The Complete Poems of Sir Thomas Moore Part 53

But look, where, all ready, in sailing array, The bark that's to carry these pages away,[3]

Impatiently flutters her wing to the wind, And will soon leave these islets of Ariel behind.

What billows, what gales is she fated to prove, Ere she sleep in the lee of the land that I love!

Yet pleasant the swell of the billows would be, And the roar of those gales would be music to me.

Not the tranquillest air that the winds ever blew, Not the sunniest tears of the summer-eve dew, Were as sweet as the storm, or as bright as the foam Of the surge, that would hurry your wanderer home.

[1] Pinkerton has said that "a good history and description of the Bermudas might afford a pleasing addition to the geographical library;"

but there certainly are not materials for such a work. The island, since the time of its discovery, has experienced so very few vicissitudes, the people have been so indolent, and their trade so limited, that there is but little which the historian could amplify into importance; and, with respect to the natural productions of the country, the few which the inhabitants can be induced to cultivate are so common in the West Indies, that they have been described by every naturalist who has written any account of those islands.

[2] Mountains of Sicily, upon which Daphnis, the first Inventor of bucolic poetry, was nursed by the nymphs.

[3] A ship, ready to sail for England.

THE STEERMAN'S SONG,

WRITTEN ABOARD THE BOSTON FRIGATE

28TH APRIL.[1]

When freshly blows the northern gale, And under courses snug we fly; Or when light breezes swell the sail, And royals proudly sweep the sky; 'Longside the wheel, unwearied still I stand, and, as my watchful eye Doth mark the needle's faithful thrill, I think of her I love, and cry, Port, my boy! port.

When calms delay, or breezes blow Right from the point we wish to steer; When by the wind close-hauled we go.

And strive in vain the port to near; I think 'tis thus the fates defer My bliss with one that's far away, And while remembrance springs to her, I watch the sails and sighing say, Thus, my boy! thus.

But see the wind draws kindly aft, All hands are up the yards to square, And now the floating stu'n-sails waft Our stately ship thro' waves and air.

Oh! then I think that yet for me Some breeze of fortune thus may spring, Some breeze to waft me, love, to thee-- And in that hope I smiling sing, Steady, boy! so.

[1] I left Bermuda in the Boston about the middle of April, in company with the Cambrian and Leander, aboard the latter of which was the Admiral Sir Andrew Mitch.e.l.l, who divides his year between Halifax and Bermuda, and is the very soul of society and good-fellowship to both. We separated in a few days, and the Boston after a short cruise proceeded to New York.

TO THE FIRE-FLY.[1]

At morning, when the earth and sky Are glowing with the light of spring, We see thee not, thou humble fly!

Nor think upon thy gleaming wing.

But when the skies have lost their hue, And sunny lights no longer play, Oh then we see and bless thee too For sparkling o'er the dreary way.

Thus let me hope, when lost to me The lights that now my life illume, Some milder joys may come, like thee, To cheer, if not to warm, the gloom!

[1] The lively and varying illumination, with which these fire-flies light up the woods at night, gives quite an idea of enchantment.

TO THE LORD VISCOUNT FORBES.

FROM THE CITY OP WASHINGTON.

If former times had never left a trace Of human frailty in their onward race, Nor o'er their pathway written, as they ran, One dark memorial of the crimes of man; If every age, in new unconscious prime, Rose, like a phenix, from the fires of time, To wing its way unguided and alone, The future smiling and the past unknown; Then ardent man would to himself be new, Earth at his foot and heaven within his view: Well might the novice hope, the sanguine scheme Of full perfection prompt his daring dream, Ere cold experience, with her veteran lore, Could tell him, fools had dreamt as much before.

But, tracing as we do, through age and clime, The plans of virtue midst the deeds of crime, The thinking follies and the reasoning rage Of man, at once the idiot and the sage; When still we see, through every varying frame Of arts and polity, his course the same, And know that ancient fools but died, to make A s.p.a.ce on earth for modern fools to take; 'Tis strange, how quickly we the past forget; That Wisdom's self should not be tutored yet, Nor tire of watching for the monstrous birth Of pure perfection midst the sons of earth!

Oh! nothing but that soul which G.o.d has given, Could lead us thus to look on earth for heaven; O'er dross without to shed the light within, And dream of virtue while we see but sin.

Even here, beside the proud Potowmac's stream, Might sages still pursue the flattering theme Of days to come, when man shall conquer fate, Rise o'er the level of his mortal state, Belie the monuments of frailty past, And plant perfection in this world at last!

"Here," might they say, "shall power's divided reign "Evince that patriots have not bled in vain.

"Here G.o.dlike liberty's herculean youth, "Cradled in peace, and nurtured up by truth "To full maturity of nerve and mind, "Shall crush the giants that bestride mankind.

"Here shall religion's pure and balmy draught "In form no more from cups of state be quaft, "But flow for all, through nation, rank, and sect, "Free as that heaven its tranquil waves reflect.

"Around the columns of the public shrine "Shall growing arts their gradual wreath intwine, "Nor breathe corruption from the flowering braid, "Nor mine that fabric which they bloom to shade, "No longer here shall Justice bound her view, "Or wrong the many, while she rights the few; "But take her range through all the social frame, "Pure and pervading as that vital flame "Which warms at once our best and meanest part, "And thrills a hair while it expands a heart!"

Oh golden dream! what soul that loves to scan The bright disk rather than the dark of man, That owns the good, while smarting with the ill, And loves the world with all its frailty still,-- What ardent bosom does not spring to meet The generous hope, with all that heavenly heat, Which makes the soul unwilling to resign The thoughts of growing, even on earth, divine!

Yes, dearest friend, I see thee glow to think The chain of ages yet may boast a link Of purer texture than the world has known, And fit to bind us to a G.o.dhead's throne.

But, is it thus? doth even the glorious dream Borrow from truth that dim, uncertain gleam, Which tempts us still to give such fancies scope, As shock not reason, while they nourish hope?

No, no, believe me, 'tis not so--even now, While yet upon Columbia's rising brow The showy smile of young presumption plays, Her bloom is poisoned and her heart decays.

Even now, in dawn of life, her sickly breath Burns with the taint of empires near their death; And, like the nymphs of her own withering clime, She's old in youth, she's blasted in her prime,[1]

Already has the child of Gallia's school The foul Philosophy that sins by rule, With all her train of reasoning, d.a.m.ning arts, Begot by brilliant heads on worthless hearts, Like things that quicken after Nilus' flood, The venomed birth of sunshine and of mud,-- Already has she poured her poison here O'er every charm that makes existence dear; Already blighted, with her blackening trace, The opening bloom of every social grace, And all those courtesies, that love to shoot Round virtue's stem, the flowerets of her fruit.

And, were these errors but the wanton tide Of young luxuriance or unchastened pride; The fervid follies and the faults of such As wrongly feel, because they feel too much; Then might experience make the fever less, Nay, graft a virtue on each warm excess.

But no; 'tis heartless, speculative ill, All youth's transgression with all age's chill; The apathy of wrong, the bosom's ice, A slow and cold stagnation into vice.

Long has the love of gold, that meanest rage, And latest folly of man's sinking age, Which, rarely venturing in the van of life, While n.o.bler pa.s.sions wage their heated strife, Comes skulking last, with selfishness and fear, And dies, collecting lumber in the rear,-- Long has it palsied every grasping hand And greedy spirit through this bartering land; Turned life to traffic, set the demon gold So loose abroad that virtue's self is sold, And conscience, truth, and honesty are made To rise and fall, like other wares of trade.

Already in this free, this virtuous state, Which, Frenchmen tell us, was ordained by fate, To show the world, what high perfection springs From rabble senators, and merchant kings,-- Even here already patriots learn to steal Their private perquisites from public weal, And, guardians of the country's sacred fire, Like Afric's priests, let out the flame for hire.

Those vaunted demagogues, who n.o.bly rose From England's debtors to be England's foes, Who could their monarch in their purse forget, And break allegiance, but to cancel debt, Have proved at length, the mineral's tempting hue, Which makes a patriot, can un-make him too.[2]

Oh! Freedom, Freedom, how I hate thy cant!

Not Eastern bombast, not the savage rant Of purpled madmen, were they numbered all From Roman Nero down to Russian Paul, Could grate upon my ear so mean, so base, As the rank jargon of that factious race, Who, poor of heart and prodigal of words, Formed to be slaves, yet struggling to be lords, Strut forth, as patriots, from their negro-marts, And shout for rights, with rapine in their hearts.

Who can, with patience, for a moment see The medley ma.s.s of pride and misery, Of whips and charters, manacles and rights, Of slaving blacks and democratic whites, And all the piebald polity that reigns In free confusion o'er Columbia's plains?

To think that man, thou just and gentle G.o.d!

Should stand before thee with a tyrant's rod O'er creatures like himself, with souls from thee, Yet dare to boast of perfect liberty; Away, away--I'd rather hold my neck By doubtful tenure from a sultan's beck, In climes, where liberty has scarce been named, Nor any right but that of ruling claimed, Than thus to live, where b.a.s.t.a.r.d Freedom waves Her fustian flag in mockery over slaves; Where--motley laws admitting no degree Betwixt the vilely slaved and madly free-- Alike the bondage and the license suit The brute made ruler and the man made brute.

But, while I thus, my friend, in flowerless song, So feebly paint, what yet I feel so strong, The ills, the vices of the land, where first Those rebel fiends, that rack the world, were nurst, Where treason's arm by royalty was nerved, And Frenchmen learned to crush the throne they served-- Thou, calmly lulled in dreams of cla.s.sic thought, By bards illumined and by sages taught, Pant'st to be all, upon this mortal scene, That bard hath fancied or that sage hath been.