The Complete Poems of Sir Thomas Moore Part 21

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 harbored 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, Yet shall thy pureness keep thee still Unharmed by that surrounding chill; Like the famed drop, in crystal found,[1]

Floating, while all was frozen round,-- Unchilled unchanging shalt thou be, Safe in thy own sweet purity.

[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. Addison mentions a curiosity of this kind at Milan; and adds; "It is such a rarity as this that I saw at Vendome 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".

ANACREONTIC.

--_in lachrymas verterat omne merum_.

TIB. lib. i. eleg. 5.

Press the grape, and let it pour Around the board its purple shower: And, while the drops my goblet steep, I'll think in woe the cl.u.s.ters weep.

Weep on, weep on, my pouting vine!

Heaven grant no tears, but tears of wine.

Weep on; and, as thy sorrows flow, I'll taste the luxury of woe.

TO .......

When I loved 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 hate you!

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 pendant fool, Like vapor on a stagnant pool.

Oh! if the song, to feeling true, Can please the 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-eyed child of Sympathy, Shall say, while o'er my simple theme She languishes in Pa.s.sion'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, hovering like a snow-winged dove, Breathed o'er my cradle warblings wild, And hailed me Pa.s.sion's warmest child,-- Grant me the tear from Beauty's eye, From Feeling's breast the votive sigh; Oh! let my song, my memory 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 pendant fool, Like vapor round some stagnant pool!

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 pa.s.sion's bland deceit!

I've heard you oft eternal truth declare; Your heart was only mine, I once believed.

Ah! shall I say that all your vows were air?

And _must_ I say, my hopes were all deceived?

Vow, then, no longer that our souls are twined That all our joys are felt with mutual zeal; Julia!--'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! you give me but your charms, When I had fondly thought you gave your heart.

THE SHRINE.

TO .......

My fates had destined me to rove A long, long pilgrimage of love; And many an altar on my way Has lured my pious steps to stay; For if the saint was young and fair, I turned, and sung my vespers there.

This, from a youthful pilgrim's fire, Is what your pretty saints require: To pa.s.s, nor tell a single bead, With them would be profane indeed!

But, trust me, all this young devotion Was but to keep my zeal in motion; And, every humbler altar past, I now have reached THE SHRINE at last!

TO A LADY,

WITH SOME Ma.n.u.sCRIPT POEMS,

ON LEAVING THE COUNTRY.

When, casting many a look behind, I leave the friends I cherish here-- Perchance some other friends to find, But surely finding none so dear--