The Complete Poems of Sir Thomas Moore Part 42

THE WREATH AND THE CHAIN.

I bring thee, love, a golden chain, I bring thee too a flowery wreath; The gold shall never wear a stain, The flowerets long shall sweetly breathe.

Come, tell me which the tie shall be, To bind thy gentle heart to me.

The Chain is formed of golden threads, Bright as Minerva's yellow hair, When the last beam of evening sheds Its calm and sober l.u.s.tre there.

The Wreath's of brightest myrtle wove, With sunlit drops of bliss among it, And many a rose-leaf, culled by Love, To heal his lip when bees have stung it.

Come, tell me which the tie shall be, To bind thy gentle heart to me.

Yes, yes, I read that ready eye, Which answers when the tongue is loath, Thou likest the form of either tie, And spreadest thy playful hands for both.

Ah!--if there were not something wrong, The world would see them blended oft; The Chain would make the Wreath so strong!

The Wreath would make the Chain so soft!

Then might the gold, the flowerets be Sweet fetters for my love and me.

But, f.a.n.n.y, so unblest they twine, That (heaven alone can tell the reason) When mingled thus they cease to shine, Or shine but for a transient season.

Whether the Chain may press too much, Or that the Wreath is slightly braided, Let but the gold the flowerets touch, And all their bloom, their glow is faded!

Oh! better to be always free.

Than thus to bind my love to me.

The timid girl now hung her head, And, as she turned an upward glance, I saw a doubt its twilight spread Across her brow's divine expanse Just then, the garland's brightest rose Gave one of its love-breathing sighs-- Oh! who can ask how f.a.n.n.y chose, That ever looked in f.a.n.n.y's eyes!

"The Wreath, my life, the Wreath shall be "The tie to bind my soul to thee."

TO .... ....

And hast thou marked the pensive shade, That many a time obscures my brow, Midst all the joys, beloved maid.

Which thou canst give, and only thou?

Oh! 'tis not that I then forget The bright looks that before me shine; For never throbbed a bosom yet Could feel their witchery, like mine.

When bashful on my bosom hid, And blushing to have felt so blest, Thou dost but lift thy languid lid Again to close it on my breast;--

Yes,--these are minutes all thine own, Thine own to give, and mine to feel; Yet even in them, my heart has known The sigh to rise, the tear to steal.

For I have thought of former hours, When he who first thy soul possest, Like me awaked its witching powers, Like me was loved, like me was blest.

Upon _his_ name thy murmuring tongue Perhaps hath all as sweetly dwelt; Upon his words thine ear hath hung, With transport all as purely felt.

For him--yet why the past recall, To damp and wither present bliss?

Thou'rt now my own, heart, spirit, all, And heaven could grant no more than this!

Forgive me, dearest, oh! forgive; I would be first, be sole to thee, Thou shouldst have but begun to live, The hour that gave thy heart to me.

Thy book of life till then effaced, Love should have kept that leaf alone On which he first so brightly traced That thou wert, soul and all, my own.

TO .......'S PICTURE.

Go then, if she, whose shade thou art, No more will let thee soothe my pain; Yet, tell her, it has cost this heart Some pangs, to give thee back again.

Tell her, the smile was not so dear, With which she made the semblance mine, As bitter is the burning tear, With which I now the gift resign.

Yet go--and could she still restore, As some exchange for taking thee.

The tranquil look which first I wore, When her eyes found me calm and free;

Could she give back the careless flow, The spirit that my heart then knew-- Yet, no, 'tis vain--go, picture, go-- Smile at me once, and then--adieu!

FRAGMENT OF A MYTHOLOGICAL HYMN TO LOVE.[1]

Blest infant of eternity!

Before the day-star learned to move, In pomp of fire, along his grand career, Glancing the beamy shafts of light

From his rich quiver to the farthest sphere, Thou wert alone, oh Love!

Nestling beneath the wings of ancient Night, Whose horrors seemed to smile in shadowing thee.

No form of beauty soothed thine eye, As through the dim expanse it wandered wide; No kindred spirit caught thy sigh, As o'er the watery waste it lingering died.

Unfelt the pulse, unknown the power, That latent in his heart was sleeping,-- Oh Sympathy! that lonely hour Saw Love himself thy absence weeping.

But look, what glory through the darkness beams!

Celestial airs along the water glide:-- What Spirit art thou, moving o'er the tide So beautiful? oh, not of earth, But, in that glowing hour, the birth Of the young G.o.dhead's own creative dreams.

'Tis she!

Psyche, the firstborn spirit of the air.

To thee, oh Love, she turns,

On thee her eyebeam burns: Blest hour, before all worlds ordained to be!

They meet-- The blooming G.o.d--the spirit fair Meet in communion sweet.

Now, Sympathy, the hour is thine; All Nature feels the thrill divine, The veil of Chaos is withdrawn, And their first kiss is great Creation's dawn!

[1] Love and Psyche are here considered as the active and pa.s.sive principles of creation, and the universe is supposed to have received its first harmonizing impulse from the nuptial sympathy between these two powers. A marriage is generally the first step in cosmogony. Timaeus held Form to be the father, and Matter the mother of the World.