The Complete Poems of Sir Thomas Moore Part 34

WRITTEN IN THE BLANK LEAF OF A LADY'S COMMONPLACE BOOK.

Here is one leaf reserved for me, From all thy sweet memorials free; And here my simple song might tell The feelings thou must guess so well.

But could I thus, within thy mind, One little vacant corner find, Where no impression yet is seen, Where no memorial yet hath been, Oh! it should be my sweetest care To _write my name_ for ever _there_!

TO MRS. BL----.

WRITTEN IN HER ALb.u.m.

They say that Love had once a book (The urchin likes to copy you), Where, all who came, the pencil took, And wrote, like us, a line or two.

'Twas Innocence, the maid divine, Who kept this volume bright and fair.

And saw that no unhallowed line Or thought profane should enter there;

And daily did the pages fill With fond device and loving lore, And every leaf she turned was still More bright than that she turned before.

Beneath the touch of Hope, how soft, How light the magic pencil ran!

Till Fear would come, alas, as oft, And trembling close what Hope began.

A tear or two had dropt from Grief, And Jealousy would, now and then, Ruffle in haste some snow-white leaf, Which Love had still to smooth again.

But, ah! there came a blooming boy, Who often turned the pages o'er, And wrote therein such words of joy, That all who read them sighed for more.

And Pleasure was this spirit's name, And though so soft his voice and look, Yet Innocence, whene'er he came, Would tremble for her spotless book.

For, oft a Bacchant cup he bore, With earth's sweet nectar sparkling bright; And much she feared lest, mantling o'er, Some drops should on the pages light.

And so it chanced, one luckless night, The urchin let that goblet fall O'er the fair book, so pure, so white, And sullied lines and marge and all!

In vain now, touched with shame, he tried To wash those fatal stains away; Deep, deep had sunk the sullying tide, The leaves grew darker everyday.

And Fancy's sketches lost their hue, And Hope's sweet lines were all effaced, And Love himself now scarcely knew What Love himself so lately traced.

At length the urchin Pleasure fled, (For how, alas! could Pleasure stay?) And Love, while many a tear he shed, Reluctant flung the book away.

The index now alone remains.

Of all the pages spoiled by Pleasure, And though it bears some earthly stains, Yet Memory counts the leaf a treasure.

And oft, they say, she scans it o'er, And oft, by this memorial aided, Brings back the pages now no more, And thinks of lines that long have faded.

I know not if this tale be true, But thus the simple facts are stated; And I refer their truth to you, Since Love and you are near related.

TO CARA,

AFTER AN INTERVAL OF ABSENCE.

Concealed within the shady wood A mother left her sleeping child, And flew, to cull her rustic food, The fruitage of the forest wild.

But storms upon her pathway rise, The mother roams, astray and weeping; Far from the weak appealing cries Of him she left so sweetly sleeping.

She hopes, she fears; a light is seen, And gentler blows the night wind's breath; Yet no--'tis gone--the storms are keen, The infant may be chilled to death!

Perhaps, even now, in darkness shrouded, His little eyes lie cold and still;-- And yet, perhaps, they are not clouded, Life and love may light them still.

Thus, Cara, at our last farewell, When, fearful even thy hand to touch, I mutely asked those eyes to tell If parting pained thee half so much:

I thought,--and, oh! forgive the thought, For none was e'er by love inspired Whom fancy had not also taught To hope the bliss his soul desired.

Yes, I _did_ think, in Cara's mind, Though yet to that sweet mind unknown, I left one infant wish behind, One feeling, which I called my own.

Oh blest! though but in fancy blest, How did I ask of Pity's care, To shield and strengthen, in thy breast, The nursling I had cradled there.

And, many an hour, beguiled by pleasure, And many an hour of sorrow numbering, I ne'er forgot the new-born treasure, I left within thy bosom slumbering.

Perhaps, indifference has not chilled it, Haply, it yet a throb may give-- Yet, no--perhaps, a doubt has killed it; Say, dearest--_does_ the feeling live?

TO CARA,

ON THE DAWNING OF A NEW YEAR'S DAY.

When midnight came to close the year, We sighed to think it thus should take The hours it gave us--hours as dear As sympathy and love could make Their blessed moments,--every sun Saw us, my love, more closely one.

But, Cara, when the dawn was nigh Which came a new year's light to shed, That smile we caught from eye to eye Told us, those moments were not fled: Oh, no,--we felt, some future sun Should see us still more closely one.

Thus may we ever, side by side, From happy years to happier glide; And still thus may the pa.s.sing sigh We give to hours, that vanish o'er us, Be followed by the smiling eye, That Hope shall shed on scenes before us!