The Complete Poems of Sir Thomas Moore Part 108

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

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

"But whither," she, starting, exclaims, "have you, led me?

"Here's naught but a tomb and a dark cypress tree; "Is _this_ the bright palace in which thou wouldst wed me?"

With scorn in her glance said the high-born Ladye.

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

THE INDIAN BOAT.

'Twas midnight dark, The seaman's bark, Swift o'er the waters bore him, When, thro' the night, He spied a light Shoot o'er the wave before him.

"A sail! a sail!" he cries; "She comes from the Indian sh.o.r.e "And to-night shall be our prize, "With her freight of golden ore; "Sail on! sail on!"

When morning shone He saw the gold still clearer; But, though so fast The waves he past That boat seemed never the nearer.

Bright daylight came, And still the same Rich bark before him floated; While on the prize His wishful eyes Like any young lover's doted: "More sail! more sail!" he cries, While the waves overtop the mast; And his bounding galley flies, Like an arrow before the blast.

Thus on, and on, Till day was gone, And the moon thro' heaven did hie her, He swept the main, But all in vain, That boat seemed never the nigher.

And many a day To night gave way, And many a morn succeeded: While still his flight, Thro day and night, That restless mariner speeded.

Who knows--who knows what seas He is now careering o'er?

Behind, the eternal breeze, And that mocking bark, before!

For, oh, till sky And earth shall die, And their death leave none to rue it, That boat must flee O'er the boundless sea, And that ship in vain pursue it.

THE STRANGER.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

That song of past days on her lips to the last.

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

BALLADS, SONGS, ETC.

TO-DAY, DEAREST! IS OURS.

To-day, dearest! is ours; Why should Love carelessly lose it?

This life shines or lowers Just as we, weak mortals, use it.

'Tis time enough, when its flowers decay, To think of the thorns of Sorrow And Joy, if left on the stem to-day, May wither before to-morrow.

Then why, dearest! so long Let the sweet moments fly over?

Tho' now, blooming and young Thou hast me devoutly thy lover; Yet Time from both, in his silent lapse, Some treasure may steal or borrow; Thy charms may be less in bloom, perhaps, Or I less in love to-morrow.

WHEN ON THE LIP THE SIGH DELAYS.

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

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 f.a.n.n.y!

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

HERE, TAKE MY HEART.