. But the time was now fast approaching when she must see him no longer, — or, what was still worse, behold 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 sad- corporis estimator.” His business M as, at stated periods, to measure the ladies of the Haram by a sort of regu- lation-girdle, whose limits it M as not thought graceful to exceed. If any of them outgrew this standard of shape, they were reduced by abstinence till they came M'ithin proper bounds. fi The Attock. “ Akbar on his way ordered a fort to be built upon the Nilab, which lie called Attock, which means in the Indian language Forbidden ; for, by the superstition of the Hindoos, it lvas held unlawful to cross that river.” — Don's Hindostan. LALLA ROOKH. 317 ness, from which nothing but the presence of the young minstrel could awake her. Like those lamps iu tombs, which only light up when the air is ad- mitted, it was only at his approach that her eyes became smiling and animated. But here, in this dear valley, every moment appeared an age of pleasure ; she saw him all day, and was, therefore, all day happy, — resembling, she often thought, that people of Zinge , 1 who attribute the unfading cheerfulness they enjoy to one genial star that rises nightly over their heads . 3 The whole party, indeed, seemed in their live- liest mood during the few days they passed in this delightful solitude. The young attendants of the Princess, who were here allowed a much freer range than they could safely be indulged with in a less sequestered place, ran wild among the gardens and bounded through the meadows lightly as young roes over the aromatic plains of Tibet. While Fadladeeh, in addition to the spiritual comfort derived by him from a pilgrim- age to the tomb of the saint from whom the valley is named, had also opportunities of indulging, in a small way, his taste for victims, by putting to death some hundreds of those unfortunate little lizards , 3 which all pious Mussulmans make it a point to kill ; — taking for granted, that the man- ner 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 llussun Abdaul were those Royal Gardens, * which had grown beau- tiful 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 its holy silence, interrupted only by the dipping of the wings of birds in its marble basins filled with the pure water of those hills, was to Lalla Rookii all that her heart could fancy of fra- grance, coolness, and almost heavenly tranquil- lity. As the Prophet said of Damascus, “ it was too delicious ;” 5 — 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 exquisite moments of her whole life were passed. One evening, when they had been talking of the Sultana Nourmahal, the Light of the Haram , 0 who had so often wandered among these flowers, and fed with her own hands, in those marble basins, the small shining fishes of which she was so fond , 7 the youth, in order to delay the moment of separation, proposed to re- cite 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 ; ar.d would remind the Princess of that difference between Haroun-al-Raschid and his fair mistress Marida , 3 which was so happily made up by the soft strains of the musician, Moussali. As the story was chiefly to be told in song, and Fera- morz had unluckily forgotten his own lute in the valley, he borrowed the vina of Lalla Rookh’s little Persian slave, and thus began : — wyvvwyw Who has not heard of the Vale of Cashmere, With its roses the brightest that earth ever gave , 9 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 gleam- ing 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 tells Round the waist of some fair Indian dancer is ringing . 10 Or to see it by moonlight, — when mellowly shines The light o’er its palaces, gardens, and shrines : 1 “ The inhabitants of this country (Zinge) are never afflicted with sadness or melancholy ; on this subject the Sheikh Abu-al-Kheir-Azhari has the following dis- “ 1 Who is the man without care or sorrow, (tell) that I may rub my hand to him. “ ‘ (Behold) the Zingians, without care or sorrow, fro- licksome with tipsiness 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.” — Extract from a Geographical Persian Manu- script called Heft A /dim, or the Seven Climates, trans- lated by IK. Ouseley, Esq. •I The star Soheil, or Canopus. 3 « 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.” — Hasselquist. 4 For these particulars respecting Hussun Abdaul I am indebted to the very interesting Introduction of Mr. Elphinstone’s work upon Caubul. 5 “ 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 pavilion of the same stuff. The Turks say this mosque v as made in that place, because Mahomet being come so far, would not enter the town, saying it was too deli- cious.” — Thevenot. This reminds one of the following pretty passage in Isaac Walton : — “ When I sat last on this primrose bank, and looked down these meadows, I thought of them as Charles the Emperor did of the city of Florence, ‘ that they were too pleasant to be looked on, but only on holidays.’ ” <> Nourmahal signifies Light of the Haram. She was afterwards called Nourjehan, or the Light of the World. 7 See note 3, p. 306. 8 “ Haroun A1 Raschid, cinquifeme Klialifedes Atas- sides, s’etant un jour brouille avec une de ses maitresses nommee Maridah, qu’il aimoit cependant jusqu’a l’exces, ct cette mesintelligence ayant deja duree quelque terns, commenija a s’ennuyer. Giafar Barmaki, son favori, qui s’en aper$ut, commanda a Abbas ben Alinaf, excellent poete de ce tems-lfi, de composer quelques vers sur le sujet de cette brouillerie. Ce poete executa l’ordre dc Giafar, qui fit chanter ces vers par Moussali en presence du Khalife, et ce prince fut tellement touche de la tondresse des vers du poete, et de la douceur de la voix dumusicien, qu’il alia aussi-tdt trouver Maridah, et fit sa paix avec elle.” — D'Herbelot. 9 “ The rose of Kaslimire for its brilliancy and deli- cacy of odour has long been proverbial in the East.” — Forster. 10 “ Tied round her waist the zone of bells, that sounded with ravishing melody.” — Song of Jay adeva. 318 MOORE’S WORKS. When the waterfalls gleam, like a quick fall of stars, Ami the nightingale's hymn from the Isle of Chennrs 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, ns slowly it breaks, Hills, cupolas, fountains, call’d forth ev’ry one Out of darkness, as if but 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, 1 till they tremble all over. When the East is as warm as the light of first hopes, And Day, with his banner of radiance unfurl’d, Shines in through the mountainous portal 2 that opes, Sublime, from that Yalley of bliss to the world ! But never yet, by night or day, In dew of spring or summer’s ray, Did the sweet Yalley 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 Yalley holds its Feast of Roses ;3 The 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, 1 2 3 4 5 6 * Expanding while the dew-fall flows, And ev’ry 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 , 8 ■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 On Bela’s hills is less alive When saffron-beds are full in flow’r, Than looked the Yalley in that hour. A thousand restless torches play’d Through every grove and island shade ; 1 “ The little isles in the Lake of Cachemire are set with arbours and large-leaved aspen-trees, slender and tall.” — Bernier. 2 “The Tuckt Suliman, the name bestowed by the Mahometans on this hill, forms one side of a grand portal to the Lake.” — Forster. 3 “The Feast of Roses continues the whole time of their remaining in bloom.” — See Pietro de la Valle. 4 “ Gul sad berk, the Rose of a hundred leaves. I believe a particular species.” — Ouseley. 5 Bernier. 6 A place mentioned in the Toozek Jehangeery, or Memoirs of Jehan-Guire, where there is an account of the beds of saffron-flowers about Cashmere. 7 “ It is the custom among the women to employ the Maazeen to chaunt from the gallery of the nearest minaret, which on that occasion is illuminated, and the women assembled at the house respond at intervals with a ziraleet or joyous chorus.” — Russel. 8 “ The swing is a favourite pastime in the East, as 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 wand’ring 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 Roses 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 flow’rs ! It seem’d as though from all the bow’rs 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 fairy 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-crier’s chaunt of glee Sung from his lighted gallery, 7 ^ And answered by a ziraleet From neighbouring Haram, wild and sweet ; — The merry laughter, echoing From gardens , where the silken swing 8 Wafts some delighted girl above The top leaves of the orange-grove ; Or, from those infant groups at play Among the tents 9 that line the way, Flinging, unaw’d by slave or mother, Handfuls of roses at each other. — Then, the sounds from the Lake, — the low whis- p’ring in boats, As they shoot through the moonlight ; — the dipping of oars, And the wild, airy warbling that ev’ry where 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. 10 promoting a circulation of air, extremely refreshing in those sultry climates.” — Richardson. “ 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. 9 “ At the keeping of the Feast of Roses we beheld an infinite number of tents pitched, with such a crowd of men, women, boys, and girls, with music, dances,” &c. &c . — Herbert. 10 “ An old commentator of the Chou- King says the ancients having remarked that a current of water made some of the stones near its banks send forth a sound, they detached some of them, and being charmed with the delightful sound they emitted, constructed King or musical instruments of them.” — Grosier. This miraculous quality has been attributed also to the shore of Attica. “Hujus littus, ait Capella, con- centum musicum illisis terrae undis reddere, quod prop- ter tantam eruditionis vim puto dictum.”— Ludov. Fives in Augustin, de Civitat. Dei, lib. xviii. c. 8. LALLA ROOKH. 319 But the gentlest of all are those sounds, full of feeling, That soft from the lute of some lover are steal- ing,— 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 ev’ry where 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 l So felt the magnificent Son of Acbar, When from pow’r and pomp and the trophies of war He flew to that Yalley, forgetting them all With the Light of the Haram, his young Nour- MAHAL. 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 splen- dour. This was not the beauty — oh, nothing like this, That to young Nourmahal gave such magic of bliss I 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 From the lip to the cheek, from the cheek to the eyes ; Now melting in mist and now breaking in gleams, Like the glimpses a saint hath 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’n in the tranquillest climes Light breezes will ruflle the blossoms sometimes — The short, passing anger but seem’d to awaken New beauty, like flow’rs that are sweetest when shaken. If tenderness touch’d her, the dark of her eye At once took a darker, a heav’nlier dye, From the depth of whose shadow, like holy re- vealings From innermost shrines, came the light of her feelings. 1 Jehan-Guire was the son of the Great Achar. 2 In the wars of the Dives with the Peris, when- ever the former took the latter prisoners, “they shut them up in iron cages, and hung them on the highest trees. Here they Mere visited by their companions, 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 playful as Peris just loos’d from their cages.2 While her laugh, full of life, without any control But the sweet one of gracefulness, rung from her 60ul ; And where it most sparkled no glance could dis- cover, In lip, cheek, or eyes, for she brighten’d all over, — Like any fair lake that the breeze is upon, When 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 hex- slave : And though bright was his Haram,— a living parterre Of the flowers 3 of this planet — though treasures were there For which Soliman’s self might have giv’n all the store That the navy from Ofiiir e’er wing’d to his shore, Yet dim before Tier were the smiles of them all, And the Light of his Haram was young Nour- mahal I 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 1 2 * 4 In Fairy-land, whose streets and tow’rs Are made of gems and light and flow’rs ! Where is the lov’d Sultana ? where, When mirth brings out the young and fair, Does she, the fairest, hide her brow, In melancholy stillness now ? Alas I — how light a cause may move Dissension between hearts that love I Hearts that the world in vain had tried, And sorrow but more closely tied : That stood the storm, wheix waves were rough, Yet in a sunny hour fall off, Like ships that have gone down at sea, When heaven was all tranquillity l 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 hath 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, who brought them the choicest odours.” — Richard son. 3 In the Malay language the same word signifies women and flowers. 4 The capital of Shadukiam. See note 1, p. 295. 320 MOORE'S WORKS. 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 ; l — Loose not a tie that round him clings, Nor ever let him use his wings ; 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 lie flies ! 2 Some difference, of this dang’rous kind, — By which, though light, the links that bind The fondest hearts may soon be riv’n ; Some shadow in Love’s summer heav’n, 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 Nourmaiial, his Haram’s Light I 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 . 1 * 3 In vain the loveliest cheeks and eyes Tli is 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 ? 4 In vain the Valley’s smiling throng Worship him, as lie moves along ; He heeds them not — one smile of licrs Is worth a world of worshippers. They but the Star’s adorers are, She is the Heav’n that lights the Star I Hence is it, too, that Nourmahal, Amid the luxuries of this hour, Far from the joyous festival, Sits in her own sequester’d bow’r, With no one near, to soothe or aid, But that inspir’d and wondrous maid, 1 See the representation of the Eastern Cupid, f inioned closely round with wreaths of flowers, in 'icart’s Ctrimonies Religieuses. ‘I “ Among the birds of Tonquin is a species of gold- finch, which sings so melodiously that it is called the Celestial Bird. Its wings, when it is perched, appear variegated with beautiful colours, but when it flies they lose all their splendour.” — Grosier. 3 “ As these birds on the Bosphorus are never known to rest, they are called by the French * les Ames dam- nees.’ ” — Dalloicay. 4 “ You may place a hundred handfuls of fragrant herbs and flowers before the nightingale, yet he wishes Namouna, the Enchantress ; — one;, O’er whom his race the golden sun For unremember’d years lias run, Yet never saw her blooming brow Younger or fairer than ’tis now. Nay, rather, — as the west wind’s sigh Freshens the flow’r it passes by, — Time’s wing but seem’d, in stealing o’er, To leave her lovelier than before. 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 , 5 which around The Air’s sublimer Spirits drew, To the gold gems ® of Afric, bound Upon the wand’ring Arab’s arm, To keep him from the Siltim’s 7 harm. And she had pledg’d her pow’rful 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 3 smile to Nourmaiial 1 ’Twas midnight — through the lattice, wreath’d With woodbine, many a perfume breath’d From plants that wake when others sleep, From timid jasmine buds, that keep Their odour to themselves all day, But, when the sun-light 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 flow’r, “ 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, “ 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 not, in his constant heart, for more than the sweet breath of his beloved rose.” — Jami. 5 “ He is said to have found the great Mantra , spell or talisman, through which he ruled over the elements and spirits of all denominations.” — Wilford. 6 “ The gold Jewels of Jinnie, which are called by the Arabs El Herrez, from the supposed charm they contain.” — Jackson. • “A demon, supposed to haunt woods, &c. in a human shape.” — Richardson. 8 The name of Jehan-Guire before his accession to the throne. LALLA ROORII. 821 As the young musk-roe’s, out she flew, To cull each shining leaf that grew Beneath the moonlight’s hallowing beam3, 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 ; 1 2 3 4 The tube-rose, with her silv’ry light, That in the Gardens of Malay Is call’d the Mistress of the Night, 3 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 ;4 — And the white moon-flow’r, as it shows, On Serexdib’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, 5 6 That blesses heaven’s inhabitants With fruits of immortality, Down to the basil tuft, 3 that waves, Its fragrant blossom over graves, And to the humble rosemary, Whose sweets so thanklessly are shed To scent the desert 7 and the dead : — All in that garden bloom, and all Are gather’d by young Nourmaiial, Who heaps her baskets with the floAv’rs And leaves, till they can hold no more ; Then to Namouna flies, and show’rs Upon her lap the shining store. 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 flow’rs will fade. The image of love, that nightly flies To visit the bashful maid, Steals from the jasmine flower, that sighs Its soul, like her, in the shade. The dream of a future, happier hour, That alights on misery’s brow, Springs out of the silv’ry almond-flow’r, That blooms on a leafless bough. 3 Then hasten we, maid, To twine our braid, To-morrow the dreams and flowers will fade. Tiie visions, that oft, to worldly eyes The glitter of mines unfold, Inhabit the mountain-herb, 3 that dyes The tooth of the fawn like gold. The phantom shapes — oh touch not them — That appal the murd’rer’s sight, Lurk in the fleshly mandrake’s stem, That shrieks, when pluck’d at night ! Then hasten we, maid, To twine our braid, To-morrow the dreams and flowers will fade. With what delight the’ 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 kind 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 flow’rs 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, The’ Enchantress now begins her spell, The dream of the injur’d, patient mind, That smiles with the wrongs of men, Is found in the bruis’d and wounded rind Of the cinnamon, sweetest then. Then hasten we, maid, To twine our braid, To-morrow the dreams and flowers will fade. No sooner was the flow’ry 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 10 blew, was full of scents, 1 “Hcmasagara, or the Sea of Gold, with flowers of the brightest gold-colour.” — Sir IV. Jones. 2 “ This tree (the Nagacesara) is one of the most de- lightful on earth, and the delicious odour of its blossoms justly gives them a place in the quiver of Camadeva, or the God of Love.” — Sir W. Jones. 3 “The Malayans style the tube-rose (Polianthes tuberosa) Sandal Malam, or the Mistress of the Night.” — Pennant. 4 “ The people of the Batta country in Sumatra (of which Zamara is one of the ancient names), “ when not engaged in Avar, lead an idle, inactive life, passing the day in playing on a kind of flute, crowned with garlands of flowers, among which tlieglobe-amaranthus, a native of the country, mostly prevails.” — Marsden. 5 “ The largest and richest sort (of the Jambu or rose-apple) is called Amrita, or immortal, and the my- tliologists of Tibet apply the same word to a celestial tree, bearing ambrosial fruit.” — Sir IV. Jones. 6 Sweet basil, called Rayhan in Persia, and generally found in churchyards. “ 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 rihan, and which is our sweet basil.” — Maillet , Lett. 10. 7 “ In the Great Desert are found many stalks of la- vender and rosemary.” — Asiat. Res. 8 “ The almond-tree, with white flowers, blossoms on the bare branches.” — Hasselquist. 9 An herb on Mount Libanus, which is said to com- municate a yellow golden hue to the teeth of the goats and other animals that graze upon it. 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 cat it. Even the oil of this plant must be of a golden colour. It is called Haschischat ed dab.'* Father Jerome Dandini, however, asserts that the teeth of the goats at Mount Libanus are of a silver colour • and adds, “ this confirms to me that which I observed in Candia : 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, can- not otherwise proceed than from the mines which are underground.” — Dandini , Voyage to Mount Libanus 10 The myrrh country. Q99 MOORE’S WORKS. Steals on her ear, apil floats aud swells, Like the first air of morning creeping Into those wreathy, Red Sea shells, Where Love himself, of old, lay sleeping ; 1 * And now a Spirit form’d, ’twould seem, Of music and of light, — so fair, So brilliantly his features beam, And 6uch a sound is in the air Of sweetness when he waves his wings, — Hovers around her, and thus sings : From Ciiinpara’s - warbling fount I come, Call’d by that moonlight garland’s spell ; From CniNDARA’s fount, my 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, 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 murm’ring, 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 cf past Delight obey ; — Let but the tuneful talisman sound, And they come, like Genii, hov’ring 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. 3 4 * ’Tis I that mingle in one sweet measure The past, the present, and future of pleasure ; 4 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. 1 “ This idea (of deities living in shells) was not un- known to the Greeks, who represent the young Nerites, one of the Cupids, as living in shells on the shores of the Rod Sea.” — Wilford. 'i “ A fabulous fountain, where instruments are said to be constantly playing.” — Richardson. 3 “ The Pompadour pigeon is the species, which, by carrying the fruit of the cinnamon to different places, is a great disseminator of this valuable tree.” — See Broicn’s Tllustr ., Tab. 19. 4 “ Whenever our pleasure arises from a succession of sounds, it is a perception of a 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 myste- rious delight, as neither could have produced alone. And it is often heightened by an anticipation of the succeeding notes. Thus Sense, Memory, and Ima- gination are conjunctively employed.” — Gerrard on Taste. This is exactly the Epicurean theory of Pleasure, as explained by Cicero : — “ Quocirca corpus gaudere tamdiu, dum prsesentem sentiret voluptatem : animum et prsesentem percipere pariter cum corpore et pro- spicere venientem, nec praeteritam prseterfluere sinere.” Madame de Stael accounts upon the same principle 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 I And, oh, how the eyes of Beauty glisten, When Music has reach’d her inward soul, Like the silewt 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 again. ’Tis dawn — at least that earlier dawn, Whose glimpses are again withdrawn s As if the morn had walc’d, and then Shut close her lids of light again. And Noubmahal is up, and trying The wonders of her lute, whose strings — Oh, bliss ! — now murmur like the sighing From that ambrosial Spirit’s wings. And then, her voice — ’ti3 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 1 let it last till night,” she cries, “ And he is more than ever mine.” And hourly she renews the lay, So fearful lest it3 heav’nly sweetness Should, ere the evening, fade away, — For things so heav’nly have such fleetness ! But, far from fading, it but grows Richer, 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,) The’ Imperial Selim held a feast In his magnificent Shalimar : 6 — In whose Saloons, when the first star for the gratification we derive from rhyme: — “Elio est l’image de l’esperance et du souvenir. Un son nous fait desirer celui qui doit lui repondre, et quand le se- cond retentit il nous rappelle celui qui vient de nous echapper.” 5 “ The Persians have two mornings, the Sooblii Ka- zim, and the Soobhi 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 Caucanus), it passes a hole perforated through that mountain, and that darting its rays through it, it is the cause of the Soobhi 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. He thinks Milton may allude to this, when he says, — “ Ere the blabbing Eastern scout. The nice morn on the Indian steep From her cabin’d loop-hole peep.” 6 “ 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 Shalimar, which is abundantly stored with fruit-trees and flowering LALLA ROOKH. 823 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 ; 1 And all those wand’ring minstrel-maids, Who leave — how can they leave ? — the shades Of that dear Valley, and are found Singing in gardens of the South 2 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 ; 3 — Daughters of Love from Cyprus’ rocks, With Paphian diamonds in their locks ; 4 — Light Peri forms, such as they are On the gold meads of Candahar ; 5 And they, before whose sleepy eyes, In their own bright Kathaian bow’rs, Sparkle such rainbow butterflies, That they might fancy the rich flow’rs, That round them in the sun lay sighing. Had been by magic all set flying.6 Every thing young, every tiling fair From East and West is blushing there, Except — except— oh, Noup.mahal ! 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 the sky, To steer his bark for ever by I Thou wert not there — so Selim thought, And every thing seem’d drear without thee ; But, ah 1 thou wert, thou wert, — and brought Thy charm of song all fresh about thee. shrubs. Some of the rivulets which intersect the plain are led into a canal at the hack of the garden, and flow- ing 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. On arches thrown over the canal are erected, at equal distances, four or five suites of apart- ments, each consisting of a saloon, with four rooms at the angles, where the followers of the court attend, and the servants prepare sherbets, coffee, and the hookah. The frame of the doors of the principal saloon is com- posed of pieces of a stone of a black colour, streaked with yellow lines, and of a closer grain and higher polish than porphyry. They were taken, it is said, from a Hindoo temple, by one of the Mogul princes, and are esteemed of great value.” — Forster. 1 “ The waters of Cachcmir are the more renowned from its being supposed that the Cachemirians are in- debted for their beauty to them.” — Ali Yezdi. 2 “ From him I received the following little Gazzel, or Love Song, the notes of which he committed to paper from the voice of one of those singing girls of Cashmere, who wander from that delightful valley over the various parts of India.” — Persian Miscellanies. 3 “ The roses of the Jinan Nile, or Garden of the Nile (attached to the Emperor of Marocco’s palace), are unequalled, and mattresses are made of their leaves for the men of rank to recline upon.” — Jackson. 4 “ On the side of a mountain near Paphos there is a aavem which produces the most beautiful rock-crystal. On account of its brilliancy it has been called the Paphian diamond.” — Mariti. a ‘‘There is a part of Candahar, called Peria, or Fairy Land.” — Thevenot. In some of those countries to 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, 7 — 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 ; 8 — pomegranates full • Of melting sweetness, and the pears, And sunniest apples 3 that Caubul I n all its thousand gardens l<> bears ; — Plantains, the golden and the green, Melaya’s nectar’d mangusteen ; n Prunes of Bokhara, and sweet nuts From the far groves of Samarcand, And Basra dates, and apricots, Seed of the Sun, 12 from Iran’s land ; — With rich conserve of Yisna cherries, 1 3 Of orange flowers, and of those berries That, wild and fresh, the young gazelles Feed on in Erac’s rocky dells. 1 4 All these in richest vases smile, In baskets of pure santal-wood, And urns of porcelain from that isle 15 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 Rosolli, 16 — the bright dew From vineyards of the Green-Sea gushing ; 1 7 And Shiraz wine, that richly ran As if that jewel, large and rare, The ruby for which Kublai-Khan O ffer’d a city’s wealth, *8 was blushing, Melted within the goblets there ! the north of India vegetable gold is supposed to be pro- duced. 6 “ These are the butterflies which are called in the Chinese language Flying Leaves. Some of them have such shining colours, and are so variegated, that they may be called flying flowers ; and indeed they are always produced in the finest flower-gardens.” — Dunn. 7 “ The Arabian women wear black masks with little clasps prettily ordered.” — Careri. N iebuhr mentions their showing but one eye in conversation. 8 “The golden grapes of Casbin .” — Description of Persia. 9 “ The fruits exported from Caubul are apples, pears, pomegranates,” &c. — Elphinstone. 10 “We sat down under a tree, listened to the birds, and talked with the son of our Mehmaundar about our country and Caubul, of which he gave an enchanting account : that city and its 100,000 gardens,” &c. — Id. 11 “ The mangusteen, the most delicate fruit in the world ; the pride of the Malay islands.” — Marsden. 12 “ A delicious kind of apricot, called by the Persians tokm-ek-shems, signifying sun’s seed.” — Description of Persia. 13 “ Sweetmeats, in a crystal cup, consisting of rose- leaves in conserve, with lemon of Visna cherry, orange flowers,” &c. — Russel. 14 “ Antelopes cropping the fresh berries of Erac.” — The Moallakat , Poem of Tarafa. 15 Mauri-ga-Sima, an island near Formosa, supposed to have been sunk in the sea, for the crimes of its in- habitants. The vessels which the fishermen and divers bring up from it are sold at an immense price in China and Japan. — See Kempfer. 16 Persian Tales. 17 The white wine of Kishma. 18 “ The King of Zeilan is said to have the very finest ruby that was ever seen. Kublai-Khan sent and offered m MOORE’S WORKS. And amply Selim quails of each. And seems resolv’d the flood shall reach His inward heart, — shedding around A genial deluge, ns they run, That soon shall leave no spot undrown'd For Love to rest his wings upon. He little knew how well the boy Can float upon a goblet’s streams, Lighting them with his smile of joy ; — As bards have 6een him in their dreams, Down the blue Ganges laughing glide Upon a rosy lotus wreath, 1 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 maidens’ looks, W hen warm they rise from Teflis’ brooks ; 2 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, 3 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 I if there be an Elysium on earth, It is this, it is this.* Here maidens are sighing, and fragrant their sigh As the fiow’r of the Amra j ust op’d by a bee ; 5 And precious their tears as that rain from the sky, 6 Which turns into pearls as it falls in the sea. Ohl think what the kiss and the smile must be worth, When the 6igh 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 7 left the foontains above, And forgot heav’n’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 I if there be an Elysium on earth, It is this, it is this. the value of a city for it, but the King answered he would not give it for the treasure of the world.” — Marco Polo. . 1 The Indians feign that Cupid was first seen float- ing down the Ganges on the Nymphaea Nelumbo. — See Pennant. 2 Teflis is celebrated for its natural warm baths. — See Ebn Haukal. 3 “ The Indian Syrinda or guitar.” — Symez. 4 “ Around the exterior of the Dewan Khafs (a building of Shah AUum’s) in the cornice are the follow- ing lines in letters of gold upon a ground of w hite The Georgian’s song wns scarcely mute, When the same measure, sound for sound, Wns caught up by another lute, And so divinely breath’d 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 Iskafil, 3 the Angel, there ; — So pow’rfully on ev’ry 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 sounds with theirs, that none knew whether The voice or lute ■was most divine, So wondrously 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, Love on through all ills, and love on till they die ! One hour of a passion so sacred is worth Whole ages of heartless and wand’ring bliss 1 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 pow’r 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 motion’d with his hand for more : — Fly to the desert, fly with me, Our Arab tents are rude for thee ; But, oh 1 the choice what heart can doubt, Of tents with love, or tlxrones without ? Our rocks are rough, but smiling there The’ acacia waves her yellow hair, Lonely and sweet, nor lov’d the less For flow’ring in a wilderness. Our sands are bare, but down their slope The silv’ry-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. marble — ‘ Tf there be a paradise upon earth, it is this, it is this.’ ” — Franklin. 5 “ Delightful are the flowers of the Amra trees on the mountain-tops, while the murmuring bees pursue their voluptuous toil.” — Song of Jayadeva. 6 “ The Nisan or drops of spring rain, which they believe to produce pearls if they fall into shells.” — Richardson. 7 For an account of the share which wine had in the fall of the angels, see Mariti. 8 The Angel of Music. — See note 3, p. 512. LALLA ROOKH. 325 Oil ! there are looks and tones that dart An instant sunshine through the heart, — As if the soul that minute caught Some treasure it through life had sought ; As if the very lips and eyes, Predestin’d to have all our sighs, And never be forgot again, Sparkled and spoke before us then 1 So came thy ev’ry 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 liadst 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. 1 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, — 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 Noukmahal ! oh Nourmaiial ! “ 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 Nourmaiial, his Ilaram’s Light ! And well do vanish’d frowns enhance The charm of every brighten’d glance ; And dearer seems each dawning smile 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, “ Itcmember, love, the Feast of Roses ! ” 1 The Iludhud, or Lapwing, is supposed to have tlic power of discovering water under ground. 2 Seep. 305. 3 “ The Chinese had formerly the art of painting on the sides of porcelain vessels tish and ether animals, Fadladeen, at the conclusion of this light rhap- sody, 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 pro- ceeded to say that, viewing it in the most favour- able light, it resembled one of those Maldivian boats, to which the Princess had alluded in the relation of her dream, 1 2 — 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 unlucky effect of giving to his style all the glitter of the flower-garden without its method, and all the flutter of the aviary without its song. In addition to this, he chose his subjects badly, and was always most inspired by the worst parts of them. The charms of paganism, the merits of rebellion, — these were the themes honoured with his particular enthusiasm ; and, in the poem just recited, one of his most palatable passages was in praise of that beverage of the Unfaithful, wine ; — “ being, perhaps,” said he, relaxing into a smile, as conscious of his own character in the Haram on this point, “ one of those bards, whose fancy owes all its illumination to the grape, like that painted porcelain, 3 so curious and so rare, whose images are only visible when liquor is poured into it.” Upon the whole, it w r as 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 gentleman might possess — poetry was by- no means his proper avocation : “ and indeed,” concluded the critic, “ from his fondness for flowers and for birds, I would venture to suggest that a florist or a bird-catcher is a much more suitable calling for him tliap 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 encampments limited to the few hours necessary for refreshment and repose, there was an end to all their delightful evenings, and Lalla Rookii saw no more of Feramorz. She now felt that her short dream of happiness was over, and that she had nothing but the re- collection of its few blissful hours, like the one draught of sw-eet water that serves the camel across the wilderness, to be her heart’s refresh- ment 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 Indies 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 vanishing away at the very moment of all when she had most which were only perceptible when the vessel was full of some liquor. They call this species Kia-tsin, that is, azure is pul in press, on account of the manner in which the azure is laid on.” — “ They are every now and then trying to recover the art of this magical painting, hut to no purpose.” — Dunn, 826 MOORE’S WORKS. need of it. What must the King of Bucharia feel, when, instead of the lively and beautifhl Lalla Rookh, whom the poets of Delhi had described as more perfect than the divinest images in the house of Azor,l 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 ? If any thing 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 Une- qualled. 1 2 3 * But neither the coolness of its atmo- sphere, so luxurious after toiling up those bare and burning mountains, — neither the splendour of the minarets and pagodas, that shone out from the depth of its woods, nor the grottos, hermitages, and miraculous fountains , 3 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 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 mag- nificence with which the roads all along were decorated, did honour to the taste and gallantry of the young King. It was night when they ap- proached 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 . 5 * 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 Brahmin might fancy he beheld 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 irra- diation continued to brighten all the fields and 1 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. 2 “ Kaclimire be Nazeer.” — Forster. 3 “The pardonable superstition of the sequestered inhabitants has multiplied the places of worship of Mahadeo, of Beschan, and of Brama. All Cashmere is holy land, and miraculous fountains abound.” — Major RennePs Memoirs of a Map of Hindostan. Jehan-Guire mentions “a fountain in Cashmere called Tirnagb, which signifies a snake; probably because some large snake had formerly been seen there.” — ** During the lifetime of my father, I went twice to this fountain, which is about twenty coss from the city of Cashmere. The vestiges of places of worship and sanctity are to be traced without number amongst the ruins and the caves, which are interspersed m its neigh- bourhood.”— Toozek Jehangeery. — Vide Asiat. Mise., vol. ii. There is another account of Cashmere by Abul-Fazil, the author of the Ayin-Acbaree , “who,” says Ma- jor Rennel, “ appears to have caught some of the enthu- gardens by which they passed, forming a line of dancing lights along the horizon ; like the me- teors 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 ima- ginable. Nor, indeed, could Lalla Rookii her- self 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 ex- cites ; and that their best blandishments come over the heart with all that chilling and deadly sweetness, which we can fancy in the cold, odo- riferous wind 7 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 Shalimar. Though never before had a night of more wakeful and anxious thought been passed in the Happy Valley, yet, when she rose in the morning, and her Ladies came around her, to assist in the ad- justment 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 intel- lectual expression, that soul beaming forth from the eyes, which is worth all the rest of loveliness. 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 barge that was to convey her across the lake ; — first kissing, with a mournful look, the little amulet of cornelian, which her father at parting had hung about her neck. The morning was as fresh and fair as the maid on 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 siasm of the valley, by his description of the holy places in it.” 4 “ 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 spacious view of a beautifully chequered parterre.” — Forster. 5 “ Two hundred slaves there are, who have no other office than to hunt 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. 6 For a description of the Aurora Borealis as it ap- pears to these hunters, vide Encyclopaedia. 7 This wind, which is to blow from Syria Damascena, is, according to the Mahometans, one of the signs of the Last Day’s approach. Another of the signs is, “ Great distress in the world, so that a man M hen he passes by another’s grave shall say, Would to God I were in his place ! ” —Sale's Freli - mmary Discourse. POLITICAL AND SATIRICAL POEMS. 327 banners waving from their roofs, presented such a picture of animated rejoicing, as only she who was the object 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 imagination haunted by this thought, that there was scarcely an islet or boat she passed on the way, at which her heart did not flutter with the momentary fancy that he was there. Happy, in her eyes, the humblest slave upon whom the light of his dear looks fell I — In the barge immediately after the princess sat Fadladeen, 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 Cliabuk, as connected therewith.” They now had entered the canal which leads from the Lake to the splendid domes and saloons of the Shalimar, and went gliding on through the gardens that ascended 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 tall inllars 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 coming of his bride ; and such was the agitation of her heart and frame, that it was with difficulty she could walk up the marble steps which were covered with cloth of gold for her ascent from the barge. At the end of the hall 6tood two thrones, as precious as the Cerulean Throne of Coolburga,* on one of which sat Ali- bis, the youthful King of Bucharia, and on the other was, in a few minutes, to be 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 her hand in his, when she screamed with surprise and fainted at his feet. It was Feramobz 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 disco- very was, for the moment, almost pitiable. But change of opinion is a resource 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 with an admiration of the King’s verses, as un- bounded as, he begged him to believe, it was dis-* interested ; and the following week saw him in possession of an additional place, swearing by all the Saints of Islam that never had there existed so great a poet as the Monarch Aliris, and, moreover, ready to prescribe his favourite regi- men of the Chabulc for every man, woman, and child that dared to think otherwise. Of the happiness of the King and Queen of Bucharia, after such a beginning, there can be but little doubt ; and, among the lesser symp- toms, it is recorded of Lalla Rookh, that to the day of her death, in memory of their delightful journey, she never called the King by any other name than Feramokz. POLITICAL AND SATIRICAL POEMS, LINES ON THE DEATH OF MR. P — RC — Y — L. r.v the dirge we sung o’er him no censure was heard, Unembitter’d and free did the tear-drop de- scend ; We forgot, in that hour, how the statesman had err’d, And wept for the husband, the father, and friend. 1 “ On Mohammed Shaw’s return to Koolburga (the capital of Dekkan), he made a great festival, and mounted this throne with much pomp and magni- ficence, calling it Firozeh or Cerulean. I have heard some old persons, who saw the throne Firozeh in the reign of Sultan Mamood Bhamenee, describe it. They say that it was in length nine feet, and three in breadth ; made of ebony, covered with plates of pure gold, end set with precious stones of immense value. Every Oh proud was the meed his integrity won, And gen’rous indeed were the tears that wo shed, When, in grief, we forgot all the ill he had done, And, though wrong’d by him, living, bewail’d him, when dead. Even now, if one harsher emotion intrude, ’Tis to wish he had chosen some lowlier state, Had known what he was — and, content to be good » Had ne’er, for our ruin, aspired to be great. prince of tho house of Bhamenee, who possessed this throne, made a point of adding to it some rich stones ; 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 eons (nearly four millions sterling). I learned also that it was called Firozeh from being partly enamelled, of a sky-blue colour, which was in time totally con- cealed by tho number of jewels.” — Ferishta. 328 MOORE’S WORKS. So, left through their own little orbit to move, Ilia years might have roll'd inoffensive away ; Ilis children might still have been bless’d with his love, And England would ne'er have been curs’d with his sway. To the Editor of the Morning Chi'onicle. Sir, Is order to explain the following Fragment, it is necessary to refer your readers to a late florid description of the Pavilion at Brighton, in the apartments of which, wc are told, “Fum, The Chinese Bird of Royalty ,” is a principal orna- ment. I am, Sir, yours, &c.. Mum. FUM AND IIUM, THE TWO BIRDS OF ROYALTY. Oxe day the Chinese Bird of Royalty, Fum, Thus accosted our own Bird of Royalty, Hum, In that Palace or China-shop (Brighton, which is it ?) Where Fum had just come to pay Hum a short visit. — Near akin are these Birds, though they differ in nation (The breed of the Hums is as old as creation) ; Both, full-craw’d Legitimates — both, birds of prey, Both, cackling and ravenous creatures, half way 'Twixt the goose and the vulture, like Lord C— STL cir. While Fum deals in Mandarins, Bonzes, Bohea, Peers, Bishops, and Punch, Hum, are sacred to thee ! So congenial their tastes, that, when Fum first did light on The floor of that grand China-warehouse at Brighton, The lanterns, and dragons, and things round the dome Were so like what he left, “Gad,” says Fum, “I'm at home.” — And when, turning, he saw Bishop L ge, “ Zooks, it is,” Quoth the Bird, “Yes — I know him — a Bonze, by his pliyz — “ And that jolly old idol he kneels to so low “ Can be none but our round-about godhead, fat Fo!” It chanc’d at this moment, the’ Episcopal Prig Was imploring the P e to dispense with his wig, l Which the Bird, overhearing, flew high o’er his head, And some TociT-like marks of liis patronage shed, Which so dimm’d the poor Dandy’s idolatrous eye, That, while Fum cried “ Oh Fo 1 ” all the court cried “ Oh fie I ” 1 In consequence of an old promise, that he should be allowed t > wear his own hair, whenever he might be elevated to a Bishopric by his It— 1 H ss. But, a truce to digression these Birds of a feather Thus talk’d, t’other night, on State matters to- gether ; (The P e just in bed, or about to depart for’t, His legs full of gout, and his arms full of II— RTF— D,) “ I say, Hum,” says Fum — Fum, of course, spoke Chinese, But, bless you, that’s nothing — at Brighton one sees Foreign lingoes and Bishops translated with ease — “ I say, Hum, how fares it with Royalty now ? “ Is it vpf is it prime? is it spooney — or how ? ” (The Bird had just taken a flash-man’s degree Under B — nr. — m — re, Y tu, and young Master L e) “ As for us in Pekin ” here a devil of a din From the bed-chamber came, where that long Mandarin, C— stl gh (whom Fum calls the Confucius of Prose), Was rehearsing a speech upon Europe’s repose To the deep, double bass of the fat Idol’s nose. (Yota bene — his Lordship and L— v — nr — l come, In collateral lines, from the old Mother Hum, C— stl gh a HuM-bug — L— v — rp— l a Hum- drum.) The Speech being finish’d, out rush’d C— stl— gii, Saddled IIum in a hurry, and, whip, spur, away. Through the regions of air, like a Snip on his hobby, Ne’er paus’d, till he lighted in St. Stephen’s lobby. ****_** LINES ON THE DEATH OF SII-R— D-N. Principibus placuisse viris ! — IIORAT. Yes, grief will have way — but the fast falling tear Shall be mingled with deep execrations on those, Who could bask in that Spirit’s meridian career, And yet leave it thus lonely and dark at its close : — Whose vanity flew round him, only while fed By the odour his fame in its summer-time gave ; — Whose vanity now, with quick scent for the dead, Like the Ghole of the East, comes, to feed at his grave. Oh 1 it sickens the heart to sec bosoms so hollow, And spirits so mean in the great and high- born ; To think what a long line of titles may follow The relics of him who died — friendless and lorn I How proud they can press to the fun’ral array Of one, whom they shunn’d in his sickness and sorrow ; — POLITICAL AND SATIRICAL POEMS. 329 How bailiffs may seize his last blanket, to-day, Whose pall shall be held up by nobles to- morrow I And Thou, too, whose life, a sick epicure’s dream, Incoherent and gross, even grosser had pass’d, Were it not for that cordial and soul-giving beam, Which his friendship and wit o’er thy nothing- ness cast : — No, not for the wealth of the land, that supplies thee With millions to heap upon Foppery’s shrine ; — No, not for the riches of all who despise thee, Though this would make Europe’s whole opu- lence mine ; — Would I suffer what — ev’n in the heart that thou hast — All mean as it is — must have consciously burn’d, When the pittance, which shame had wrung from thee at last, And which found all his wants at an end, was return’d ; 1 2 3 “ Was this then the fate,” — future ages will say, When some names shall live but in history’s curse ; When Truth will be heard, and these Lords of a day Be forgotten as fools, or remember’d as worse ; — « Was this then the fate of that high-gifted man, “ The pride of the palace, the bow’r, and the hall, “ The orator, — dramatist, — minstrel, — who ran “ Through each mode of the lyre, and was master of all ; — “ Whose mind was an essence, compounded with art “ From the finest and best of all other men’s pow’rs : — “ Who rul’d, like a wizard, the world of the heart, “ And could call up its sunshine, or bring down its show’rs ; — “ Whose humour, as gay as the fire-fly’s light, *• Play’d round every subject, and shone as it play’d ; — “ Whose wit, in the combat, as gentle as bright, “ Ne’er carried a heart-stain away on its blade ; — “ Whose eloquence — briglit’ning whatever it tried, “ Whether reason or fancy, the gay or the grave, — 1 The sum was two hundred pounds — offered, when Sh — r — d — n could no 'onger take any sustenance, and declined, for him, by his friends. 2 Naturalists have observed that, upon dissecting an elk, there was found in its head some large flies, with its brain almost eaten away by them. — History of Poland. 3 A nickname given, at this time, to the Pr— ce R-g-t “ Was as rapid, as deep, and as brilliant a tide, “ As ever bore Freedom aloft on its wave l ” Yes — such was the man, and so wretched his fate ; — And thus, sooner or later, shall all have to grieve, Who waste their morn’s dew in the beams of the Great, And expect ’twill return to refresh them at eve. In the woods of the North there are insects that prey On the brain of the elk till his very last sigh ;2 Oh, Genius I thy patrons, more cruel then they, First feed on thy brains, and then leave thee to die 1 EPISTLE FROM TOM CRIB TO BIG BEN 3 CONCERNING SOME FOUL FLAY IN A LATE TRANSACTION. 4 “ Alii, mio Ben ! Metastasio.5 What ! Ben, my old hero, is this your renown ? Is this the new go? — kick a man when lie’s down 1 When the foe has knock’d under, to tread on him then — By the fist of my father, I blush for thee, Ben ! “ Foul 1 foul 1 ” all the lads of the Fancy exclaim — Charley Shock is electrified— B elcher spits flame — And Molyneux — a\’, even Blacky 6 cries “ shame ! ” Time was, when John Bull little difference spied ’Twixt the foe at his feet, and the friend at his side ; When lie found (such his humour in fighting and eating) His foe, like his beef-steak, the sweeter for beating. But this comes, Master Ben, of your curst foreign notions, Your trinkets, wigs, thingumbobs, gold lace and lotions ; Your Noyeaus, Cura^oas, and the Devil knows what — (One swig of Blue Burn 7 is worth the whole lot !) Your great and small crosses — (my eyes, what a brood 1 A cross-buttock from me would do some of them good !) Which have spoilt you, till hardly a drop, my old porpoise, Of pure English claret is left in your corpus; 4 Written soon after Bonaparte’s transportation to St. Helena. 5 Tom, 1 suppose, was “ assisted ” to this Motto by Mr. Jackson, who, it is well known, keeps the most learned company going. 6 Names audnicknames of celebrated pugilistsat that time. 7 Gin. 330 MOORE’S WORKS. And (ns Jim says) the only one trick, good or bad, Of the Fancy you’re up to, is fibbmg, my lad. Hence it comes, — Boxiana, disgrace to thy page ! — Having floor’d, by good luck, the first sivell of the age, Having conquer’d the prime one , that mill'd us all round, You kick’d him, old Ben, as he gasp’d on the ground 1 Ay — just at the time to 6how spunk, if you’d got any — Kick’d him, and jaw’d him, and lag'di him to Botany I Oh, shade of the Cheesemonger ! 2 you, who, alas, Doubled up , by the dozen, those Mounseers in brass, On that great day of milling, when blood lay in lakes, When Kings held the bottle, and Europe the stakes, Look down upon Bex — see him, dunghill all o’er, Insult the fall’ll foe, that can harm him no more! Out, cowardly spooney ! — again and again, By the fist of my father, I blush for thee, Bex. To show the white feather is many men’s doom, But, what of one fcathA ?— • Ben shows a whole Plume. THE FUDGE FAMILY IN PARIS, Le Lcggi della Maschera richiedono che una persona mascherata non sia salutata per nome da uno che la conosce malgrado il suo travestimento. — CASTIGLIONE. PREFACE. In what manner the following Epistles came into my hands, it is not necessary for the public to know. It will be seen by Mr. Fudge’s Second Letter, that he is one of those gentlemen whose Secret Services in Ireland, under the mild ministry of my Lord C gh, have been so amply and gratefully remunerated. Like his friend and associate, Thomas Reynolds, Esq., he had retired upon the reward of his honest industry ; but has lately been induced to appear again in active life, and superintend the training of that Delatorian Cohort , which Lord S— dm — th, in his wisdom and benevolence, has organized. Whether Mr. Fudge, himself, has yet made any discoveries, does not appear from the follow- ing pages. But much may be expected from a person of his zeal and sagacity, and, indeed, to him , Lord S— dm— tu, and the Greenland-bound, ships, the eyes of all lovers of discoveries are now most anxiously directed. I regret much that I have been obliged to omit Mr. Bob Fudge’s Third Letter, concluding the adventures of his Day with the Dinner, Opera, &c. &c. ; — but, in consequence of some remarks upon Marinette’s thin drapery, which, it was thought, might give offence to certain well-mean- ing persons, the manuscript was sent back to Paris for his revision, and had not returned when the last sheet was put to press. It will not, I hope, be thought presumptuous, if I take this opportunity of complaining of a very serious injustice I have suffered from the public. Dr. King wrote a treatise to prove that Bentley “ was not the author of his own book,” and a similar absurdity has been asserted of me, in almost all the best-informed literary circles. With the name of the real author staring them in the 1 Transported. 2 A Life Guardsman, one of the Fancy , who distin- face, they have yet persisted in attributing my works to other people ; and the fame of the Two- penny Post-Bag — such as it is — having hovered doubtfully over various persons, has at last settled upon the head of a certain little gentleman, who wears it, I understand, as complacently as if it actually belonged to him ; without even the honesty of avowing, with his own favourite author Che will excuse the pun) E yco S' 'O MQPOS apat E$7jcrafj.7)p pcramco. I can only add, that if any lady or gentleman, curious in 6uch matters, will take the trouble of calling at my lodgings, 245. Piccadilly, I shall have the honour of assuring them in pi'opria per- sonCl, that lam — his, or her, Very obedient And very humble Servant, THOMAS BROWN, THE YOUNGER. April 17. 1818. THE FUDGE FAMILY IN PAKIS. LETTER L FROM MISS BIDDY FUDGE TO MISS DOROTHY , OF CLONKILTY, IN IRELAND. Amiens. Dear Doll, while the tails of our horses are plaiting, The trunks tying on, and Papa, at the door, Into very bad French is, as usual, translating His English resolve not to give a sou more, guished himself, and was killed in the memorable set~te at Waterloo. THE FUDGE FAMILY IN PARIS, 331 I sit down to write you a line — only think ! — A letter from France, with French pens and French ink, How delightful ! though, would you believe it, my dear ? I have seen nothing yet very wonderful here ; No adventure, no sentiment, far as we’ve come, But the corn-fields and trees quite as dull as at home ; And but for the post-boy, his boots and his queue, I mightjMSi as well be at Clonkilty with you ! In vain, at Dessein’s, did I take from my trunk That divine fellow, Sterne, and fall reading “ The Monk ; ” In vain did I think of his charming Dead Ass, And remember the crust and the wallet — alas I No monks can be had now for love or for money, (All owing, Pa says, to that infidel Boney ;) And, though one little Neddy we saw in our drive Out of classical Nampont, the beast was alive ! By the by, though, at Calais, Papa had a touch Of romance on the pier, which affected me much. At the sight of that spot, where our darling Dix- nuiT Set the first of his own dear legitimate feet,i ‘ (Modell’d out so exactly, and — God bless the mark I ’Tis a foot, Dolly, worthy so Gi'and a Monarque ), lie exclaim’d, “ Oh, mon Hoi 1 ” and, with tear- dropping eye, Stood to gaze on the spot — while some Jacobin, nigh, Mutter’d out with a shrug, (what an insolent thing !) “ Ma foi, he De right — ’tis de Englishman’s King ; And dat gros pied de cocfoon — begar me vil say Dat de foot look mosh better, if turn’d toder way.” There’s the pillar, too — Lord 1 I had nearly forgot — What a charming idea ! — rais’d close to the spot ; The mode being now, (as you’ve heard, I sup- pose,) To build tombs over legs, 2 and raise pillars to toes. This is all that’s occurr’d sentimental as yet ; Except, indeed, some little flow’r-nymphs we’ve met, Who disturb one’s romance with pecuniary views, Flinging flow’rs in your path, and then— bawling for sous ! And some picturesque beggars, whose multitudes seem To recall the good days of the ancien regime, 1 All as ragged and brisk, you’ll be happy to learn, And as thin as they were in the time of dear Sterne. Our party consists (in a neat Calais job) Of Papa and myself, Mr. Connor and Bob. You remember how sheepish Bob look’d at Kil- randy, But, Lord I he’s quite alter’d — they’ve made him a Dandy ; 1 To commemorate the landing of Louis le Desire from England, the impression of his foot is marked out A thing, you know, whisker ’d, great- coaled, and lac’d, Like an hour-glass, exceedingly small in the waist : Quite a new sort of creatures, unknown yet to scholars, With heads, so immovably stuck in shirt-collars, That seats, like our music-stools, soon must be found them, To twirl, when the creatures may wish to look round them. In short, dear, “ a Dandy ” describes what I mean, And Bob’s far the best of the genus I’ve seen : An improving young man, fond of learning, ambitious, And goes now to Paris to study French dishes, Whose names — think, how quick 1 he already knows pat, A' la braise , petits pdte's, and — what d’ye call that They inflict on potatoes ? — oh 1 maitre d'hotel — I assure you, dear Dolly, he knows them as well As if nothing else all his life he had eat, Though a bit of them Bobby has never touch’d yet ; But just knows the names of French dishes and cooks, As dear Pa knows the titles of authors and books. As to Pa, what d’ye think ? — mind its all entra nous , But you know, love, I never keep secrets from you — Why, he’s writing a book — what 1 a tale ? a ro- mance ? No, ye Gods, would it were ! — but his Travels in France ; At the special desire (he let out t’other day) Of his great friend and patron, my Lord C— stl— r— gh, Who said, “ My dear Fudge ” I forget the exact words, And, it’s strange, no one ever remembers my Lord’s ; But ’twas something to say that, as all must allow A good orthodox work is much wanting just now, To expound to the world the new — thingummie — science, Found out by the — what’s- its-name — Holy Alliance, And prove to mankind that their rights are but folly, Their freedom a joke, (which it is, you know, Dolly,) “ There’s none,” said his Lordship, “ If /may be judge, Half so fit for this great undertaking as Fudge ! ” The matter’s soon settled — Pa flies to the Row (Th e first stage your tourists now usually go), Settles all for his quarto — advertisements praises — Starts post from the door, with his tablets - French phrases — “ Scott’s Visit,” of course — in short, ev’ry thing he has An author can want, except words and ideas : — on-the pier at Calais, and a pillar with an inscription raised opposite to the spot. 2 Ci-git la jambe de, &c. &c. 332 MOORE’S WORKS. And, lo ! the first thing, in the spring of the year, Is Tiiil. Fudge at the front of a Quarto, my dear i But, bless me, my paper’s near out, so I’d better Draw fust to a close : — this exceeding long letter You owe to a d^je finer d, la fourchettc , Which Bobby would have, and is hard at it yet.— What’s next ? oh, the tutor, the last of the party, Young Connor : — they say he’s so like Bona- parte, His nose and his chin — which Papa rather dreads, As the Bourbons, you know, are suppressing all heads That resemble old Nat’s, and who knows but their honours May think, in their fright, of suppressing poor Connor’s ? Au reste (as we say), the young lad’s well enough, Only talks much of Athens, Rome, virtue, and stuff ; A third cousin of ours by the way — poor as Job (Though of royal descent by the side of Mamma), And for charity made private tutor to Bob ; — Entre nous, too, a Papist — how lib’ral of Pa 1 This is all, dear, — forgive me for breaking off thus, But Bob’s dQcCincr's done, and Papa’s in a fuss. B.F. P.S. llow provoking of Pa I he will not let me stop Just to run in and rummage some milliner’s shop ; And my d&but in Paris, I blush to think on it, Must now, Doll, be made in a hideous low bonnet. But Paris, dear Paris ! — oh, there will be joy, And romance, and high bonnets, an'd Madame Lc Roi ! 1 LETTER II. FROM rillL. FUDGE, ESQ., TO THE LORD VISCOUNT C — ST — R — GII. Paris. At length, my Lord, I have the bliss To date to you a line from this “ Demoraliz’d ” metropolis ; Where, by plebeians low and scurvy, The throne was turn’d quite topsy-turvy, And Kingship, tumbled from its seat, “ Stood prostrate ” at the people’s feet ; Where (still to use your Lordship’s tropes) The level of obedience slopes Upward and downward, as the stream Of hydra faction kicks the beam ! 2 1 A celebrated mantua-maker in Paris. 2 This excellent imitation of the noble Lord’s style shows how deeply Mr. Fudge must have studied his great original. Irish oratory, indeed, abounds with such startling peculiarities. Thus the eloquent Coun- sellor B , in describing some hypocritical pretender to charity, said, “He put his hand in his breeches- pocket, like a crocodile, and,” &c. &c. 3 The title of the chief magistrate of Belfast, before Where the poor Palace changes masters Quicker than a snake its skin, And Louis is roll’d out on castors, While Boney’s borne on shoulders in : — But where, in every change no doubt, One special good your Lordship traces, — That ’tis the Kings alone turn out, The Ministers still keep their places. How oft, dear Viscount C oir, I’ve thought of thee upon the way, As in my job (what place could be More apt to wake a thought of thee ?) — Or, oftener far, when gravely sitting Upon my dicky, (as is fitting For him who writes a Tour, that he May more of men and manners see,) I’ve thought of thee and of thy glories, Thou guest of Kings, and King of Tories ! Reflecting how thy fame has grown And spread, beyond man’s usual share, At home, abroad, till thou art known, Like Major Semple, every where ! And marv’lling with what powers of breath Your Lordship, having speech’d to death Some hundreds of your fellow-men, Next speech’d to Sov’reigns’ ears, — and when All Sov’reigns else were doz’d, at last Speech’d down the Sov’reign 1 2 3 of Belfast. Oh ! ’mid the praises and the trophies Thou gain’st from Morosoplis and Sophis ; ’Mid all the tributes to thy fame, There’s one thou should’st be chiefly pleas’d at — That Ireland gives her snuff thy name, And C oil’s the thing .now sneez’d at I But hold, my pen 1 — a truce to praising — Though ev’n your Lordship will allow The theme’s temptations are amazing ; But time and ink run short, and now, (As thou wouldst say, my guide and teacher In these gay metaphoric fringes, I must embark into the feature On which this letter chiefly hinges ;) 4 — My Book, the Book that is to prove — And will, (so help ye Sprites above, That sit on clouds, as grave as judges, Watching the labours of the Fudges !) Will prove that all the world, at present, Is in a state extremely pleasant ; That Europe — thanks to royal swords And bay’nets, and the Duke’s commanding — Enjoys a peace which, like the Lord’s, Passetli all human understanding : That France prefers her go-cart King To such a coward scamp as Boney ; Though round, with each a leading-string, There standeth many a Royal crony, For fear the chubby, tott’ring tiling Should fall, if left there loney-poney ; — whom his Lordship (with the “ studium immanc lo- quendi ” attributed by Ovid to that chattering and ra- pacious class of birds, the pies) delivered sundry long and self-gratulatory orations, on his return from the Continent. It was at one of these Irish dinners that his gallant brother, Lord S., proposed the health ol “ The best cavalry officer in Europe — the Regent ! ” 4 Verbatim from one of the noble Viscount’s Speeches — “ And now, Sir, T must embark into the feature on which this question chiefly hinges.” THE FUDGE FAMILY IN PARIS. 333 That England, too, the more her debts, The more she spends, the richer gets ; And that the Irish, grateful nation ! Remember when by thee reign’d over, And bless thee for their flagellation, As Heloisa did her lover ! 1 — That Poland, left for Russia’s lunch Upon the side-board, snug reposes : While Saxony’s as pleas’d as Punch, And Norway “ on a bed of roses ! ” That, as for some few million souls, Transferr’d by contract, bless the clods ! If half were strangled — Spaniards, Poles, And Frenchmen — ’twouldn’t make much odds, So Europe’s goodly Royal ones, Sit easy on their sacred thrones ; So Ferdinand embroiders gaily ,2 And Louis eats his salmi, 3 daily ; So time is left to Emperor Sandy T o be half Caesar and half Dandy ; And G ge the R— g— t (who’d forget That doughtiest chieftain of the set ?) Hath wherewithal for trinkets new, For dragons, after Chinese models, And chambers where Duke Ho and Soo, Might come and nine times knock their noddles ! — All this my Quarto’ll prove — much more Than Quarto ever prov’d before : In reas’ning with the Post I’ll vie, My facts the Courier shall supply, My jokes Y — ns — t, P — le my sense, And thou, sweet Lord, my eloquence I My Journal, penn’d by fits and starts, On Biddy’s back or Bobby’s shoulder, (My son, my Lord, a youth of parts, Who longs to be a small place-holder,) Is — though 1 say’t, that shouldn’t say — Extremely good ; and, by the way, One extract from it — only one — To show its spirit, and I’ve done. *• Jul. thirty-first. — Went, after snack, “ To the Cathedral of St. Denny ; “ Sigh’d o’er the Kings of ages back, “ And — gave the old Concierge a penny. “ (Mem. — Must see Rheims , much fam’d, ’Lis said, “ For making Kings and gingerbread.) “ Was shown the tomb where lay, so stately, “ A little Bourbon, buried lately, “ Thrice high and puissant, we were told, “ Though only twenty-four hours old I * “ Hear this, thought I, ye Jacobins : “ Ye Burdetts, tremble in your skins I “ If Royalty, but ag’d a day, “ Can boast such high and puissant swaj r , “ What impious hand its pow’r would fix-, “ Full fledg’d and wigg’d 5 at fifty-six! ” 1 See her Letters. 2 It would be an edifying thing to write a history of the private amusements of sovereigns, tracing them down from the fly-sticking of Domitian, the mole-catch- ing of Artabanus, the hog-mimicking of Parmenides, the horse-currying of Aretas, to the petticoat-em- broidering of Ferdinand, and tlao patience playing of the P e R 1. 3 O^fra re, o la eSovtrt Siorpcfcee fiaaiXyes. Homer, Odyss. 3. 4 So described on the coffin : “ trfcs-haute et puis- SO-nte Princes3e, agfee d’un jour.” The argument’s quite new, you see, And proves exactly Q. E. D. So now, with duty to the R — g — t, I am, dear Lord, Your most obedient, P. F. Hotel Brcteuil , Rue Rivoli. Neat lodgings — rather dear for me ; But Biddy said she thought ’twould look Genteeler thus to date my Book ; And Biddy’s right — besides, it curries Some favour with our friends at Murray’s, Who scorn what any man can say. That dates from Rue St. Honors ♦ LETTER III. FROM MR. BOB FUDGE TO RICHARD , ESQ. Oh Dick ! you may talk of your writing and reading, Your Logic and Greek, but there’s nothing like feeding ; And this is the place for it, Dicky, you dog, Of all places on earth — the head-quarters of Prog 1 Talk of England — her fam’d Magna Charta, I swear, is A humbug, a flam, to the Carte 7 at old Very’s ; And as for your Juries — who would not set o'er ’em A Jury of Tasters, s with woodcocks before ’em ? Give Cartwright his Parliaments, fresh every year ; But those friends of short Commons would never do here ; And let Romilly speak as he will on the ques- tion, No Digest of Law’s like the laws of digestion l By the by, Dick, I fatten — but n'importe for that, ’Tis the mode — your Legitimates always get fat. There’s the R— g — t, there’s Louis — and Boney tried too, But, though somewhat imperial in paunch, ’twouldn’t do : — lie improv’d, indeed, much in this point, when he wed, But he ne’er grew right royally fat in the head. Dick, Dick, what a place is this Paris ! — but stay — As my raptures may bore you, I’ll just sketch a Day, 5 There is a fulness and breadth in this portrait of Royalty, which reminds us of what Pliny says, in speaking of Trajan’s great qualities : — “ nonne longC lateque Principem ostentant ? ” 6 See the Quarterly Review for May, 1816, where Mr. Hobhouse is accused of having written his book “ in a back street of the French capital.” 7 The Bill of Fare. — Very, a well-known Restaura- teur. 8 Mr. Bob alludes particularly, I presume, to the famous Jury Degustatcur, which used to assemble at the Hdtel of M. Grimod de la ReyniOre, and of which this modeyn Archestratus has given an account in hit Almanack des Gourmands, cinquiime annee, p. 78., 834 MOORE’S WORKS. As we pass it, myself and some comrades I’ve got, All thorougli-bred Gnostics t who know what is what. After dreaming some hours of the land of Co- caigne,* That Elysium of all that i sfriand and nice, Where for hail they have bon-bons , and claret for rain, And the skaiters in winter show off on cream- ico ; Where so ready all nature its cookery yields, Macaroni au parmesan grows in the fields ; Little birds fly about with the true pheasant taint, And the geese are all born with a liver com- plaint ! 2 I rise — put on neck-cloth — stiff, tight, as can be — For a lad who goes into the world , Dick, like me, Should have his neck tied up, you know — there's no doubt of it — Almost as tight as some lads who go out of it. "With whiskers well oil’d, and with boots that “ hold up “ The mirror to nature” — so bright you could sup Off the leather like china ; with coat, too, that draws On the tailor, who suffers, a martyr’s applause! With head bridled up, like a four-in-hand leader, And stays — devil’s in them — too tight for a feeder, I strut to the old Cafe Hardy, which yet Beats the field at a dejeliner Cl la fourchette. There, Dick, what a breakfast ! oh, not like your ghost Of a breakfast in England, your curst tea and toast ; 1 2 3 * But a side-board, you dog, where one’s eye roves about, Like a Turk’s in the Haram, and thence singles out On zp&te of larks, just to tune up the throat, One’s small limbs of chickens, done enpapillote , One’s erudite cutlets, drest all ways but plain, Or one’s kidneys — imagine, Dick — done with champagne ! 1 The fairy-land of cookery and gourmandise: “ Pays, ofi le ciel offre les viandes toutes cuitcs, et ou, comme on parle, les alouettes tombent toutes roties. Du Latin, coquere.” — Duchat. 2 The process by which the liver of the unfortunate goose is enlarged, in order to produce that richest of all dainties, the foie gras, of which such renowned pate’s are made at Strasbourg and Toulouse, is thus described in the Coars Gastronomique : — “ On deplume l’estomac des oies ; on attache ensuite ces animaux aux chenets d’une cheminee, et on les nourrit devant le feu. La captivite et la chaleur donnent k ces volatiles une maladie hepatique, qui fait gonfler leur foie,” &c. p. 206 . 3 Is Mr. Bob aware that his contempt for tea renders him liable to a charge of atheism ? Such, at least, is the opinion cited in Christian. Falster. Amccnitat. Phi- log. — “ Atheum interpretabatur hominem ab herbi The aversum.” He would not, I think, have been so irreverent to this beverage of scholars, if he had read Peter Petit's Poem in praise of Tea, addressed to the learned Huet — or the Epigraphe which PecJdinus wrote for an altar he meant to dedicate to this herb — or the Anacreontics of Peter Francius, in which he calb Tea Bear, Oerjv, Oeatvav. Then, some glasses of Reatme, to dilute — or, mayhap, Chambertin ,* which you know’s the pet tipple of Nap, And which Dad, by the by, that legitimate stickler, Much scruples to taste, but I'm not so parti- c’lar. — Your coffee comes next, by prescription : ami then, Dick, ’s The coffee’s ne’er-failing and glorious appendix, (If books had but such, my old Grecian, depend on’t, I’d swallow ev’n W— tk— ns’, for sake of the end on’t,) A neat glass of parf ait- amour, which one sips Just as if bottled velvet 5 tipp’d over one’s lips. This repast being ended, and paid for — (how odd I Till a man’s us’d to paying, there’s something 60 queer in’t ! ) — The sun now well out, and the girls all abroad, And the -world enough air’d for us, Nobs, to appear in’t, We lounge up the Boulevards, where — oh, Dick, the phyzzes, The turn-outs, we meet — what a nation of quizzes ! Here toddles along some old figure of fun, With a coat you might date Anno Domini L ; A lac’d hat, worsted stockings, and — noble old soul! A fine ribbon and cross in his best button-hole ; Just such as our Pit ce, who nor reason nor fun dreads, Inflicts, without ev’n a court-martial, on hun- dreds . 6 Here trips a grisette , with a fond, roguish eye, (Rather eatable things these grisettes by the by) ; And there an old demoiselle , almost as fond, In a silk that has stood since the time of the Fronde. There goes a French Dandy — ah, Dick ! unlike some ones We’ve seen about White’s— the Mounseers are but rum ones ; Such hats ! — fit for monkeys — I’d back Mrs. Draper To cut neater weather-boards out of brown paper : The following passage from one of these Anacreontics will, I have no doubt, be gratifying to all true Theisti. Geot?, Becov re irarpi, Ev xpvo-eois tTKwpoicn AlSoi TO VEKTCLp H/3rj. 2e p-oi SiaKovoivTO 2 KVOL<; eV fJt.VpfilVOMJk, Tai KaXXei tt peirovaai KaXai; \epea