The Complete Poems of Sir Thomas Moore Part 39

Then come, my friends, etc.

For me, whate'er my span of years, Whatever sun may light my roving; Whether I waste my life in tears, Or live, as now, for mirth and loving; This day shall come with aspect kind, Wherever fate may cast your rover; He'll think of those he left behind, And drink a health to bliss that's over!

Then come, my friends, etc.

SONG.[1]

Mary, I believed thee true, And I was blest in thus believing But now I mourn that e'er I knew A girl so fair and so deceiving.

Fare thee well.

Few have ever loved like me,-- Yes, I have loved thee too sincerely!

And few have e'er deceived like thee.-- Alas! deceived me too severely.

Fare thee well!--yet think awhile On one whose bosom bleeds to doubt thee: Who now would rather trust that smile, And die with thee than live without thee.

Fare thee well! I'll think of thee.

Thou leavest me many a bitter token; For see, distracting woman, see, My peace is gone, my heart is broken!-- Fare thee well!

[1] These words were written to the pathetic Scotch air "Galla Water."

MORALITY.

A FAMILIAR EPISTLE.

ADDRESSED TO J. ATKINSON, ESQ. M. R. I. A.

Though long at school and college dozing.

O'er books of verse and books of prosing, And copying from their moral pages Fine recipes for making sages; Though long with' those divines at school, Who think to make us good by rule; Who, in methodic forms advancing, Teaching morality like dancing, Tell us, for Heaven or money's sake.

What _steps_ we are through life to take: Though thus, my friend, so long employed, With so much midnight oil destroyed, I must confess my searches past, I've only learned _to doubt_ at last I find the doctors and the sages Have differed in all climes and ages, And two in fifty scarce agree On what is pure morality.

'Tis like the rainbow's shifting zone, And every vision makes its own.

The doctors of the Porch advise, As modes of being great and wise, That we should cease to own or know The luxuries that from feeling flow; "Reason alone must claim direction, "And Apathy's the soul's perfection.

"Like a dull lake the heart must lie; "Nor pa.s.sion's gale nor pleasure's sigh, "Though Heaven the breeze, the breath, supplied, "Must curl the wave or swell the tide!"

Such was the rigid Zeno's plan To form his philosophic man; Such were the modes _he_ taught mankind To weed the garden of the mind; They tore from thence some weeds, 'tis true, But all the flowers were ravaged too!

Now listen to the wily strains, Which, on Cyrene's sandy plains, When Pleasure, nymph with loosened zone, Usurped the philosophic throne,-- Hear what the courtly sage's[1] tongue To his surrounding pupils sung:-- "Pleasure's the only n.o.ble end "To which all human powers should tend, "And Virtue gives her heavenly lore, "But to make Pleasure please us more.

"Wisdom and she were both designed "To make the senses more refined, "That man might revel, free from cloying, "Then most a sage when most enjoying!"

Is this morality?--Oh, no!

Even I a wiser path could show.

The flower within this vase confined, The pure, the unfading flower of mind, Must not throw all its sweets away Upon a mortal mould of clay; No, no,--its richest breath should rise In virtue's incense to the skies.

But thus it is, all sects we see Have watchwords of morality: Some cry out Venus, others Jove; Here 'tis Religion, there 'tis Love.

But while they thus so widely wander, While mystics dream and doctors ponder: And some, in dialectics firm, Seek virtue in a middle term; While thus they strive, in Heaven's defiance, To chain morality with science; The plain good man, whose action teach More virtue than a sect can preach Pursues his course, unsagely blest His tutor whispering in his breast; Nor could he act a purer part, Though he had Tully all by heart.

And when he drops the tear on woe, He little knows or cares to know That Epictetus blamed that tear, By Heaven approved, to virtue dear!

Oh! when I've seen the morning beam Floating within the dimpled stream; While Nature, wakening from the night, Has just put on her robes of light, Have I, with cold optician's gaze, Explored the _doctrine_ of those rays?

No, pedants, I have left to you Nicely to separate hue from hue.

Go, give that moment up to art, When Heaven and nature claim the heart; And, dull to all their best attraction, Go--measure _angles of refraction_.

While I, in feeling's sweet romance, Look on each daybeam as a glance From the great eye of Him above, Wakening his world with looks of love!

[1] Aristippus.

THE TELL-TALE LYRE.

I've heard, there was in ancient days A Lyre of most melodious spell; 'Twas heaven to hear its fairy lays, If half be true that legends tell.

'Twas played on by the gentlest sighs, And to their breath it breathed again In such entrancing melodies As ear had never drunk till then!

Not harmony's serenest touch So stilly could the notes prolong; They were not heavenly song so much As they were dreams of heavenly song!

If sad the heart, whose murmuring air Along the chords in languor stole, The numbers it awakened there Were eloquence from pity's soul.

Or if the sigh, serene and light, Was but the breath of fancied woes, The string, that felt its airy flight, Soon whispered it to kind repose.

And when young lovers talked alone, If, mid their bliss, that Lyre was near, It made their accents all its own, And sent forth notes that heaven might hear.

There was a nymph, who long had loved, But dared not tell the world how well: The shades, where she at evening roved, Alone could know, alone could tell.

'Twas there, at twilight time, she stole, When the first star announced the night,-- With him who claimed her inmost soul, To wander by that soothing light.

It chanced that, in the fairy bower Where blest they wooed each other's smile, This Lyre, of strange and magic power, Hung whispering o'er their head the while.

And as, with eyes commingling fire, They listened to each other's vow, The youth full oft would make the Lyre A pillow for the maiden's brow!

And, while the melting words she breathed Were by its echoes wafted round, Her locks had with the chords so wreathed, One knew not which gave forth the sound.

Alas, their hearts but little thought, While thus they talked the hours away, That every sound the Lyre was taught Would linger long, and long betray.