Read Ebook: The Complete Poems of Sir Thomas Moore Collected by Himself with Explanatory Notes by Moore Thomas Rossetti William Michael Commentator

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This, this it is that pays alone The ills of all life's former track.-- Shine out, my beautiful, my own Sweet Sirmio, greet thy master back.

And thou, fair Lake, whose water quaffs The light of heaven like Lydia's sea, Rejoice, rejoice--let all that laughs Abroad, at home, laugh out for me!

TIBULLUS TO SULPICIA.

"Never shall woman's smile have power "To win me from those gentle charms!"-- Thus swore I, in that happy hour, When Love first gave thee to my arms.

And still alone thou charm'st my sight-- Still, tho' our city proudly shine With forms and faces, fair and bright, I see none fair or bright but thine.

Would thou wert fair for only me, And couldst no heart but mine allure!-- To all men else unpleasing be, So shall I feel my prize secure.

Oh, love like mine ne'er wants the zest Of others' envy, others' praise; But, in its silence safely blest, Broods o'er a bliss it ne'er betrays.

Charm of my life! by whose sweet power All cares are husht, all ills subdued-- My light in even the darkest hour, My crowd in deepest solitude!

No, not tho' heaven itself sent down Some maid of more than heavenly charms, With bliss undreamt thy bard to crown, Would he for her forsake those arms!

IMITATION.

FROM THE FRENCH.

INVITATION TO DINNER.

ADDRESSED TO LORD LANSDOWNE.

September, 1818.

Some think we bards have nothing real; That poets live among the stars so, Their very dinners are ideal,-- -- For instance, that we have, instead Of vulgar chops and stews and hashes, First course--a Phoenix, at the head. Done in its own celestial ashes; At foot, a cygnet which kept singing All the time its neck was wringing. Side dishes, thus--Minerva's owl, Or any such like learned fowl: Doves, such as heaven's poulterer gets, When Cupid shoots his mother's pets. Larks stewed in Morning's roseate breath, Or roasted by a sunbeam's splendor; And nightingales, berhymed to death-- Like young pigs whipt to make them tender.

Such fare may suit those bards, who are able To banquet at Duke Humphrey's table; But as for me, who've long been taught To eat and drink like other people; And can put up with mutton, bought Where Bromham rears its ancient steeple-- If Lansdowne will consent to share My humble feast, tho' rude the fare, Yet, seasoned by that salt he brings From Attica's salinest springs, 'Twill turn to dainties;--while the cup, Beneath his influence brightening up, Like that of Baucis, touched by Jove, Will sparkle fit for gods above!

A picturesque village in sight of my cottage, and from which it is separated out by a small verdant valley.

VERSES TO THE POET CRABBE'S INKSTAND.

All, as he left it!--even the pen, So lately at that mind's command, Carelessly lying, as if then Just fallen from his gifted hand.

Have we then lost him? scarce an hour, A little hour, seems to have past, Since Life and Inspiration's power Around that relic breathed their last.

Ah, powerless now--like talisman Found in some vanished wizard's halls, Whose mighty charm with him began, Whose charm with him extinguisht falls.

Yet, tho', alas! the gifts that shone Around that pen's exploring track, Be now, with its great master, gone, Nor living hand can call them back;

Who does not feel, while thus his eyes Rest on the enchanter's broken wand, Each earth-born spell it worked arise Before him in succession grand?

Grand, from the Truth that reigns o'er all; The unshrinking truth that lets her light Thro' Life's low, dark, interior fall, Opening the whole, severely bright:

Yet softening, as she frowns along, O'er scenes which angels weep to see-- Where Truth herself half veils the Wrong, In pity of the Misery.

True bard!--and simple, as the race Of true-born poets ever are, When, stooping from their starry place, They're children near, tho' gods afar.

How freshly doth my mind recall, 'Mong the few days I've known with thee, One that, most buoyantly of all, Floats in the wake of memory;

When he, the poet, doubly graced, In life, as in his perfect strain, With that pure, mellowing power of Taste, Without which Fancy shines in vain;

Who in his page will leave behind, Pregnant with genius tho' it be, But half the treasures of a mind, Where Sense o'er all holds mastery:--

Friend of long years! of friendship tried Thro' many a bright and dark event; In doubts, my judge--in taste, my guide-- In all, my stay and ornament!

He, too, was of our feast that day, And all were guests of one whose hand Hath shed a new and deathless ray Around the lyre of this great land;

In whose sea-odes--as in those shells Where Ocean's voice of majesty Seems still to sound--immortal dwells Old Albion's Spirit of the Sea.

Such was our host; and tho', since then, Slight clouds have risen 'twixt him and me, Who would not grasp such hand again, Stretched forth again in amity?

Who can, in this short life, afford To let such mists a moment stay, When thus one frank, atoning word, Like sunshine, melts them all away?

Light which comes o'er me as I gaze, Thou Relic of the Dead, on thee, Like all such dreams of vanisht days, Brightly, indeed--but mournfully!

Soon after Mr. Crabbe's death, the sons of that gentleman did me the honor of presenting to me the inkstand, pencil, etc., which their distinguished father had long been in the habit of using.

The lines that follow allude to a day passed in company with Mr. Crabbe, many years since, when a party, consisting only of Mr. Rogers, Mr. Crabbe, and the author of these verses, had the pleasure of dining with Mr. Thomas Campbell, at his house at Sydenham.

TO CAROLINE, VISCOUNTESS VALLETORT.

WRITTEN AT LACOCK ABBEY, JANUARY, 1832.

Now, too, another change of light! As noble bride, still meekly bright Thou bring'st thy Lord a dower above All earthly price, pure woman's love; And showd'st what lustre Rank receives, When with his proud Corinthian leaves Her rose this high-bred Beauty weaves.

Wonder not if, where all's so fair, To choose were more than bard can dare; Wonder not if, while every scene I've watched thee thro' so bright hath been, The enamored muse should, in her quest Of beauty, know not where to rest, But, dazzled, at thy feet thus fall, Hailing thee beautiful in all!

A SPECULATION.

Of all speculations the market holds forth, The best that I know for a lover of pelf, Is to buy Marcus up, at the price he is worth, And then sell him at that which he sets on himself.

TO MY MOTHER.

WRITTEN IN A POCKET BOOK, 1822.

They tell us of an Indian tree, Which, howsoe'er the sun and sky May tempt its boughs to wander free, And shoot and blossom wide and high, Far better loves to bend its arms Downward again to that dear earth, From which the life that, fills and warms Its grateful being, first had birth. 'Tis thus, tho' wooed by flattering friends, And fed with fame This heart, my own dear mother, bends, With love's true instinct, back to thee!

LOVE AND HYMEN.

Love had a fever--ne'er could close His little eyes till day was breaking; And wild and strange enough, Heaven knows, The things he raved about while waking.

To let him pine so were a sin;-- One to whom all the world's a debtor-- So Doctor Hymen was called in, And Love that night slept rather better.

Next day the case gave further hope yet, Tho' still some ugly fever latent;-- "Dose, as before"--a gentle opiate. For which old Hymen has a patent.

After a month of daily call, So fast the dose went on restoring, That Love, who first ne'er slept at all, Now took, the rogue! to downright snoring.

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