The Complete Poems of Sir Thomas Moore Part 127

Glow-worms that round the tiny dishes Like little light-houses, were set up; And pretty phosph.o.r.escent fishes That by their own gay light were eat up.

'Mong the few guests from Ether came That wicked Sylph whom Love we call-- My Lady knew him but by name, My Lord, her husband, not at all.

Some prudent Gnomes, 'tis said, apprised That he was coming, and, no doubt Alarmed about his torch, advised He should by all means be kept out.

But others disapproved this plan, And by his flame tho' somewhat frighted, Thought Love too much a gentleman In such a dangerous place to light it.

However, _there_ he was--and dancing With the fair Sylph, light as a feather; They looked like two fresh sunbeams glancing At daybreak down to earth together.

And all had gone off safe and well, But for that plaguy torch whose light, Though not _yet_ kindled--who could tell How soon, how devilishly, it _might_?

And so it chanced--which, in those dark And fireless halls was quite amazing; Did we not know how small a spark Can set the torch of Love a-blazing.

Whether it came (when close entangled In the gay waltz) from her bright eyes, Or from the _lucciole_, that spangled Her locks of jet--is all surmise;

But certain 'tis the ethereal girl _Did_ drop a spark at some odd turning, Which by the waltz's windy whirl Was fanned up into actual burning.

Oh for that Lamp's metallic gauze, That curtain of protecting wire, Which DAVY delicately draws Around illicit, dangerous fire!--

The wall he sets 'twixt Flame and Air, (Like that which barred young Thisbe's bliss,) Thro' whose small holes this dangerous pair May see each other but not kiss.

At first the torch looked rather bluely,-- A sign, they say, that no good boded-- Then quick the gas became unruly.

And, crack! the ball-room all exploded.

Sylphs, gnomes, and fiddlers mixt together, With all their aunts, sons, cousins, nieces, Like b.u.t.terflies in stormy weather, Were blown--legs, wings, and tails--to pieces!

While, mid these victims of the torch, The Sylph, alas, too, bore her part-- Found lying with a livid scorch As if from lightning o'er her heart!

"Well done"--a laughing Goblin said-- Escaping from this gaseous strife-- "'Tis not the _first_ time Love has made "A _blow-up_ in connubial life!"

REMONSTRANCE.

_After a Conversation with Lord John Russell, in which he had intimated some Idea of giving up all political Pursuits. _

What! _thou_, with thy genius, thy youth, and thy name-- Thou, born of a Russell--whose instinct to run The accustomed career of thy sires, is the same As the eaglet's, to soar with his eyes on the sun!

Whose n.o.bility comes to thee, stampt with a seal, Far, far more enn.o.bling than monarch e'er set; With the blood of thy race, offered up for the weal Of a nation that swears by that martyrdom yet!

Shalt _thou_ be faint-hearted and turn from the strife, From the mighty arena, where all that is grand And devoted and pure and adorning in life, 'Tis for high-thoughted spirits like thine to command?

Oh no, never dream it--while good men despair Between tyrants and traitors, and timid men bow, Never think for an instant thy country can spare Such a light from her darkening horizon as thou.

With a spirit, as meek as the gentlest of those Who in life's sunny valley lie sheltered and warm; Yet bold and heroic as ever yet rose To the top cliffs of Fortune and breasted her storm;

With an ardor for liberty fresh as in youth It first kindles the bard and gives life to his lyre; Yet mellowed, even now, by that mildness of truth Which tempers but chills not the patriot fire;

With an eloquence--not like those rills from a height, Which sparkle and foam and in vapor are o'er; But a current that works out its way into light Thro' the filtering recesses of thought and of lore.

Thus gifted, thou never canst sleep in the shade; If the stirrings of Genius, the music of fame, And the charms of thy cause have not power to persuade, Yet think how to Freedom thou'rt pledged by thy Name.

Like the boughs of that laurel by Delphi's decree Set apart for the Fane and its service divine, So the branches that spring from the old Russell tree Are by Liberty _claimed_ for the use of her Shrine.

MY BIRTH-DAY.

"My birth-day"--what a different sound That word had in my youthful ears!

And how, each time the day comes round, Less and less white its mark appears!

"When first our scanty years are told, It seems like pastime to grow old; And as Youth counts the shining links That Time around him binds so fast, Pleased with the task, he little thinks How hard that chain will press at last.

Vain was the man, and false as vain, Who said--"were he ordained to run "His long career of life again, "He would do all that he _had_ done."-- Ah, 'tis not thus the voice that dwells In sober birth-days speaks to me; Far otherwise--of time it tells, Lavished unwisely, carelessly: Of counsel mockt; of talents made Haply for high and pure designs, But oft, like Israel's incense, laid Upon unholy, earthly shrines; Of nursing many a wrong desire, Of wandering after Love too far, And taking every meteor fire That crost my pathway, for his star.-- All this it tells, and, could I trace The imperfect picture o'er again.

With power to add, retouch, efface The lights and shades, the joy and pain, How little of the past would stay!

How quickly all should melt away-- All--but that Freedom of the Mind Which hath been more than wealth to me; Those friendships, in my boyhood twined, And kept till now unchangingly, And that dear home, that saving ark, Where Love's true light at last I've found, Cheering within, when all grows dark And comfortless and stormy round!

FANCY.

The more I've viewed this world, the more I've found, That filled as 'tis with scenes and creatures rare, Fancy commands within her own bright round A world of scenes and creatures far more fair.

Nor is it that her power can call up there A single charm, that's not from Nature won,-- No more than rainbows in their pride can wear A single tint unborrowed from the sun; But 'tis the mental medium; it shines thro', That lends to Beauty all its charm and hue; As the same light that o'er the level lake One dull monotony of l.u.s.tre flings, Will, entering in the rounded raindrop, make Colors as gay as those on angels' wings!

SONG.

f.a.n.n.y, DEAREST.