The Complete Poems of Sir Thomas Moore Part 59

THE HARP THAT ONCE THRO' TARA'S HALLS.

The harp that once thro' Tara's halls The soul of music shed, Now hangs as mute on Tara's walls.

As if that soul were fled.-- So sleeps the pride of former days, So glory's thrill is o'er, And hearts, that once beat high for praise, Now feel that pulse no more.

No more to chiefs and ladies bright The harp of Tara swells; The chord alone, that breaks at night, Its tale of ruin tells.

Thus Freedom now so seldom wakes, The only throbs she gives, Is when some heart indignant breaks.

To show that still she lives.

FLY NOT YET.

Fly not yet, 'tis just the hour, When pleasure, like the midnight flower That scorns the eye of vulgar light, Begins to bloom for sons of night, And maids who love the moon.

'Twas but to bless these hours of shade That beauty and the moon were made; 'Tis then their soft attractions glowing Set the tides and goblets flowing.

Oh! stay,--Oh! stay,-- Joy so seldom weaves a chain Like this to-night, and oh, 'tis pain To break its links so soon.

Fly not yet, the fount that played In times of old through Ammon's shade, Though icy cold by day it ran, Yet still, like souls of mirth, began To burn when night was near.

And thus, should woman's heart and looks, At noon be cold as winter brooks, Nor kindle till the night, returning, Brings their genial hour for burning.

Oh! stay,--Oh! stay,-- When did morning ever break, And find such beaming eyes awake As those that sparkle here?

OH! THINK NOT MY SPIRITS ARE ALWAYS AS LIGHT.

Oh! think not my spirits are always as light, And as free from a pang as they seem to you now; Nor expect that the heart-beaming smile of to-night Will return with to morrow to brighten my brow.

No!--life is a waste of wearisome hours, Which seldom the rose of enjoyment adorns; And the heart that is soonest awake to the flowers, Is always the first to be touched by the thorns.

But send round the bowl, and be happy awhile-- May we never meet worse, in our pilgrimage here, Than the tear that enjoyment may gild with a smile, And the smile that compa.s.sion can turn to a tear.

The thread of our life would be dark, Heaven knows!

If it were not with friendship and love intertwined: And I care not how soon I may sink to repose, When these blessings shall cease to be dear to my mind.

But they who have loved the fondest, the purest.

Too often have wept o'er the dream they believed; And the heart that has slumbered in friendship, securest, Is happy indeed if 'twas never deceived.

But send round the bowl; while a relic of truth Is in man or in woman, this prayer shall be mine,-- That the sunshine of love may illumine our youth, And the moonlight of friendship console our decline.

THO' THE LAST GLIMPSE OF ERIN WITH SORROW I SEE.

Tho' the last glimpse of Erin with sorrow I see, Yet wherever thou art shall seem Erin to me; In exile thy bosom shall still be my home, And thine eyes make my climate wherever we room.

To the gloom of some desert or cold rocky sh.o.r.e, Where the eye of the stranger can haunt us no more, I will fly with my Coulin, and think the rough wind Less rude than the foes we leave frowning behind.

And I'll gaze on thy gold hair as graceful it wreathes; And hang o'er thy soft harp, as wildly it breathes; Nor dread that the cold-hearted Saxon will tear One chord from that harp, or one lock from that hair.[1]

[1] "In the twenty-eighth year of the reign of Henry VIII, an Act was made respecting the habits, and dress in general, of the Irish, whereby all persons were restrained from being shorn or shaven above the ears, or from wearing Glibbes, or _Coulins_ (long locks), on their heads, or hair on their upper lip, called _Crommeal_. On this occasion a song was written by one of our bards, in which an Irish virgin is made to give the preference to her dear _Coulin_ (or the youth with the flowing locks) to all strangers (by which the English were meant), or those who wore their habits. Of this song, the air alone has reached us, and is universally admired."--"_Walker's "Historical Memoirs of Irish Bards_," p. 184. Mr.

Walker informs us also, that, about the same period, there were some harsh measures taken against the Irish Minstrels.

RICH AND RARE WERE THE GEMS SHE WORE.[1]

Rich and rare were the gems she wore, And a bright gold ring on her wand she bore; But oh! her beauty was far beyond Her sparkling gems, or snow-white wand.

"Lady! dost thou not fear, to stray, "So lone and lovely through this bleak way?

"Are Erin's sons so good or so cold, "As not to be tempted by woman or gold?"

"Sir Knight! I feel not the least alarm, "No son of Erin will offer me harm:-- "For though they love woman and golden store, "Sir Knight! they love honor and virtue more!"

On she went and her maiden smile In safety lighted her round the green isle; And blest for ever is she who relied Upon Erin's honor, and Erin's pride.

[1] This ballad is founded upon the following anecdote:--"The people were inspired with such a spirit of honor, virtue, and religion, by the great example of Brien, and by his excellent administration, that, as a proof of it, we are informed that a young lady of great beauty, adorned with jewels and a costly dress, undertook a journey alone, from one end of the kingdom to the other, with a wand only in her hand, at the top of which was a ring of exceeding great value; and such an impression had the laws and government of this Monarch made on the minds of all the people, that no attempt was made upon her honor, nor was she robbed of her clothes or jewels."--_Warner's "History of Ireland_," vol i, book x.

AS A BEAM O'ER THE FACE OF THE WATERS MAY GLOW.

As a beam o'er the face of the waters may glow While the tide runs in darkness and coldness below, So the cheek may be tinged with a warm sunny smile, Though the cold heart to ruin runs darkly the while.

One fatal remembrance, one sorrow that throws Its bleak shade alike o'er our joys and our woes.

To which life nothing darker or brighter can bring For which joy has no balm and affliction no sting--

Oh! this thought in the midst of enjoyment will stay, Like a dead, leafless branch in the summer's bright ray; The beams of the warm sun play round it in vain, It may smile in his light, but it blooms not again.