The Complete Poems of Sir Thomas Moore Part 24

TO ROSA.

WRITTEN DURING 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 hot with this chain of clay; Which throbs beyond the chill control Of withering pain or pale decay.

And surely, when the touch of Death Dissolves the spirit's earthly ties, Love still attends the immortal breath, And makes it purer for the skies!

Oh Rosa, when, to seek its sphere, My soul shall leave this...o...b..of men, That love which formed its treasure here, Shall be its _best_ of treasures then!

And as, in fabled dreams of old, Some air-born genius, child of time, Presided o'er each star that rolled, And tracked 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.

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!

SONG.

The wreath you wove, the wreath you wove, Is fair--but oh, how fair, If Pity's hand had stolen 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 sighed 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 silvery sh.e.l.l, While some were full in feather; So pretty a lot of Loves to sell, Were never yet strung together.

Come buy my Loves, Come buy my Loves, Ye dames and rose-lipped misses!-- They're new and bright, The cost is light, For the coin of this isle is kisses.

First Cloris came, with looks sedate.

The 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 f.a.n.n.y, "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-lipped misses!-- 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-fledged pair Her only eye, if you'd ask it; And Tabitha begged, old toothless fair.

For the youngest Love in the basket.

Come buy my Loves, etc.

But _one_ was left, when Susan came, One worth them all together; At sight of her dear looks of shame, He smiled and pruned his feather.

She wished the boy--'twas more than whim-- Her looks, her sighs betrayed it; But kisses were not enough for him, I asked 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 has just begun to steal Each hope that led me lightly on; I felt not, as I used 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 wished for death.

But when I saw that gentle eye, Oh! something seemed 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 learned to roam.

'Twas then indeed so sweet to live, Hope looked so new and Love so kind.

That, though I mourn, I yet forgive The ruin they have left behind.

I could have loved you--oh, so well!-- The dream, that wishing boyhood knows, Is but a bright, beguiling spell, That only lives while pa.s.sion 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 loved, 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 of the lamp.

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, f.a.n.n.y, they're pitiful sages, Who could not in _one_ of your looks Read more than in millions of pages.